Every inch of his body was on alert. The very fiber of his being screamed for him to get away, to run. He did not belong here. This earth was not his earth, it was not the land that had made him. This land was unfamiliar and strange; it belonged to something else, and he was asking to be slaughtered. He felt terribly conspicuous, unaware of who or what was watching him. He had no bond with this rock, no claim to the stone under his claws. He was an invader, and by virtue of his presence he was offering himself up as prey to the alpha of these lands.

But he needed to take from this herd. He needed their flesh to keep himself and his newfound sister alive. He needed to take from another, and he needed to live after. The risk was a necessary one. It would not be easy, but it would have to be done.

These lands were foreign to him. They were not the plains that he knew, with open land and the light yellow grass underneath. The grass here was waist-high and rustled when he walked. There were none of the scant trees growing overhead to give him shade from the sun, none of the thin, weedy grass around watering holes that slowed a pulse and purged poison from the blood. Instead, here he saw thick brambles of vine and bush grew around occasional the occasional oasis. He did not trust those strange plants, with their thick thorns that snared themselves in his fur and scratched his scales in a horrible keening sound.

In his own lands he was a silent as a snake and faster than any other creature. Here he felt like a clumsy oaf, blundering through thickets with as much noise as a storm. Any fool that lived here would be able to hear him a lifetime away. Even the air betrayed him; it was thick, stifling, and filled with a foreign scent. Worse still, he was downwind. Whoever these lands belonged to would hear him moving through the thistled undergrowth, and he would receive no warning.

He was on alert; even the slightest rustling movement from the wind against the tall grass caused him to flinch. He had no time. Every second spent here was an invitation for death to creep behind him. He was tracking prey, but he was at the same time being tracked himself. The only option was to hunt—to kill and take and escape before he was caught. The only problem with that prospect was the possibility of dying to his prey if he was too hasty.

There were no murak here; the tracks he was following were proof of larger game: a full grown krull. Larger than him with meat enough to last him weeks, with the greater reward came also greater risk. Its shoulder was as large as his head, and its horns would in a heartbeat deprive him of his own. There were no krull on his lands, let alone one this large, this old. It only made it worse that he had no experience hunting them, but he had no other choice. He needed this kill, and it would be his. He could see by its tracks, it was wounded. Not only that, but it was old—a prime target. He would claim it, regardless of who it belonged to.

Tracking it was a simple matter. The beast was wounded and limping from side to side, the droplets of dried blood that splattered the ground evidence of its pain and struggle. Even if he was blinded, the trailing scent of its wounds would have led him to its den deep in the brush. Two shattered trees stood out from the underbrush, split by a great force with the grasses parted, the dirt tossed this way and that. With wreckage strewn about with broken branches and shredded vines abound, he was certain of it—this was the krull’s den.

He would have to kill it quickly and leave as fast as possible. He could not carry the whole carcass with him; the skin and entrails he would have to leave to lighten his load. It would be his tribute to the owner of these lands for hunting here, although he doubted that it would be taken in good faith. He did not pause, did not hesitate. Every second wasted now was a second closer to his death, and every passing heartbeat had the tension and nervousness of being his last.

Bracing his feet against the ground, his legs crouched, his shoulders hunched, he drew a deep breath into his lungs, feeling his ribs stretch in his chest. With his throat open and his hackles raised, he howled madly at the den. He wanted to bait out the krull with the threat. Inside, the strangling vegetation would impede his movement, and the agility and reflexes that he needed to stay alive would be restricted. He wanted the krull to come to him with wild ferocity and rage. Nothing was better than an opponent blinded with warlust—this he knew from experience. The creature would be distracted, and he wanted his first blow in that moment to cripple the beast.

