The intruding tier four beast was a nuisance, but not an unwelcome one. It in fact presented an opportunity to cull some of the numbers from their ranks, useless busybodies that presented yet more mouths to feed, or voices to fill the air. The Bloody Father had handed him down his missive directly, otherwise the Warlord would have slain the lot of them for their presumptuousness. That he allowed the other tribes and clans to join him in this crusade was something he’d already considered a great honor. Yet they asked for more, always. More hunting grounds, more prey, more swag. If he were a less patient Dawr, Ak’tash Bloodchild would have snarled then, smashing some object or another like the hob children or the immature champions, never mind the simple goblins that abounded like rats in a fertile field.

No, he accepted the charge – perhaps not with grace – but with quiet dignity and authority. Only a few had dared to directly attempt to command the combined tribes, and those heads yet adorned The Bloody Father’s altar beneath the ground.

A Dawr Champion approached then, walking along the small procession that Ak’tash brought with him as he approached The Hole.

“Speak,” The Warlord commanded, not breaking stride in the slightest.

The champion in question was more lithe than most, being inclined to scouting and evasive combat. If Ak’tash were to pick favorites, it was their type that he would choose, if only because they tended towards more intelligence and awareness. He assessed the champion with a casual glance, noting that this same Dawr had put himself at Ak’tash’ call many times in the past fortnight. Perhaps a promotion was in order?

“The mushroom lizard drives deeper into the middle camp,” The champion spoke crisply, “Your selected tribes have volunteered to intercept it.”

Though he kept his expression neutral, Ak’tash could feel the amusement in his underling's voice at the contradiction. Of course, any tribe selected by Ak’tash to perform a task would have no choice, but they always seemed to insist that they were volunteering for it, as though that gave them some kind of social standing.

He really didn’t get it, but Ak’tash supposed that inter-politicking between the tribes was never something he’d had to deal with.

“Good. Tell me when at least half have perished, I will be at the Father’s altar until then.” Ak’tash commanded, and without another word, the champion set off.

Next to him, one of the heavy-set Dawr, fully three heads taller than his own, said in a low voice, “Are you sure they won’t just kill the thing, Ak?”

At that, Ak’tash showed his teeth in a wide, macabre smile, sharp fangs set in three rows almost glinting in the bioluminescent light, “If they do, they still die.”

The champion grunted, his own jagged-tooth grin shining in the light. Burbuk Brickeater was one of the few champions that Ak’tash knew the name of. It had nothing to do with the fact that the champion had been smashed in the teeth far too many times to count, but instead with how he was something of a unique existence among the champions. If Ak’tash wasn’t here, he was certain Burbuk would be Warlord, his intelligence, strength, speed, and surprising finesse in spite of his large size, was something that the other champions simply lacked. Only one Warlord could rise, though, and Burbuk had no intention of making his own tribe. Instead, he had a vested interest in seeing Ak’tash rise to the next tier, taking his place as the first of many Warlords.

At least, if they didn’t die, but that was Dawr life for you.

“I’ll make sure everyone knows they died gloriously in combat.” Burbuk snickered, along with the other seven champions around them. While Ak’tash didn’t engage in much Dawr politics, a little dabbling – and some stabbing – never truly went amiss.

As they approached the very core of the camp, Ak’tash felt a somber energy settle over him and his fellow Dawr. Ahead of them, The Hole led downwards, and in spite of it only being a simple tunnel into the earth, there was something about it that had unanimously led to it needing to be named. The mouth of The Hole was covered in iconography, ranging from banners, to talismans, to trinkets of stone and bone, and more, but above them all rested The Bloody Father’s symbol, cast in iron and held in place by spiked chains that were pulled taught between twin spikes of metal to either side. It always gave Ak’tash the impression that the spikes were Bant’s fingers, playfully trying to pull the symbol apart like one might a bird's wings.

He stopped at the mouth of the hole, along with the champions, and gave a short but heartfelt prayer to the god they’d never known they needed. Bant was bloody combat, violence, and carnage, and it resonated with the Dawr. Ak’tash never knew why his ancestors had never discovered the god’s benevolence, but as far as he was concerned, the Dawr would never let the connection go. It went beyond mere power, it was a kinship with a power beyond, and it was the evidence that their path was right and that they could rise beyond their station. Goblinkind had never arisen to such heights as what Ak’tash could feel from The Bloody Father, but they dreamt of the possibilities, now.

