Knez froze mid-step, his right hand shooting up, a signal to the hunting group, who quickly responded stopping in their tracks. His eyes gleamed with a sharp, unnatural focus as fragments of trauma from the raid that took his family a week ago resurfaced—the metallic tang of blood now mingling with the ghosts of familiar faces. Harg turned, sensing the shift in tension, but clenched his fist like a vice, bracing for the possibility of another outburst of Knez's "new madness"—ramblings about dancing trees or whispering winds. Knez caught the subtle hostility in Harg's glare and said nothing, instead guiding their eyes southeast with a pointed stare. The group indulged him, peering through the dense oaks, and there it was: a human figure sprawled face-down on the forest floor, about twenty five meters away, partially buried under a shroud of decayed leaves and twisted roots. The faint blood trail they'd missed earlier led straight to it.
Champa tightened his grip on his axe, knuckles whitening. Even Harg, the steadiest among them, felt a surge of raw aggression bubble up—humans meant raids, death, the extinction of their kind. Yet this one lay defenseless, unmoving. But it did little to dull their caution; orcs knew better than to trust the stillness of prey. They approached with predatory grace, circling the body from all angles like dire wolves closing in on a wounded irish elk, weapons raised and ready. Knez's mind raced ahead, amplifying every detail: the shallow rise and fall of the human's chest, the angle of the limbs from the torso; all suggesting collapse from exhaustion; the metallic scent intensified with each step, the lack of any movements pointing towards oblivion.
They closed in, their heavy footfalls crunching leaves despite attempts at stealth. The figure didn't stir, nor move any muscle. Knez bridged the remaining distance with his spear, his movements deliberate at first—then, in a blur of aggression, he thrust it forward, jabbing the human's side. The sudden shift from restraint to intense ferocity threw even his companions off balance, yet their instincts flared with approval at the raw brutality. He jabbed again, fiercer, the spare tip drawed a thin line of blood but still nothing, no twitch, no cries, no reaction.
Harg dropped to one knee, his tusks curved like a hook, he seized the human by the shoulder, flipping him over with a violent yank that tore at the wounds. The figure—not quite dead, clinging to a thread of life—convulsed weakly, slashing a concealed blade toward Harg's exposed throat in a desperate arc. Harg's eyes widened in shock, his body freezing in that fatal instant—but luckily he didn't need to move. In that split second before dagger hit flesh, a spear blurred over his right shoulder, embedding into the human's neck with lethal precision. Blood sprayed out on impact splattering his face like war paint, the human gasped, convulsing and choking on his own blood, atleast what remained of it, his eyes bulged in terror as life gradually waned from his gaze.
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Knez had reacted on pure instinct—or perhaps on a deeper, malevolent urge. His facial features twisted into a contorted expression of fear, exhilaration, and an insidious bloodlust that pounded through his veins like thunderous war drums. The kill resonated deep within—a petty retribution for his family, and the splintered remnants of his tribe. Orcs were forged in such violence, their aggression a razor honed by a merciless world; mercy for humans was only a fool's delusion, a weakness they couldn't afford.
The group gaped at him, shocked by the ferocious display, the air grew thick with the stench of slaughter. Knez cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the haze with unnatural steadiness despite the headache threatening to splinter his skull. " It was just a wounded human."
Harg opened his jaws to speak but could only nod sharply instead. The rest of the hunting party were also stunned but said no words—only his close friend Champa found his voice. "You sure still pack a punch Ta, even if you act like a crazed shaman every now and then!" The rest nodded in agreement. Harg shoved aside the moment and rifled through the corpse in search for spoils—he unearthed a modest sack of gleaming gold coins, a waterskin sloshing with stale liquid, and a sealed letter. No sustenance, no armaments of value. "Useless scraps," Harg snarled, hurling the waterskin to Champa with a dismissive flick.
But Knez's gaze had locked onto the letter, his mind ensnaring it like an inescapable predator, his whole being urging him towards it. He hesitated for a bit but eventually snatched it up, the paper was smooth and snappy under his callused fingers, a red seal held the letter close. He fumbled it, before eventually figuring out how to open it, and when he did words flooded the page—dense, intricate patterns and structure that he didn’t understand, he stared at it for while, he couldn’t make out what was written, however he still felt compelled to look at the words. He snarled "My find, my loot," he muttered, folding and slipping it into his pouch along with the sack of gold coins. He didn't know their true value yet— the coins where prepared too meticulously to be trivial, the letter too compelling to ignore—but something in him stirred, a hunger for the knowledge within. It would change him, he sensed, reshaping his fractured ability to contemplate things into something more complete.
As Harg poured dead leaves over the human corpse, Kenz finally realized something, his tone a whisper laced with urgency. "A human this close to camp? We need to move immediately."
Everyone understood what he meant, the previous bloodbath still fresh in their memories. They all nodded, the weight of potential danger pressing down as they turned back toward the settlement with weapons firmly in hand, the forest now felt alive with unseen threats. But Knez trailed slightly, his head hurting as he experienced mental fatigue for the fourth time in his life, all four happened within the span of the last couple of days.
