The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth, dew-kissed leaves, and something sharper—blood. metallic, wild. It was everywhere.
Beneath the towering trees, where golden shafts of sunlight split the gloom, a figure moved. A mass of black and red, shifting between the dappled light.
His skin, dark as iron left in fire, carried the deep hues of smoldering embers—red not of fresh wounds, but of something ancient, something forged.
And upon that skin, shadows coiled. Not mere ink, but deep-carved marks, black as the void between stars.
He moved without sound, his presence a silent force. A predator in the heart of the wilderness.
And the forest knew it.
No birds sang. No insects chittered. No beast lingered in his path.
The usual symphony of dawn had died—silenced by something far more dangerous.
The figure moved without sound. A shadow woven into the morning mist, gliding through the underbrush with a grace that belied its size.
Its breath was steady. Unhurried. Each step placed with practiced ease, careful not to disturb the leaves beneath.
The forest stirred with life—the scent of damp bark, the quiet rustle of unseen creatures—but none of it held interest. It was searching for something else.
Something to eat.
The forest was thick with the scent of blood. He could smell it from miles away.
It wove through the morning air, tangled in the mist, stretching far beyond what normal senses could grasp.
Blood was common here. Fresh, old, dried—spattered across claw-marked trunks, pooling in the undergrowth.
A constant undercurrent in the wild's unending cycle of hunger and death.
He sifted through the scents, separating them with practiced ease.
The stale remains of last night's hunt. The sickly-sweet tang of decay, unfit for consumption.
The coppery bite of fresh wounds, promising warmth—life.
That was what he sought. A meal worth the effort.
While sifting through the tangled scents of the forest—the iron tang of fresh kills, the damp musk of overturned earth—his stride slowed.
His nostrils flared. He breathed in deeper. He sifted through the layers again, pulling apart the scent like muscle from bone.
The scent of blood sharpened, a thick metallic sting on his tongue.
A Barkscale Stalker.
A creature that bled rarely, hunted often. Familiar. Expected. A beast that hunted in the undergrowth with patient, lethal silence.
And yet—
There was something else.
A second scent, tangled with the first.
One he did not recognize. That, in itself, was absurd.
He stilled, his dark fingers curling slightly. The hush of the forest pressed in. A sharp exhale left his tusked lips.
Strange.
The blood of beasts, monsters—even the crawling dead—he could name them all in a single breath.
It was his nature to know them, his blessing to recognize even the faintest trace of spilled blood, even if he had never met their kind before.
And yet, here was something beyond his knowing.
The moment stretched, thick as the scent of blood.
He exhaled slowly. Snnff— his breath pulled through flared nostrils, dissecting the layers of scent once more.
No mistake. The smell was there—real, undeniable, and impossible.
Something he could not name.
His weight shifted slightly, the ground beneath his feet giving a soft crk of protest.
A slow inhale followed—deep, steady, calculating.
Then—
BOOM—!
The earth beneath him exploded.
Cracks splintered out like a spiderweb from where his feet had once been, the sheer force of his motion leaving behind a shallow crater.
Loose dirt and shattered bark erupted, flung outward in a chaotic spray.
And in an instant—
He was gone.
A streak of black and red tore through the sky, a blur against the morning light.
The world howled past him. Wind roared, hammering against his skin, but he did not waver.
He did not even register the sheer altitude. His eyes remained locked ahead, searching.
From below, the towering trees became a blurred mosaic of green, nothing more than shifting patterns beneath his feet.
The forest—so vast, so endless—was beneath him in mere heartbeats.
Then—gravity took hold.
He began to fall.
Plummeting through the air, the wind curling around him.
And yet—he remained in control.
Before he touched the earth, he spoke.
A single phrase, guttural and ancient—
"Hide of Tokoloshe."
And then—
His vanished.
The crushing weight of him, the primal dread that sent birds fleeing and beasts cowering—it was gone in an instant, as if snuffed out by an unseen hand.
Even the ground beneath him seemed hesitant to remember his weight.
He landed.
THUD.
His feet met wood, a thick branch screamed beneath him, bending to its limit—then, with a final groan, it steadied—but even that sound felt muted, distant.
