Head bobbing out of the water behind a flouting crate, the undead examined what he saw across the river. Three Alliance, one dress and two plates: Likely healer and brute squad. He would have to keep a close eye on them... Slowly pushing away from the crate, he sunk under the surface, backstroking to the island of the blacksmith, and making himself ready... In darkness, he was unseen. In daylight, he could draw up from the darker arts of mysticism he had learned in his considerably lengthy unlife... Instead of hiding from the placed of bright light, he used them, a weak sort of spell, more willpower then incantation, forcing the light to bend, and fold about his cloaks and figure. The rays of sunshine sliding over him like he were a greased eel in a stream.<br/><br/>The result, was a restriction of movement, but a sort of lesser invisibility. The air still rippled about him like he were a heat induced mirage, but only if spotted by the keenest of eyes. had the Alliance boasted a Night Elf at the stable, they might have had a chance, but across the river, against his practiced movements... He was but a ghost, a rustle of the wind and nothing more as he climbed the steep slope up from the river bank. Working with all four of his claw like hands and feet, slithering almost over the surface as he reached the top, and kept low... Only after sneaking around the small building, inspecting it from all sides, did he draw up, leaning against the flag post for cover, before pulling one of several banners from a water proof bags.<br/><br/>Setting up the flag would take time, but it was time the Alliance would not have, for it would be up, and him back in hiding long before they arrived... Such was his class, his art and style... His trap set even as the glossy wet banner began to wave from it's unfinished position...<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>