Looking at the crude map, Tha'ael's gray eyes narrow, pupils tensing to pinpricks as her thin, dark eyebrows furrow.  She simulates the 'x' marks with her dagger-point, eyes the smoldering ruin for reference.  "Homes, these were, fire caught from one to the next.  Was the contents they wanted, I s'pose."  She bends her knee to raise one foot from the ground, re-sheathing the dagger and hitching its fine rawhide loop.  "Simple people 'ere, nothing of value.  'cept the people themselves."<br/><br/>She re-plants her foot, and resumes speaking to Ada, Ebirc, and Tavah-- anyone else lingering behind as well-- "My take on it, take it at face value-- Orcs sacking villages is small news, but seekin' out certain ones?  Someone who knows the village...<i>knew</i>it I mean... gave them orders."<br/><br/>Stories... vague memories of repulsed raids, rumors of children or key figures taken.  A story told by spiteful, vile children to taunt the strange, gray girl, stories she begged her mother to deny, of wounds children can't fully comprehend.<br/><br/>"We have our task," she says softly, grateful to the one that let these orcs' final moments be agony, respectful of the artful intent to prolong their suffering without hope of survival, and returns to the wagons to await the others' decision.  "Would we could recover what was, undoubtedly, taken from these people."