She doesn't even try to get close. She's not that desperate, ...yet. Instead, she hides among the horde and bides her time, the rusted gears in her withered head slowly but surely trying to determine the biggest threat. The Spitter ultimately decides on Persicaria, her 'battle-cry' a congested gurgle that incites the creation of something foul. She spits a glob of putrid green acidic sludge at him, but she misses the mark, the gunk landing to the side of him with an obscene sounding sploosh. Persicaria's leg is still partially doused (-1HP), the repulsive goop corroding cloth and skin alike, so that it all runs like blood.
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spitter - injury