Gromp lethargically opened his eyes. He was awakened by an incomparably annoying sound, one that he was very familiar with.

  Fucking mosquitoes.

  He traced the aggravating creature with his eyes and lost it momentarily before he felt it land on his stomach. Instinctively, his hand reacted.

  *SMACK*

  Horrible pain erupted from his abdomen as he accidentally whacked his wound, igniting a sensation of a thousand wasps stinging him in the same exact spot. The goblin mustered every ounce of his will not to scream aloud, silently weeping and squeezing his fists so hard his sharp fingernails drew blood.

  The pain cleared up his thoughts, and he soon realised that he was staring at dark tree branches above him, rather than his home cave's boring stone ceiling. He took in his surroundings, noticing a few other wounded goblins next to him, all of them fellow scouts.

  I've got to find Throg, fast! Gromp thought. The two had agreed to meet up shortly after dusk, and his internal clock told him that the sun was moments away from greeting the forest. He clenched his teeth and slowly stood up. He limped away from the makeshift camp as fast as he could, before suddenly stopping.

  His long ears picked up on the sounds of battle – the sounds of metal clashing, bones breaking, both goblins and orcs screaming as they fought for their lives. His heartbeat quickened as the weight of his dagger tucked in his loincloth was seemingly greater than ever before. He looked over his shoulder, instantly getting lost in the striking view.

  Dozens of goblins, mere green specks when seen from this distance squeezed and pushed to fit through a small hole in the wall, previously thought to be impenetrable. Giant fires raged from behind the fortifications, some big enough that their peaks danced even higher than the wooden stakes. Some goblins were using daggers and axes to climb over them, while others tried their luck, blindly shooting arrows and hoping they hit something – even a goblin – on the other side.

  *SLAP*

  Gromp forced himself out of his daze, this time slapping his cheek rather than his wound. He turned to the dark forest and readied himself to move once again, before realising something of rather great importance. He had absolutely no idea where he was supposed to go.

  Did Throg ever even mention where we would meet up?

  His mind raced, thinking back to their long talk the night before, trying to remember every word the two exchanged. He thought, perhaps longer than he should have, given where was at the moment, but simply could not recall this very key piece of information.

  Did he forget to tell me?

  His eyes wandered downwards, eventually(?) settling on the white cloth that bandaged his wound.

  Did he trick me?

  Now that he paid attention to it, the agonising pain that was constantly bothering him at the back of his mind grew ever more intense, overtaking all his senses. The world spun around Gromp, as he barely kept himself from falling on the cold dirt.

  HE FUCKING TRICKED ME!

  Tears welled up inside his eyes as he staggered to the nearest tree. He squeezed his fist and brought up his shivering arm, but couldn't find the strength inside him to punch the bark. Instead, he turned and leaned on the tree for support, sobbing uncontrollably. His legs gave out, and he slowly slid down the tree trunk scraping his back bloody in the process.

  ‘’He deceived me! Throg deceived me!’’ He sobbed, snot and tears dirtying his face.

  He banged the back of his head on the tree again and again and scraped his skin as he whined, completely missing the many loud footsteps that approached from deeper inside the woods. The footsteps were heavy like those of the orcs, and metallic clangs accompanied each step, unmistakably signifying the presence of armour.

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  Gromp, completely devastated and clutching the orcish necklace with his green hands, noticed the sounds of the many armed creatures when they were just a couple of steps away. With haste he peered over his shoulder, and from the depths of darkness saw the only living beings which could make his day worse.

  The chief's face scrunched up as he scratched his head, his racing mind unable to piece together the reason behind the orcs’ overwhelming might and vigour. The fight was in a stalemate as his adversaries successfully built and maintained a half-circle formation around the broken part of the wall, effectively keeping most of the goblins from invading the deeper parts of their village and wreaking havoc among the non-combatants.

  They should have less than half the number of our warriors, not to mention I have been purposefully limiting their hunting grounds. Why and how do they have so much energy?

  He forced his way to the front of the battlefield, shoving away his underlings with ease due to his giant frame.

  Fuck it, I will kill these pigs myself if I have to.

  The goblins’ spirits invigorated from their chief's presence on the front line, they finally started to push the orcs back. The goblin chief suddenly froze as he noticed a certain orc, slightly fatter than the others, standing at the back of the enemy's formation. The slimmer chieftain smirked as he saw the orc's agitated gaze, and just as he was about to join the skirmish once again, something at the edge of his vision caught his attention.

  His eyes locked on a pile of white bones, sitting serenely by a poorly constructed hut made out of sticks and mud.

  Now, bones of all shapes and sizes were a classic part of any monster tribe. Some used them as decoration, others created tools, weapons, and jewelry from the material while others used them to craft primitive instruments. The presence of bones alone did not strike the chief as anything out of the ordinary. No, the predicament here was their peculiar shape.

