With a scimitar in one hand, the orc pressed against the rock of the mountain with his bare feet, pouncing on the flying bird above the village. Cheers roared from below as the orc's thick hands clenched to the bird's feathers, scattering, leaving a trail of blue along the way.

Groaning as he climbed onto it's back, the burly humanoid took a second to whet his blade on the iron bar hanging from his waist. Beast thrashing around and everything, trying to shake him off before the weapon ended its life, the orc still held tightly to the bird's plumes.

The wind coiled his long braid around his neck, hitting the metal end against his back repeatedly. To make it quick, he raised his crude sword above his head, twisting the grip on his hand so the hilt would touch his pinky. He was close to stabbing the neck of the fowl, when suddenly, it barrel-rolled against the mountain.

He protected his head by crashing against the wall of rock with his shoulder, but scraped off a good portion of his skin by doing so. A wave of cheers came from the people underneath, to what he simply smiled back. His skin now covered in gruesome marks, he still lifted his blade, and stabbed down with every inch of his strength.

The scimitar broke through the animal's skin as it let out of a gut-wrenching scream. He pushed down the sword until it pierced the flesh and bone, the altitude quickly descending, the beast crashing down to the ground as the orc pushed away from its back.

He got a hang of a branch, but it crumbled under his massive weight. He crashed against the side of a tree and fell on his knees to the grass.

Quickly, the orc got up and sprinted towards the direction in which the animal had fallen. He jumped, quite high albeit his weight, and saw through the thicket the image of a limping bird. Perhaps granting it mercy, or just to prove his ability, he struck down towards the neck of his prey, and the feathered beast screeched lowly. With a small push more, he severed the long neck, and the head fell down on itself.

Blood began to seep out of the corpse as he sighed in relief, and buried his sword on the grassy ground.

"Brother! Sanctified is the animal that you butcher! That was truly splendid!"

Another brown-skinned humanoid closed the distance from behind, a small mob following him around. They showed toothy smiles like the one the main hunter had on his face, equally as glad that the hunt had been successful. The one that had called him brother slapped his arm in congratulations, the one scraped and bloodied. The hunter groaned slightly in pain, but the mob cheerfully smiled at his reaction.

"We'll have a feast today." Another orc stepped forward, tilting his head up to look at the face of the hunter. "Have you grown, Big Hunt?"

One could not say that orcs were a small race, by any means. Men and women alike, their heights never went down the six feet mark, and the usual height for an adult male orc would always be higher than six foot eight. That said, the two orcs staring at Big Hunt from below were well above the seven feet mark.

"It is my last winter of growth, after all." The hunter smirked as he rotated his shoulder, still in pain from the crash against the mountainside. "I think I'm shy of two spears at the top of my head."

"Graceful hunt, I always thought I was tall at one spear and six parts." The orc sighed, letting a low growl like a bear's escape his throat.

"Brother, I'm glad you took care of the flying beast. I had not imagined someone would be brave enough to jump towards it, but well. It had to be you."

"I am honored." Big Hunt knocked his head to the sides and hit his forearms together, signifying that his glory was for the tribe and not for him. "I'll let you gather the meat of the hunt this time since I need tend to my wounds. I am not done yet, I will hunt again at dusk."

"I'm honored." The two other orcs said, hitting their fists together.

Big Hunt tumbled his way towards the village, not before he forcefully put his shoulder back in place. Dirt roads with tribal huts to the sides shrouded in bones, the hide of different animals covering the entrances, the village showed without fear the orcish culture of striving to use up to the last piece of your kill. Unlit torches made from cloth and animal fat were placed over wooden pegs between houses to keep the night away, their ash still hot from the hour of dawn.

Kids wrapped around Big Hunt's legs in his way, to which he smiled and pulled from their piercings. Grabbing a bit of blood from his shoulder, he painted their cheeks and their forehead, and the kids gasped in awe as they ran to tell their mothers.

He said hello to the wives of his friends, people he had known too since he was a kid. They offered him help with his wounds, but he politely declined and moved forward. Wherever he went, they would either offer help or ask for it. After all, even when the village wasn't small, it wasn't a big settlement either. If you knew someone, you knew everybody, and every member of the tribe would treat you like part of their family.

In essence, this was necessary for their survival. If you're not friends with everyone, nothing guarantees you'll be kept safe in a drought or a famine. Although hunters were efficient and loved their work, sometimes the forest wouldn't provide what a population as big as them needed. In those cases, friends kept you alive.

And, although somewhat distracted by said friends, the man shortly arrived at a hut in the center of the village where a burly woman stood. Big Hunt joined his hands to salute, and she did the same. Then, pulling from the fabric in the entrance, she ushered him inside.

