Blood was on the air. Blood and steel, and fear. He could not see it for himself, having gone too far into the forest, but he could tell. They had killed one of his kind. One of the Khor.

He trudged through the forest, the dirt soft from recent rains, following the scent of his kind. These woods were unfamiliar to him, and he did not recognize the fallen Khor, nor the tribe itself. He had been from another, and he expected battle as a result. If they were like him, then they were violent.

Galal ignored the trail of a nearby deer, tempting as it was. Misting rain fell, soon to become a downpour of its own and washing it away, but hunger could be put off for now. There were things he needed to do, things he wanted to do.

The smells grew more varied and more intense as he approached their village, the smell of smoke and charred meat beginning to lace the air. The misting turned to steady rain as he came upon the village, its inhabitants out of sight, the fire at the center still burning. They were there, watching him, waiting. The smell of steel made them weary, as it had once made him weary.

“Come out!” he called, the figures slipping from behind trees and houses. Only a few approached, the largest of them, and as they settled before him Galal realized how big he truly was. A giant, even by his own races standards, he looked down on the largest the village had to offer.

“Who are you? Why have you come?” Galal straightened his back, pushing out his chest as he extended his height ever more.

“I have come to conquer.” They did not speak, the closest one lashing out with a large branch. Galal allowed it to strike his chest, the branch breaking against his armor, a hand snapping out and closing around the perpetrators neck. He squeezed, crushing the nameless Khor’s windpipe just enough to cut its breathing, then struck it in the stomach with his fist.

He let go, the Khor collapsing with wheezing gasps as it clawed at its throat. “Submit,” Galal said. The others did not approach, some even retreating a few steps. “Submit,” he said again.

The fallen Khor was the first to do so, remaining on its knees and vocalizing a clicking sound. One by one the rest followed, lowering themselves to their knees and releasing a chorus of clicking.

“Rise,” he said. The clicking ceased and the tribe rose. It was small, less than twenty in number. Few of them were male, perhaps five in total, all of them adults. The Khor did not raise challengers. “Bring me meat.” He stood, silent, as one of the elder females did his bidding, bringing a roasted deer leg. She flinched as he reached toward her, quickly backing away after he took hold of his meal. The outside was charred, remnants of fur still remaining, but Galal ate it nonetheless.

Slowly, the tribe began to eat as well, continuing their dinner with mild hesitation, stealing glances at their new leader. The tribe was his, now, and once sun rose he would make that clear. For now, he would plan.