SNAP—!
The jaws came down where Skit's face had been half a second ago.
He rolled—hard—mud and bone scraping his skin raw as he skidded awkwardly across the rancid floor.
Behind him, the predator landed in silence, save for the soft thud of muscle and claw. It moved like smoke—low, fast, precise.
Leopard-like. But not.
Its fur was murky and patchy. Its eyes shimmered with a faint light, not feline hunger—but calculated malice.
It was no mindless beast. It hunted with thought.
Skit's side bled from where it had grazed him earlier.
His limbs trembled. The chipped knife in his hand felt like a twig.
This was the fourth one. Maybe fifth. They were starting to blur.
He'd lost count after the centipede with a jaw where its spine should've been.
No sleep. No food. No more screams left.
Just him. And it.
Above, the orc crouched at the edge of the pit, a thick bone in his mouth like a lazy cigar.
"Come on, pipsqueak," he called, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Survive a little."
He smirked, moonlight behind him casting sharp shadows across his tusks.
The orc's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the goblin below—small, trembling, yet somehow... still alive.
He'd tossed the runt into the pit again, watching it scurry and fight.
Third time? Fourth? He didn't care enough to count.
He didn't subject the green runt to all these predators out of revenge... well, maybe just a little.
"You can't."
The words echoed in his mind. The way the goblin had said it—without hesitation, without fear.
The orc had expected the runt to beg. To whimper. To collapse in terror under the weight of a true predator.
But no. It had stood its ground, as though it had already seen past the orc's strength and knew he wouldn't kill it.
The runt had surprised him, that's for sure. He'd never seen a green midget with such... defiance in its eyes.
So he threw the little pipsqueak into something's jaws.
Literally.
He scratched at his tusk in thought, brow furrowing. How the hell did he know that?
He hadn't killed the goblin, not because it wasn't normal, not because it didn't deserve it... but because of the marks.
The Etchings.
It was the Blood's will.
His own Patron power.
Higher beings, their thoughts and actions couldn't be understood by normal minds.
To kill one marked like this—especially one marked by his Patron—would be foolish. Dangerous, even.
He tried to dismiss it, to bury it under the weight of pragmatic indifference. But still, the thought lingered.
Was it the bloodline?
It all started when he was drawn to the goblin through its bloodline.
As a follower of the Blood, he had certain abilities—one of which was the ability to sense bloodlines. And this runt? It carried an unknown bloodline, something not possible.
If he offered the bloodline to his Patron, he'd be rewarded. But the goblin had received something else—an Etching from the Blood itself.
The Blood was whimsical, and its will was inscrutable.
He didn't want to get involved with its plans—especially when one of those plans included something as treacherous as this.
Even if he was a 'Follower'.
This one was a mystery.
His mind flickered to other thoughts, but they scattered as the goblin's struggle roused him from his reverie.
His eyes flicked down at the fight. A sharp grin twisted his lips, a mix of amusement and something else.
The leopard lunged.
Skit moved—too slow. The beast clipped his side, and pain bloomed sharp and hot.
Skit's foot slipped. He tumbled forward, hands scraping the ground for purchase.
The beast was almost on him.
He didn't look up. Didn't cry for help.
He knew it was coming.
CRACK—!
A blur of red. A wet sound. Silence.
The monster fell—its head crushed beneath the orc's boot.
"Too slow again," the orc muttered, cracking his neck. "You're not even trying, are you?"
The orc didn't even look winded.
Skit lay sprawled beside the corpse, chest heaving.
He didn't flinch at the blood soaking into his skin. Didn't reach for the knife. Didn't try to crawl away.
He just stared at the beast.
Its head was a crushed pulp of bone and fur. It twitched once. Then nothing.
Skit's breath hitched. Not in fear. Not in relief.
In hunger.
His tiny mind was barely working, fingers twitched. Instinct fought instinct—fear clashing with need. He hadn't eaten in... how many dens now?
He dragged himself up with shaking arms and leaned over the carcass. Eyes locked on the meat.
"Oh-ho. Look at you," the orc drawled, voice thick with mockery. "Didn't even wait for it to cool. You that hungry, pipsqueak? Or just that stupid?"
Skit didn't respond.
He tore into the shoulder. No fire. No skinning. Just raw, twitching meat and animal stink.
CRUNCH—!
The Orc leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning wide. "Careful, pipsqueak. Eat too much raw meat, you might start thinkin' like a monster."
CRUNCH—CRUNCH—!
Time began to blur.
Monsters came. Pain followed. Screams—his own—echoed in the pit.
A pack of hyena-things, their laughter disturbingly childlike.