Upon entering he caught glance of a simple interior, covered in skins and trophies, with a singular figure in the center of the room. A shaman dressed in skulls and bones, her weathered hands resting upon a cane. She removed her eyes from the book that until now she had been reading, and her yellowish eyes showed a red ember that fluttered shyly. A smile that showed her square fangs welcomed the orc to sit down, and he did so with a simple motion of gratitude.

"You are in good health, shaman."

"Shaman, y'all say again. I've told ya to call me grandma, all of you. It's not difficult to follow those instructions from an all lady, hmm?"

"Yes, grandma." Big Hunt smiled with a nod. "I am sorry to come for help and not to check on you today. I hurt myself slightly and I fear an infection."

"Of course." She blinked once, and the red ember dissipated from her eyes. She took the book from her table and placed it beside herself. Before pulling a couple of herbs from her leather bag, she muttered. "Ahh, books of the small beings are so passionate. They write in such a complicated manner, it's hard to keep reading through them when it costs you so much energy."

"I would be glad to even be able to read or write." The orc chuckled lowly.

"Would you allow me to teach you, hmm?"

"The hunt is my passion, grandmother. Reading is not a thing I can take time for."

"Oh well. That's alright, then. Let me take a look at your wounds."

The shaman touched the young orc's shoulder and nodded a few times, rubbing the blood between her index and thumb. She grabbed the herbs and minced them with her nails in the air, turning them into glowing green dust.

She nodded and went to the back of her chair where a chest laid, grabbing from its inside a small wooden tin. "Troll salve, always a good remedy." she chuckled.

Used to the procedure, Big Hunt simply scooped his fingers inside and spread it across the wounds. It hurt sharply, but nothing that he couldn't bare with. After he had already finished covering his shoulder and back, he sighed and looked at the woman with a lost gaze.

"Is there something else worrying you?"

"Well... Slightly."

"Let me guess. It's about the dhrirks that steal from our crops and our cattle." The shaman smiled and scratched her forearms in a rather disinterested manner. "I have read from the books we found from human tribes that they're called... goblins, in their natural language."

"I did not know those savages could speak." Big Hunt lifted his lip and scoffed. "All they're good for is stealing and getting massacred. I can't wait to sheath my blade in their flesh."

"Were you thinking of hunting them this night?" The shaman grabbed the book from her side again, and her eyes lit with a fiery ember once again.

"How... do you know?"

"It's something you'd do. And something you've been doing quite often. I guess it is safer to hunt them before the problem becomes bigger, so I am not going to stop you. We've already lost a dozen of our own to this avoidable and pointless game of hunt, after all, and it's not a little number of people." She changed the page with her pinky and her thumb, sighing.

"I will become of age soon. Fifteen winters, and I've survived them all in excellence. I have not thought of marrying yet, so I will dedicate my life to the hunt. I want to lead our people to the conquering of the small demons, or goblins, as they're called."

"Impatience never leads to anything good, boy." She sighed. "The forest has been agitated as of late, so there is no need to cause even more of a ruckus. If you want to hunt, hunt. But I will not give you my blessing if you wish to endanger our people for your satisfaction."

The orc lowered his eyes and swallowed in silence. He wouldn't dare to go against the shaman, so he chose to remain silent instead. To be honest, his reason to exterminate the goblins was purely based on the rage he felt towards them.

As small demons, the goblins were disgusting creatures that counted merely on their numbers to overcome their enemies, sacrificing their own to win even small disputes. They possessed extremely weak bodies that would fall apart with the swing of a scimitar. They were not worthy of being called enemies, and they were not even worthy of being sport prey.

He wanted to be done with them, and he wanted to feel the rush of exterminating them like a plague at the same time. With the thought, his blood boiled and asked for battle, a bloody battle in which to demonstrate his abilities and show that he was strong, stronger than any other orc inside the village.

If he could put it in simpler, more selfish words, Big Hunt simply wanted to show off by murdering a plague that did not need to exist.

Then, as he was thinking of glorious war, a remembrance intruded his brain and picked at his curiosity. Thinking about fights that demonstrated true power, something came to mind that could no be excluded regarding that topic.

"Grandmother..."

"Hm?"

"The beings of the sky... Have they not stopped their fights recently? The ones that look like water under the sun." Big Hunt pointed up to the sky, although he was indoors. The shaman groaned lightly and looked upwards, but lowered her head soon enough.

"Happens often." She said. "Every few years. They fight, one of them dies, is absorbed by the other, and then stands at the top of a hill to bask in sun for years until yet another one wants to fight. It's happened four times since I was born... And I reckon it will continue to happen."

Big Hunt swallowed his idea about fighting them, and simply nodded.