Ak’tash started forwards again, eyes never leaving the icon until they were well and truly past it. They traveled down the tunnel, carved with care and littered with trophies to the Father’s wrath. Skulls, skins, gnawed bones set with glyphs, even valuable objects like ores and essence-rich plants lay bundled or set into the walls. The path spun downwards, a wide hole opening to the left of the chiseled staircase and descending down deeper into the earth. It was there that the somber energy pulsed, something more than the world around them. Bloody energy rolled upwards with each pulse, before gently flowing down, like a constant heartbeat. They’d only been here for so long, and yet the Dawr had toiled nonstop to ensure that the altar was pristine.

Even as Ak’tash strode the steps, he kept his pace measured, his reverence for what this place represented clear. Several loops downward more, and Ak’tash felt the energy in the air so thick and heavy that he knew that none of the goblins would be able to remain conscious here. When he hit the final step, he knew that even hobs would struggle to remain upright, the potency in the air too much to handle. Ak’tash himself felt his pores open wide, drinking in the higher tier essence, the trace of the Father emanating from the center of the space, and the blood energy that flowed seemingly endlessly from the moat set around the altar.

The altar itself drew his eyes, though the entire room itself was set with the greatest wealth that the tribes could muster. Ak’tash cared not for the rest, only bearing witness to the many bloody spikes stabbed down into the back of some many tusked, warped beast. The living altar – if it could be described as living considering its current state – was set atop a palanquin, which in itself had a moat surrounding it. Blood dripped from the palanquin, ever filling the moat. Corpses, too, floated in the blood, sinking so slowly that even with Ak’tash’s enhanced spatial awareness, he could barely tell.

This creature was high tier four, and perhaps, just perhaps, their intruder would replace it. Though Ak’tash himself was partial to this beast, and aside from that, the ritualistic sacrifice to Bant would take several more days yet. Channeling the massacres of all of the other creatures from the latest hunt took time, after all.

“For The Bloody Father,” Ak’tash spoke, even without fully realizing it, having committed it to habit.

“For The Bloody Father,” A collection of voices responded, nine individuals kneeling around the palanquin answering him. His eyes swept the gathering, noting the six Dawr shaman that had long since been learning the ways of Bant’s clergy from the remaining three of their number. Not long ago, he would have attacked them on sight, but now the sight of them only filled him with a kind of kinship. The three were humans – or close enough to it – and one of them rose from his kneeling posture and turned towards them. His mane of hair and thick, wild beard lent the man a kind of animalistic appearance, and his eyes, shining as though by crimson light, peered over Ak’tash. It almost felt like he was peeling apart his skin, muscle, and sinew, looking through him.

“You have grown closer to the blood,” The man commented, voice oddly detached and emotionless, “You will please The Bloody Father greatly with your advancement.”

There was no pride in the tone, no jealousy. At first, Ak’tash had been unnerved by the man’s empty demeanor, but since then he had decided the head clergymen, Chaka, was merely like that.

“For The Bloody Father,” Ak’tash intoned once more, leaning on that statement when he wasn’t sure how to respond.

Chaka inclined his head slightly, “Why do you come, Bloodchild?”

Ak’tash, as always, felt prideful of the surname given to him by Bant himself, becoming his Chosen. It was, according to Chaka, unheard of, and he’d relished the look of shock and wariness in the man’s eyes when the news had been delivered.

He put the sensation away, answering with, “A powerful tier four invades. I seek to dedicate the battle above to The Bloody Father, as well as offer worship.”

Once more, Chaka merely inclined his head and stepped back into position with the other shamans and clergy. Seeing that he wasn’t offering any advice or aide, Ak’tash assumed that the task would be the same as ever.

He knelt before the ever dying beast, its consciousness no longer with them, and pressed his clawed hand against one of the spikes. Ak’tash twisted the spike, feeling bloody energy course outwards from the wound and race to his hand, filling him with a rush of excitement and relish. He contained it, pulling it deep into himself for later, as he began whispering to Bant. Slowly, he connected his essence and crimson energy into the many glyphs set around them, pulling deeply on the reservoir of power that hung in the air. All around the camp, more glyphs hummed, quietly, barely a ripple on the world. This place was protected from awareness, from detection, a measure of caution that Ak’tash didn’t understand, but likewise didn’t question.