His skin blurred, melting into the dappled light.
The shifting shadows of leaves draped over him, swallowing his form into the natural rhythm of the forest.
The creature crouched low on a thick branch, its piercing gaze slicing through the dense canopy.
Eyes like burning embers scanned the sprawling expanse, each movement, each detail, captured and stored in an almost unnatural focus.
His nostrils flared, inhaling deeply, the thick air swirling with the scent of wet moss, damp earth, and the sharp tang of fresh blood.
He sifted through it, peeling apart the layers like a master craftsman unraveling a complex tapestry.
Then, his gaze zoomed on his targets. A Barkscale Stalker—expected. And the second scent, the one that, despite the blessing of his patron, he couldn't recognize.
His red, predatory eyes blanked, bafflement stirring beneath the scent of blood.
Even the Fairies, known as the greatest pranksters—able to fool a dragon's senses, slip past the keenest of trackers—could never escape his nose once their blood was spilled.
Yet—
A green pipsqueak?
A goblin.
And what's more, it was fighting against a Barkscale Stalker instead of fleeing in terror.
The Stalker's instincts, though cowardly at times, were far beyond a goblin's pay grade.
The creature's lips curled back in a soundless snarl as his gaze narrowed, studying the goblin from his vantage point.
The very thought of it struck a chord of disbelief. He had encountered goblins before—sly, weak, opportunistic little creatures, nothing more than pests, their blood no more remarkable than piss.
The goblin fought with desperation, blood streaking through the air as it dodged the Barkscale Stalker's relentless strikes.
Every hit from the beast sent tremors through its frame, yet the goblin persisted, swaying and stumbling, but never falling.
A minute passed. Then two. Then five. And still, the goblin stood. Injured. Exhausted. But alive.
The creature grip tightened against the branch beneath him, the bark creaking under his strength.
His crimson eyes gleamed with something between interest and surprise. His tusked mouth curled slightly in silent contemplation.
This goblin—this green, scrappy pipsqueak—was strange.
The creature was clearly young, inexperienced, and its blood—strange, unlike any he had ever smelled before—made it impossible to gauge its age. -
The creature could see the desperation in the goblin's every move, but there was something else, something more than mere survival instinct.
The way the goblin dodged, the way it shifted its weight, adjusting its stance—it all looked clumsy, unrefined, a telltale sign of inexperience.
Its movements were jerky, awkward, like a fighter still learning the dance of battle. Yet, despite this rawness, despite the lack of grace, it managed to stay on its feet.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even close to being a skilled warrior. But it was alive.
And, more surprisingly, it had managed to land a blow on the Stalker—shallow, but enough to draw blood.
The creature watched, an amused snarl tugging at its lips.
The goblin's movements might have been unexpected, but in this wild dance of survival, how long could it keep holding on?
Minute after minute crawled by, and yet—
The green runt endured.
It ducked, it twisted, it fell and staggered, only to rise again, bleeding and breathless.
Its motions were clumsy, its footwork raw and unrefined, but the instinct was there.
Still, it lasted.
And lasted.
The ember-eyed watcher tilted his head slightly, that snarl faltering into a quiet, unreadable stare.
An hour. Nearly an hour.
The goblin should've been dead a dozen times over. Yet it danced still—barely standing, body quaking from exhaustion, skin torn and stained with blood.
But the eyes…
They never blinked.
For a fleeting moment, the creature felt something stir in his chest—Amusement. Or perhaps... respect?
He scoffed, At the strange stirrings in his gut.
But the moment didn't last.
With a sudden misstep, the goblin faltered. A flash of exhaustion too great to conceal, its body finally betraying it. The Stalker struck with bark tail.
The impact sent the goblin flying, crashing into the rough bark of a tree, the thud of its body against the trunk echoing through the forest.
The creature scoffed inwardly. The goblin had been impressive, in its own way—but the game was up.
His grin twisted into something sharp, something feral. The tusks beneath his lips bared like an animal on the hunt.
His knees bent, muscles coiling as his body tensed, ready to spring.
And then—he sprung.
BOOM!—CRACK—!
......
UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 8 - The Scent of Blood II
......
-:-