"Leaving already?"
The voice was thick, guttural—carrying with it a weight of presence, as though the very air had shifted around it.
Skit's muscles locked, a chill threading down his spine.
From between the splintered trees stepped a figure—a mountain of red muscle and menace.
Skin like dried blood, towering with a broad chest and arms etched in twisting, black markings that pulsed faintly beneath his skin.
A grey-furred mane draped over his shoulders like a trophy, and his "pants" looked suspiciously like they used to belong to something that growled.
His presence hit harder than any roar.
An Orc.
But even that word—orc—felt too small.
A very rare and powerful Orc, an exception among exceptions, the kind spoken of in silences, not words.
The orc stopped a few steps away, peering down at the tiny goblin who barely came up to his knee.
Skit growled low, knife raised as his instincts howled.
A snarl followed, teeth bared and raised his chipped blade—hands trembling, breath sharp and shallow.
"...You serious?" the orc asked, one eyebrow cocking.
Grrr!
Skit growled.
"Oh," the orc said with a crooked grin. "You are serious."
He let out a laugh—deep, gravelly, and full of mockery. "I guess you're not as smart as I thought, pipsqueak."
SWOOSH!
Before Skit could blink, the world lurched. One moment the orc was there. The next—he wasn't.
Skit's eyes widened—too late.
A hand like a slab of stone gripped Skit by the neck.
"Let's fix that."
With a casual whoosh, the orc hurled him into the sky.
He didn't even register the blur until he was already in the air.
"Should make him humble," he muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his large hands.
Then—he stopped. Mid-motion. His nose twitched.
He sniffed again, brow furrowing. His amusement faded, replaced by a cold, focused tension.
"What the hell is this?"
Up above, Skit had begun his descent—spinning wildly in the air like a confused pinecone.
The orc barely looked up. "Hold on—this can't be real? Right?"
WHUMP.
Skit crashed face-first into the dirt beside him with a groan.
Neither of them moved for a moment.
The orc crouched beside the crumpled goblin, nose wrinkling like he'd just sniffed something that shouldn't exist. His nostrils flared, his face wrinkling in suspicion.
"…What?" he repeated, voice low and dangerous.
Skit groaned once more.
He leaned closer to Skit, eyes narrowing, scanning him with growing intensity. Then, his gaze shifted downward to Skit's neck.
Etched around Skit's throat was a choker of thorns, black as char and inked into the skin like a cruel tattoo.
The design was too intricate, too deliberate—each barb curved inward like it longed to pierce deeper, wrapping his neck in a perfect noose of silent menace.
The thorns didn't move, but they felt alive.
A faint shimmer danced across the lines—barely perceptible, like heat off stone.
Not just ink. Not just flesh. Something else bound the two together.
The orc's lips twisted into a tight grimace, his gaze flicking between the black etching and the goblin's face.
"Impossible." The word slipped from his mouth like a prayer, full of disbelief.
That pattern—those black, pulsing lines—he knew them. You didn't forget the look of an Etchings.
He'd seen them before, on the flesh of honored warriors—those who had passed the Rite of Sacred Hunts.
Himself included.
The Rite was sacred. Orcish. Meant for warriors who bled their worth into the ground through sacred hunts and divine offerings.
Etchings weren't gifts. They were scars of conquest—earned through fang and fury, under the silent gaze of the gods.
Immortal markings born from conquest and sacrifice.
His mind raced, struggling to make sense of the scene before him. "The Blood doesn't mark anyone but her own. Even then, it's... rare."
He paused, the weight of the realization settling in, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Not to mention a goblin."
His thoughts slammed together, crashing against each other like waves. This wasn't supposed to happen. It couldn't happen.
An unknown bloodline was one thing. But now, an Orcish etchings?
His chest tightened, He knew the power of his Patron, felt it blessing pulse in his own veins. But seeing it here, on this tiny goblin, it was... wrong.
He remembered the first time he saw the goblin—he hadn't felt it then. But now... now, it was unmistakable. The mark had been laid after their encounter, hadn't it?
His thoughts stopped colliding and began to align. Slowly, the pieces fit together.
The source of all this… he understood now.
However…
A dismissive grunt escaped him. "Tch. No making sense of a whimsical being."
The orc stood, hands on his hips, his confusion buried beneath a layer of pragmatic indifference.
Whatever had happened here, it was beyond him—and frankly, he didn't care.
He had no time for this mystery.
With a dismissive grunt, he shoved the thought aside, his focus snapping back to the goblin who had bolted some time ago, taking advantage of the orc's brief distraction.
The orc's lips curled into a slow, predatory smile as his gaze shifted toward the direction Skit had run.