It was far from his place to question The Bloody Father and his clergy.

Above, he felt energy percolate down into the glyphs, greedily swallowing essence into the bloody energy from those dead and dying above. Like blood vessels, the glyphs fed that energy downwards, spiraling from above and raining upon him and those that gathered around the altar. The energy wasn’t wet, not really, but that didn’t change the feeling of having blood rain down upon him. Ak’tash grinned and leaned his head back, drinking blood-essence into his body, he didn’t bother restraining the wracking pleasure and pain from showing – the Dawr were not shy – as he gorged himself. The others were allowed too as well, plentiful as the shower was. It raced through his muscles and flesh, tearing and building in equal measure.

Only the eldest clergymen did not partake, Chaka instead focused on the altar wholly with a dedication that Ak’tash couldn’t help but approve and admire. He did think the man could afford to enjoy this moment, but it wasn’t his place to tell another how to worship.

The battle up above must have been violent indeed, for the rain did not cease immediately. Briefly, Ak’tash wondered if perhaps he should have directed some real warriors to taking the intruder on, but this was its own reward. He grinned, feeling his connection to the Heart of Blood in his tent. The crystal sphere would be able to contain a large amount of the essence itself, and Bant did not begrudge him a share more than his kin. After all, the Warlord would be certain to deliver many sacrifices soon.

So long as the other Warlords, lesser though they might be by his measure, were capable of assaulting the beast-city on schedule, the blood well would overflow. Trails of blood sank within him, traveling to the strange connection he had to the sphere and filling it with power.

He slowed slightly as he felt as though it were farther away than it should be, but decided that it was likely nothing. No Dawr was foolish enough to enter his tent, let alone take something from it. If they had, well, he would cull them and much of the tribe they’d come from. That was always the best way to handle the issue of thieves. The Dawr would police their own well enough if they knew that the crime would not remain solely upon a single head.

Finally the bloody rain slowed to a trickle, before stopping. The battle must have ended, but the amount of essence taken from the world was simply exquisite. Perhaps they would have to goad creatures into attacking the camp more often?

Ak’tash finished his prayer, twisting the spike once more in the beast and eliciting a slight groan from it, even unconscious. The clergy did not rouse, nor the shamans, both sets rapturously taken by the power they had absorbed, bringing them closer to Bant’s domain.

The Warlord left with his entourage, their pace as measured as they left as when they had entered. Bant’s symbol hung over their heads as they exited, feeling even more powerful than it had been on their way in. Ak’tash grinned at that, wondering at how powerful the tier four must have truly been to have died and given such a bounty.

As he moved away from The Hole, he looked around at those that watched him leave. Envy was clear on their faces, the knowledge and sensation of what had transpired leaving them coveting his position. He dared them to step forward with his gaze, but not a single one would, they’d learned their place in the horde.

Shortly after, the familiar lean champion approached. This time, Ak’tash nodded to them to give their report, feeling in a great mood.

“The tier four beast was driven off by the tribes,” the champion spoke, selecting their words carefully in front of the watching eyes. Ak’tash could afford to rub them the wrong way, but the champion understood they did not enjoy such immunities. “Many Dawr have drawn their last blood.”

It was, in a way, regrettable that they’d lost that many Dawr, but Ak’tash supposed that if they were so weak as to have actually failed to kill an intruder with such overwhelming numbers, they deserved to be culled. He was in a good mood, though, and didn’t say that aloud. “They will be honored in Bant’s domain.”

That elicited a round of reverent chants, the words, “For The Bloody Father,” cutting away much of the bite they’d possessed immediately.

“Also… there appears to have been a fire started during the battle.” The champion braced themselves, and Ak’tash couldn’t help but feel a sudden foreboding at that.

“What was damaged?” Ak’tash asked, but already knew the answer as the champion’s muscles tensed. He felt a vein throb in his forehead, but he wasn’t some lesser Warlord that would lash out at his people for delivering news. The champion before him didn’t know that, though.

“It was a handful of tents and… your abode.” Muscles still taught; the champion waited for the strike that he’d surely expected was coming.

“Of course, it was.” Ak’tash concealed in weariness behind a snort, catching not just the champion off guard, but those watching. “None looted the remains, I trust?”

“N-No, none.” The champion quickly replied, “The fire was only just put out, and none dared take anything.”