  The chief glances at the skull standing on the very top of the pile in confusion – Its skull was slightly too large to be that of a goblin, yet its jaw wasn't large enough to belong to an orc. A shiver ran up the chief's spine as a sense of powerlessness like he had not tasted in decades spread throughout his body.

  His head snapped back to the orc chief. Everybody and everything else seemed to fade away into the background, light shining only on the two commanders.

  ‘'Ighor, what the fuck have you done?!'’ He hoarsely shouted in desperation.

  Humans.

  Sly, two-legged creatures, most often pink in colour, regarded by most other ''two leggers'' – especially those self-important dwarves and elves – as nothing more than vermin. Though not particularly strong, or bright for that matter, these creatures seemingly exist in every nook and cranny of the world.

  Sadly, that is not completely true – at least not anymore. Long ago, in the Age of Fragmented Lands, when dwarves dominated the underground and elves held control of the ancient forests, most of the folk belonging to one of these two humanoid races truly held the humans in low regard. After all, they were just one of the many groups that fought for control of the ground territories, much like the beastkin or lizardmen.

  As it would seem, the fruit-eating long-ears and the alcoholic midgets should have paid more attention to these rather uninteresting fellows. With the help of various technological advances, they quickly expanded their influence, pressuring all the other ground dwellers into occupying less bountiful lands.

  Their shorter lifespans, although still longer than those of goblins, proved to be a blessing in disguise as they lived with a depressing sense of urgency knowing their end was relatively near. The humans and their numerous kingdoms, monarchies, and all the other ruling systems they made up now cover most of the known world and are by far the most numerous humanoid race.

  That being said, while humans own most of the land, they most definitely do not control every inch of territory within their constantly changing borders. Their villages and towns are many, but they are mere specks of civilised land surrounded by the near-endless wilderness. These unexplored lands, predominantly owned by humans are inhabited by monsters, humanoid races which are less advanced mostly on account of luck rather than intellect as the ''enlightened'' races believe, which formed various tribes with their respective chieftains and elders, who are the real land owners instead of some spoiled, conceited king whose name these monsters most likely have not even heard of before in their lives.

  None of this held true for the Chipped Ear tribe and the forest they resided in.

  This particular medium-sized goblin tribe had the misfortune of being nestled near the border of two predominantly human kingdoms. This imaginary boundary between them runs along the sharp peaks of the giant mountain range and at least until a couple of decades ago, the two nations, aside from a small scuffle or two, had no interest in these lands and as such did little do develop them, or to exterminate the monster tribes which roamed this forested terrain. All of this changed when a giant landslide destroyed a small isolated village located in a valley, deep inside the mountain range.

  Back then, a young farmer, lucky to have been working in the fields when his settlement was buried, ran back to his small wooden house, finding it had been completely and utterly destroyed. He collapsed onto his knees, seeing his whole world turned upside down, when something unusual caught his eye. With his calloused hands, he dug out a strange green rock from underneath the dirt and cleaned it the best he could with his torn trousers. An emerald, of extremely high purity, glinted beautifully in the sun.

  Needless to say, soldiers were quick to arrive, both from one kingdom and the other. Needless to say, they started fighting. The various scholars and analysts quickly judged the shiny rocks incomparably more valuable than the lives sacrificed to obtain them, and a war broke out.

  The human generals were not stupid and quickly began clearing out all monster tribes in the vicinity, whether provoked or unprovoked. The Chipped Ear Tribe had been lucky to have been residing in the southern part of the forest, but the monsters that lived up north back then, mostly gnolls, were wiped out in the blink of an eye by the human soldiers.

  Ever since then, all tribes within the forest have abided by an unspoken rule to never, no matter the situation at hand, evoke the rage of the humans. And after many, many years, Ighor of the orc was the first one to break these shackles and provide some much-needed food for his starving people.

  As it turns out, those shackles were placed upon the monsters to protect them rather than restrict them.

  The grating, resonant sound of a war horn spread throughout the large clearing as more than a hundred of armour clad soldiers marched out from under the green canopies, the dawn's first light illuminating them in all of their glory. Their chins were held high and chests puffed outwards, not a single one of them showing signs of nervousness. They awaited their commander's signal in eerie silence.

  A middle-aged, short-statured human made his way to the front of the human combatants. His piercing blue eyes scanned over the battlefield, and although he was shorter than even many of the goblins, he seemingly looked down upon them like they were mere summer ants. Wordlessly he drew his sword, and with practised and methodical movements, he swung his dwarven-made blade forward, the early sun’s rays glimmering off of its sharp edge-

  The humans charged.