The foul smell pervaded every hut in the crudely erected Orc camp. It was the smell of all kinds of bodily fluids mixed with dead fish and sour milk, as well as other, less recognisable odours.
Not that this smell bothered the Orcs, who were used to far worse and didn't even notice it anymore. Their human captives were not so fortunate, and those who had been knocked unconscious before being thrown in a makeshift cage were quickly envied by those who still had their senses.
Some of the Greenskins were laughing at the beaten wretches, placing bets on which of the cramped up 'umies would throw up on the rest, as the cage was not quite large enough to provide its load with any semblance of personal space.
Other Orcs were focusing on more pressing matters, such as boasting about having beaten enemies to death with their own severed limbs and then picking a fight with anyone who looked doubtful about their stories, or anyone who didn´t.
Meanwhile, in the centre of the camp, an Orc Shaman called Wazmaash was adding some dead fish to the stew of sour milk and all kinds of bodily fluids in his huge metal cauldron.
His tent was larger than those of the other Orcs, and filled with a large variety of strange items, obsidian talismans, staffs carved out of oak and sceptres wrought out of solid gold, and also the skeletal remains and rotting carcasses of all kinds of beings and creatures, from wild boar to delicate Elf to a wild boars' massive head sewn unto a delicate Elf body, more for a laugh than any arcane purpose.
The evil smelling soup was nearly ready, and Wazmaash began to taste some of the brew. Since someone had nicked his spoon, he had to slurp it directly out of the cauldron like a horse drinks from a trough.
The gnarly old wizard had already tasked some Goblins with retrieving his fancy spoon. He would have liked to start looking around himself as well, but this potion had to be finished before nightfall, since the Orcs couldn´t wait to stomp more foes for much longer.
The loss of his favourite drinking attribute bothered Wazmaash though. It was all shiny from being inlaid with precious stones, and even in the dead of night it would glow intensely.
It was clear that the thief had to be a Gobbo. Not that Orcs never stole stuff, but they tended to take heavy things, things that could be used to smash someone´s face to a pulp. As Wazmaash had learned by trial and error, the spoon was not heavy enough for this task, although it was very sturdy, never breaking or even bending on impact with a skull.
It was his favourite spoon, and he wanted it back.
Several miles away from the smelly encampment, several spiders, as large as grown men, were scuttling their way through the dense growth of the Drakwald Forest. Riding them were twitchy, nervous looking Goblins, constantly looking around for any sign of danger, whether it was the monstrous inhabitants of these woods or any pursuers from the army they just deserted.
Every one of the paranoid little Greenskins was carrying a bag of stolen goods on his back. Most of it was looted from the human army they had just defeated (although in truth, these particular Goblins had only defeated those enemies who were already running away from the Orcish onslaught), and consisted of scraps of armour, blunted blades, hastily repaired helmets, and several precious pouches of gunpowder, which would fetch a good price with their Goblin mates to whom they were now travelling.
Each of the deserters was also carrying several body parts, a variety of pink and green ones, as a light snack for underway and to sate the hunger of their arachnid mounts, whose loyalty depended entirely on regular feeding, not unlike the Goblins themselves.
Unknown to his companions, Zibgat, a one-eared Goblin who´d got half his face maimed by a stampeding boar and somehow survived, had also liberated a number of items from their notoriously grumpy Shaman´s tent. This was generally considered bad luck even among mischievous Goblinoids, since not only did a Shaman sometimes remember what possessions he had, and thus notice if they were missing, he was also in touch with Gork and Mork, the great green Gods worshipped by Orcs and Goblins throughout the Old World.
Zibgat knew it was risky to displease the Gods, and that he shouldn´t have messed with powers greater than the ire of his Orcish masters, but his greed had got the better of him.
He was only going to steal from the regular Orcs like the others had, but then he noticed Wazmaash´s tent flap was open and he wasn´t there, nobody was there, nobody but Zibgat and a treasure trove just waiting for his eager, grasping fingers...
Even in this moment of happiness though, Zibgat was too scared to take any of the obvious stuff. He looked around in a great wooden chest, the lock of which was so rusted it would be rendered useless even if Wazmaash hadn't lost the key, and grabbed several amulets from the bottom, so it wouldn´t be obvious they were missing. He also collected almost half the coins that were lying around the place, gold and silver and copper ones, and some made out of a substance unknown to the little sneak, but he took a few of them anyway, knowing that it was unlikely Wazmaash would notice as long as there were still some of them scattered about.
When he turned the corner of one the great poles holding the tent up, to look for any other easy targets, Zibgat was scared witless by the shape of a menacing boar head balancing precariously on a flimsy thin body. After a few seconds of sheer fright and expectations of becoming this mutant´s lunch, it became clear to the twitchy interloper that both head and body of this strange figure were long dead, and it wasn´t going to eat him either.
Calming himself down, Zibgat then noticed something else, something shiny sticking out of the enormous cauldron which stood in the middle of the tent...