Jorl had never ventured so deep into the Trollhellir caves where the ravenous, deadly ogrez were said to have made their dens. Far enough now that the light of day was long behind him, hidden by the length of the rocky tunnel, the mist of his breathe now gave way to warmer air and the distant smell of a fire and something rancid being cooked. Closer now, he took up a hiding place behind a rock outcropping, giving him a covert view of the meal and it's participants: two large male ogrez, one green, one more greyish, sat on either side of the fire pit over which was mounted a primitive spit, it's skewer, thick as a ship's mast, ran through the carcasse of one of his beloved Beorn. With a large, rusty blade, the third member of the party, a large breasted, evil eyed ogrette, sliced slabs of the meat from the bone and plodded away toward a darkened cave in the distance. It was all he could to to contain his rage at seeing his beloved bears become the meal for these foul monsters. Just when he thought he could hold back no longer, when the urge to draw swords and take heads had nearly overcom him, the ogrette emerged from the cave where she had taken the meat, knife in hand. For a moment, he thought he heard what he would only describe as a blending of a garbled dog's whine and the cry of a small child. While a single handed attack inside an ogrez lair would have made a tale told in the mead halls for generations, only a fool would rush in against an ogrette and her young.