A wolf with strange, unblinking eyes.
A burrow-dwelling toad, its size enough to swallow him whole, its tongue lashing out like a whip.
Each time, Skit fought. Not well—but he survived, somehow.
And each time, just as death reached for him—
The orc appeared. Unhurried. Unbothered.
And ended it.
With a fist. A kick. A tree branch. Once, even a sigh.
The days passed in a haze. Night fell, and another day crawled by. Then another.
They sat by a crooked fire, the kind that wasn't made with flint or spark but something far more primal—living embers peeled from firebugs, flickering without smoke.
Skit lay motionless, unable to do more than breathe—lungs gasping for air as though it were water.
Across from him, the orc chewed noisily on some mutant haunch, watching Skit in that same, quiet way he always did after each fight.
His ribs ached with every shallow breath. His side burned with a gnawing pain.
Why? Skit's mind barely held onto the thought. Why does the Red dumb throw him in? What does he want?
The nine-day-old goblin's thoughts scattered, pained from the grueling fights of survival.
He doesn't want me dead, Skit knew that. He saw it. But why? Why does he keep watching? Why does he—
Skit didn't understand. The Red dumb had the power. The strength. He could crush Skit in a second. But instead, he just... watched.
Growl~
Skit's stomach growled loud, but he didn't have the strength to care. The hunger, though, it clawed at him.
The orc's laughter rolled out from the shadows, a deep, guttural sound full of dark amusement.
A sound Skit hated very, very much.
The orc crouched beside him, tossing a mangled strip of meat onto the ground like a thrown bone. It hit the dirt with a sickening thud, wet and half-raw.
"Eat," came the orc's voice.
Skit didn't hesitate. His fingers curled slowly around the meat, sniffed it.
It smelled… not fresh, but edible. Barely. He bit into it. blood and dirt smeared across his raw, gnarled fingers as he grasped the meat.
The silence dragged for a moment—then the orc's voice returned, lazy, amused.
"You're a slippery one."
Skit chewed slowly. Glaring. But he didn't rise to it.
"Still alive after centipedes, vipers, and the tail-clawed crawler," the orc mused. "You're like fungus. Nasty. Hard to kill. But still fungus."
Grrr
Skit growled.
Skit's teeth bit down harder, his jaw aching with the effort. He hated it. Hated the way the orc talked about him.
"Oh?" The orc leaned forward from above the pit, his broad tusked grin catching the low light. "Got something to say now, green?"
Skit wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, blood and grease smeared in streaks, his skin raw and trembling.
His body screamed for rest, but his will pushed through the pain.
"…Skit."
The word was hoarse. Rough. It felt like it tore through him, but it was his name. His. A shiver crawled down his spine.
The orc blinked, slow confusion flickering across his face. "What?" His brow furrowed, trying to understand.
"Skit…" he said again, voice hoarse.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the wind and the rasping of his breath.
The orc froze, staring down at him.
Then, without warning, he barked a laugh—a loud, full-chested sound that echoed through the pit. He slapped his thighs with his palm like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all week.
"Skit? Skit?" Another round of laughter. "That's what you call yourself?"
Skit didn't laugh. He stared up, defiant.
The orc's grin slowly faded.
"You think you can just—have—a Name?"
Skit didn't answer.
"You know what a name means to a us? Monsters?"
The orc leapt into the pit with a crash of muscle and weight. The ground shook. Skit tensed, but didn't flinch.
"You don't get it," he growled, stepping close. "You really don't get what you're saying."
He crouched, looming, his shadow spilling over Skit like a wave of night.
"Names… are power."
His voice was colder now. Stripped of mockery. Just truth.
"Humans are given names. Elves. Dwarves. Soft things born in cribs, wrapped in silk and meaning."
He leaned closer.
"But us? Monsters?"
He bared his tusks. His voice dropped to a growl.
"We earn our names with blood and terror. With fang and claw. We rip ours outta the world's throat."
The orc's eyes locked onto Skit's, burning with the weight of belief.
"A name… for a beast…"
He paused, voice like a brand pressed to flesh.
"…is a crown bought with carnage."
Skit didn't reply. Just stared. Like a starving thing looking back at its hunter—not with fear, but hunger.
...
UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 12 - Almost A Monster
...
GLOSSARY -:-
[1] Named Monster — is a beast that has torn its place from the world with fang, claw, and blood. A name is no gift—it is a mark of power, carved from the flesh of their enemies and the suffering they've endured. To be Named is to become more than a creature of instinct; it is to take on the soul of a predator, to wear the crown of blood-soaked triumph. Once Named, a monster is no longer just a mindless predator, but a Sentient Beast.