His voice dropped to a gravelly murmur, a dangerous edge to each word.
"He sure can run"
The red Orc chuckled to himself. Then, disappeared.
Skit ran.
He didn't stop running until his lungs burned and his legs screamed.
Darting through twisted roots and low-hanging branches, half-limping, half-leaping toward familiar ground.
He nearly collapsed when he reached the clearing—their camp.
The goblins' encampment. His only semblance of safety.
But something was off.
No fires. No voices. No squabbling over scraps.
The crude tents made of stitched leather and scrap cloth still stood, swaying in the wind.
There were no goblins arguing, no fires crackling, no movement at all.
The camp lay silent, empty, as if it had been abandoned in a hurry.
The goblins were gone.
His eyes scanned the place, confused.
Footprints were everywhere, but they all pointed outward. Away.
They'd fled.
The scent of fear still clung to the air—thick and acrid. Whatever happened, it wasn't subtle.
Skit blinked, heart still thudding in his chest.
Then—
"Scared even the rats off, huh?"
Skit jerked, knife instinctively raised—but the voice was already too close.
The red Orc stood just a few steps away, arms crossed, gaze scanning the empty encampment with lazy amusement.
Skit's pulse thundered in his ears. How had he moved so silently? How had he gotten so close?
The orc didn't flinch at Skit's raised blade. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying Skit with the same gaze.
"They ran," the orc said, his tone flat, almost casual. "Fear. Wasn't aimed at them, but they felt it anyway. Guess your kind's good at sniffing out death."
Skit swallowed hard. He could still feel it—the weight, the suffocating pressure that the Orc released.
The Orc tilted his head, watching him. Not with hostility. More like curiosity.
"You feel it, don't you?" he rumbled.
Skit's ears twitched.
The Orc exhaled slowly—and the weight hit.
It wasn't loud. It didn't roar. But it pressed on his bones, dug under his skin, made the world feel heavier.
A dense, choking presence—like the world had been branded with the scent of death.
The kind of presence that crushed lesser minds.
The kind of presence that made seasoned warriors drop their weapons and run.
At first, Skit's knees buckled slightly. His breath hitched in his chest, his body tensing as if caught in the grip of something far larger than himself.
The gaze of a predator locked onto him, and every instinct screamed for him to run.
Yet— Skit… just stood there, trembling, fearful, but he remained.
The Orc raised an eyebrow. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
"…Huh."
The pressure left, but Skit's spine trembled. His hands tightened around his knife, breathing in gasps.
The orc took another deliberate step forward, his massive frame blotting out the fading light.
"Why don't you run, little pipsqueak?" he rumbled, amusement dancing in his deep voice.
Skit's knife hand shook, but he forced himself to meet the orc's gaze. In his rough, broken Goblin speech, he whispered:
"You… no eat me"
For a heartbeat, the orc simply stared, as if trying to decode the goblin's broken words.
Then, a bark of laughter cracked through the forest.
"Ha! I won't eat you?" the orc echoed, voice thick with disbelief.
He slapped a meaty hand against his thigh, his shoulders shaking as he roared with laughter.
"Hah! And why shouldn't I eat you, little rat? Your kind tastes like piss, but I could still roast you over my fire!"
He grinned wide, tusks gleaming as he leaned down, trying to tower and loom.
Yet—unexpectedly the goblin answered.
"You… can't."
The words were quiet. Firm.
The orc's laughter stopped, strangled mid-chuckle.
His body tensed. His grin faltered, not from rage—but surprise.
For a moment, the woods fell silent.
"…What did you say?"
Skit took a step forward. His knife still trembled in his hand, but his voice didn't.
"Can't" Skit said, quieter this time. But unwavering.
...
UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 11 - Not Just Pity Revenge.
...
GLOSSARY -:-
[1] Rite of the Sacred Hunt — A sacred tradition where orcs prove their worth through a brutal hunt, earning divine recognition through bloodshed and sacrifice. Orcs believe strength is taken—not given—through battle and the will of their gods. The Rite of the Sacred Hunt is the ultimate test: warriors must slay a mighty beast, offer its corpse and their own blood to the gods, and await judgment. Those deemed worthy receive divine markings, permanently altering their bodies and granting immense power.
[2] Orcish Etchings — Markings earned by orcs who complete the Sacred Hunt, signifying their status as divine warriors chosen by the gods. These Etchings grant powerful, permanent enhancements as a reward for their sacrifice. Receiving an Etching is rare, reserved for the strongest and most relentless warriors. Those who bear multiple Etchings are known as God-Wrought, legendary figures among orcs, revered by their kin and feared by their enemies.