When he was also about to mention the big prize of the forest, the Monster Slime, the shaman suddenly closed her book and dissolved her translation spell. Big Hunt was immediately alerted, and from his sharp senses, he felt a strand of what the shaman felt fully.

"Somebody entered the village without permission?" The orc promptly asked.

"Indeed. I had felt it before, but I thought it was simply the essence of the forest. How can a living being emit such aura? And what is this? Why is there such a vast amount of raw magic coagulating in that same spot?"

"I'll go check." Big Hunt bolted out of the hut and unsheathed his scimitar quickly. As he ran for the edge of the village, he sharpened his blade on the iron block hanging from his belt.

"Biggy! What's wrong?!"

"I don't know yet!"

Voices called for him on the back, but the massive orc unrelentingly strode down into the forest, until he finally reached the stone markings that bordered the village.

There, his eyes went agape to find that, although he thought it could only be that, there was not a crystal being standing in the border of his village.

"Dude! There's an orc here already!"

"Shut up, I'm fixing the mess you made!"

Instead, a human with black hair was repairing the markings with a nervous expression. A similar human was by his side, helping him in the task with an equally-as-exalted face. Big Hunt blinked in confusion at first, but had to quickly accept the hard truth. The one to emit such power was not an otherworldly being, but a measly human which they butchered like pigs.

Without a second thought, and as if he was doing something ordinary, Big Hunt jumped forward with his scimitar. His iron swung with the power to cleave halfway through a tree, directly towards the neck of that human, without even wasting a single movement or a second.

He imagined the head of that being would fly up into the air, and he would have to hurriedly attack the next person to finish the job cleanly and without unnecessary trouble.

However, when the edge was about to impact against the skin of the lowly human, a shockwave spread from the tip of his blade to his hand, making the crude iron waver before escaping his grip.

He saw the sword twist in the air before landing on the human's hand. The black-haired man didn't even bother to look up to face Big Hunt's face, but simply made use of his aura to push the orc back as if suddenly hit by a landslide.

A ripple erupted from the young human's figure and wrapped around Big Hunt's body like a whip. He felt a thousand thorns pierce his thick skin at the moment that he was enveloped by that crimson aura, and regardless of how much he struggled, he couldn't let go of himself.

The one that had cornered him sighed and clicked his tongue, as if in deep sorrow over something.

"Shit... I really wanted to avoid fighting." He said in a flawless orcish language that left Big Hunt astonished. "I really can't do what I want, can I...?"

In that moment, Big Hunt understood what was happening. How had he been so ridiculously stupid, stupid enough to attack someone who was clearly not an enemy? An aura so similar to the forest's, a whip of thorns, and the image of a meek existence albeit it's strength. He was clearly not in front of a human, but a spirit which he revered.

"By the hunt, I was blind!" Big Hunt exclaimed with a panicked face. "A spirit of the forest has entered our village, and this is how I welcome you! My sorry livings will not be enough to appease you, I am sure, but please! I will give my life in exchange, so please, spare my village from disaster!"

"You... Agh, it doesn't even matter anymore. I was thinking of speaking, but I guess it's no use." The man hit his forehead and dragged his hand along his face in disappointment. "If it's tests of strength that you like, both aura and muscle should be available for contest."

The man said, and took in a deep breath as if he was trying to swallow the world.

"I hadn't really tried to completely extend my aura, but this is a good time to try. Now, witness, or whatever nonsense, the power of... me!"

With the last word falling from his lips, a sudden chained beast broke free from its shackles.

A tidal wave of blood-red gas exploded with that single human as it's center and engulfed the entire village in a short second, circling around it as if threatening to gobble the mountain nearby. The presence seeped inside the huts and the people's skin, alerting them into looking at the origin of the aura, and saw the forest.

Hunters fell to their knees and praised the god of the hunt, while the weavers and artisans let go of their tools to raise their arms, the children staring dumbfounded at the cloud of dust that had been roused from the sudden shrouding of their settlement.

An orc woman opened the veil of the central hut to let the matron exit and see for herself what had happened, but she already knew of this. With a trembling hand, resting over a cane, the old orc put a foot outside.

The shaman looked around the village. Why were they all praising the gods as if it had been a divine happening? Did the people not notice? If they didn't, then she had surely raised blind and uneducated people.

What covered them was not something divine, not something that should be celebrated. If, by any chance, they could see it, they would think the same. If they could see the blood that seemed to dance in the air, the countless spots of ash and dust that rained above the rooftops, coming from burnt-down trees and razed empires?

As vines of thorns started to emerge from her heart and coiled around her neck, the shaman asked herself, truly, if the others didn't have it: The primal instinct that recognized that dark feeling, the one that spelled nothing but disaster for whoever was the owner of that poisonous, ill-intended aura.