"So we got a window," Quint Duran growled, stepping out of the shadows as silently as a leshy cutting through a forest. The ork had been down some hard roads as a mercenary and it showed. His dark, bushy hair was frosted with silver. Gold hoop earrings curled tight against his elongated ears. His face was seamed and scarred, and something malevolent burned almost constantly in his dark, hooded eyes. His synthleathered armor made him look like a dreadnought from the spirit world come to wreak havoc. The Franchi SPAS-22 combat shotgun he carried did nothing to soften that impression.