Leir ducked into the underbrush, tiger-striped in black mud and the subtle red of gholi-dye (a simple mixture of quickly ground bark and water). His thumb ran across the throat of his scabbard, undoing the lock of his blade. He calmed his breath, lowered his face to the earth, and crouched.
He was in place but seven seconds before the first pirate passed. So close that Leir could smell the rum on his breath. A scrawny man, but five-foot-eight, ears and nose pierced through with arrogant hoops of gold.
Leir could have reached out and touched him. But instead he let him wander past, towards Skandra. The rest of them moved through soon enough. Their sandaled feet hurried by, slapping against the ground which would soon be awash in their blood.
"I bet," a voice declared, "that we'll find 'em shovel boys all balls deep in some native bitch!"
"Ain't no natives 'ere." another soon answered. "That's the whole fuckin' point!"