Ak’tash nodded at that, and the surrounding Dawr that had hoped for a spectacle to roll out were sorely disappointed. Still, they followed, buzzing gnats they were, as the Warlord made for his ill-fated tent.

‘At least I can move down into The Hole, now.’ Ak’tash thought to himself, thinking of the upside to all of this. It wasn’t as though anything of real value to him would be destroyed by some mere fire. Certainly, losing some of the information would be annoying, but would at most cost them a few extra days of scouting. Considering that the other Warlords wouldn’t be ready for some time yet, that wouldn’t harm their standing in the slightest.

Yet, as he got to the ruins of his tent, he couldn’t help but frown. Ak’tash walked straight up to the still smoldering remains, half burnt and disheveled. With a flex of his will, a pattern along his nerves lit up, touching upon the world around him deeply. The space around him was unveiled to his senses exactly, the relative position, shape, and even texture of every object around him laid plain to his senses in all directions. He could feel beneath flaps of the tent, earth, and ashes. As his senses touched upon where his belongings should have been, his calm began to crumble. With teeth bared angrily, he sifted through his desk, before sweeping his senses wider to ensure that his belongings hadn’t simply been misplaced. Many things were missing. Essence Crystals that were worth waging a small war over on their own were gone.

His favorite daggers were missing. He hissed audibly at that, and the collection of champions who knew him recoiled instantly at the sound. Burbuk grimaced behind Ak’tash, not hidden at all by his senses, and the Warlord knew that his – perhaps only – friend was aware that the situation was now dangerous for everyone around him.

Ak’tash’s breath froze as he realized that the sphere was missing. His hands clenched as he noticed his personal book was missing as well, filled with critical information that he’d learned of The Bloody Father, and more so, their plans. It was written in Dawr-Tongue, so perhaps that would be fine, but Ak’tash was suddenly aware that many other documents were gone. His rage, white-hot at the thought of a thief, went incandescent instantly.

“Every single Dawr will be checked for my belongings.” Ak’tash screeched out, “Leave nothing unturned! Do it now, or I’ll be picking Dawr to replace the meat sack on top of the altar!”

To their credit, the Dawr only clamored in confusion for a moment before they started running around. Before his own champions, or the scout, could leave, Ak’tash stopped them. Through his senses, he could tell that Burbuk winced, though the Dawr knew that Ak’tash didn’t usually take out his vengeance physically on those close to him, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t possibly be giving out some pointedly unreasonable orders to them.

Instead, though, Ak’tash only hissed out quietly, “The thief almost definitely isn’t a Dawr. I’m missing a book, many tier five essence crystals, my best daggers, a crystal sphere the size of my head, several documents, and some maps, if they didn’t just get burned up.”

The scout champion frowned, murmuring, “Many things a Dawr wouldn’t care to take…”

Ak’tash nodded, eyeing the scout appraisingly, before quickly asking, “Your name, what is it?”

Straightening slightly, the Dawr answered resolutely, “Grimmer Sneak.”

Internally, Ak’tash groaned at the uncreative name that had been given to this one, but he supposed they were fairly on the nose for what the champion had eventually become.

“Grimmer, you work directly for me now, and with Burbuk.” The Warlord tossed him a decorated bone-dagger that he could hang off him somewhere, denouncing his position as Warlord’s Dagger and giving him the authority to do what needed to be done. “Collect scouts, sneaky types, trackers, assassins. If the thief was Dawr, then this doesn’t matter, but if it wasn’t…”

“I’ll find them.” Grimmer answered, and Ak’tash could almost feel the trace of essence link him to the Warlord, the Dawr trait connecting them. Burbuk shared the connection, and the big man nodded approvingly to the scout. “Attack as soon as we see them, or come back?”

Ak’tash wanted to say to immediately put them in the ground, but bit his lip before shaking his head, “I leave it to you to decide. I must…” Ak’tash groaned, audible only to the group around him, “I must organize these idiots. We may need to move our plans forwards. Burbuk, get me some messengers…”

Whoever had stolen from them, he hoped they weren’t associated with Riizen. Given how the world treated Dawr, though, he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance…

‘If I find whoever stole my daggers, I’m going to eat them.’ Ak’tash licked the rows of his teeth as Burbuk and Grimmer moved away. Today had been looking so good, too!