The night air was thick with the stench of blood and fear as Borg's orc warriors chased the retreating goblins through the jagged foothills. The goblins were a ragged group—a few more survivors but they had ventured deeper than they would have liked—the orcs that was.
They stumbled over rocks, some wounded, others carrying the weak, their small green bodies silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Borg, his face still a map of bruises from his fight with Byung, joined the others after emptying his balls into Shava, his weapon slung over his shoulder. He had no mercy for these "rats"—they were loose ends, potential messengers who could rally more goblins or alert humans to the chaos.