With a roar that shook the bones in his spine and a violent thundering as if the dense bracken had come alive, a great figure burst out of the thicket in a stampede of power and strength. It boasted a lumbering body with powerful raised shoulders, between which sat a beaked head that could slice bone just as easily as it could slice the plants it ate. A thick plate of bone, studded with dull spikes, fanned out over its thick neck, protecting the creature. The cords in its neck stood out, stretching to its broad chest. A column of bone bulged out from its back, running from wide shoulders to the end of its short, stubby tail. Muscle strained under thick hide as it charged, the latticework of grey scars across its back evidence of old wounds. Massive hindquarters drove the beast forward so strongly it pushed the earth away, the dust pluming behind it as its wide, spade-like feet struck with maddening power. Even more terrifying, however, were the forearms that swelled to almost twice the size of its hind legs, massive shovel-like limbs that shattered stone and felled timber standing in the way of its mindless rampage. A single gleaming, yellowed horn grew out of its bone-ridged forehead, and it wielded it with a blunt savagery that could break rock as well as bone. Two small, gleaming black eyes glinted wetly against a thick, mud-red, leathery hide that even his claws would find hard to break.

It was a fine krull, a simple beast of power and rage. He would kill it.

This krull was old and injured, this he knew. Two gleaming slashes ran with blood across its left flank straight down its leg, glistening as if they had just healed and had been torn open once more. The beast struggled to move straight, tossing its head back and forth as it bucked, striking the ground hard with its left arm to compensate for the ruined limb. Although it charged with a limping gait, its age welcomed death surer than any wound could. It was old enough that its hide lost vigor around the joints, and that weakness would not be overlooked. There he would strike.

The creature gave a trumpeting roar that shook the ground and rattled his joints in their sockets. There was no fear there, only anger and strength, long tempered with the caution and wariness of experience. He would do well to be cautious. Its massive body became a sudden blur of movement as the krull charged at him, horn lowered, legs pounding. He dove to the right, intending to roll out of its path, but it turned its head and caught him down his side.

A flare of red-hot pain lanced from his knee to his ribs as his leg suddenly buckled. He turned around quickly and was met with a blow by its thick forehead that drove the air from his chest and threw him onto his back. He coughed the blood from his lungs and tried to get up, but the beast loomed over him. Before he could react, its powerful leg drove onto his chest with the force of a falling mountain and he felt the shattering and snapping as his bones yielded under the pressure. Blood sprayed from his mouth, dribbling forth in a hot stream, and his vision grew red at the edges.

Rage filled his head as he coughed out thick, black blood, outraged that he had been caught in this position. This pain that he felt he would pay back thricefold. This humiliation, this weakness, he would pay back. He was certain of it. His heart was racing now, beating madly as adrenaline pumped into his system. His eyes were wide, his muscles loose and strong. Another blow came, quick as lightning, but it was too slow. He rolled out of the way and leapt off the ground, still swaying unsteady on the balls of his feet. A massive crater in the ground with webbed cracks spiraling outward gave evidence of would he would have been if he was a beat slower. The beast turned, pivoting about itself to swing its head at him, but he vaulted over its back, slashing three lines of blood over its flank as he fell. It bellowed in anger, a hideous, rasping sound as its throat filled with blood, and he backed away slowly as he prepared for its incoming rush.

As the beast charged, he stayed low, avoiding its goring horn and diving left before it could hit him. Throwing up plumes of dirt and dust as it halted its charge, the maddened krull tossed its head side to side as it turned to find where the offender had gone. It was then that he struck, flying out of the overgrowth, claws raised. Two cuts was all he needed—one on each hind leg— and even the largest beast would be brought down. His claws would never fail him, sharper than any knife, faster than any blade, stronger than any steel. They were the earth’s gift to him, and what they cut, bled.

That was what they did now, and in one dash, the old animal could not move. Another slash across the throat made it bleed. Three long gashes down its face blinded its eyes and sent blood spurting in erratic rhythm. A final, brutal thrust into its chest tore through the bone and pried open ribs with singleminded savagery. His muscles strained as he forced the ribs apart, hearing tendon and muscle and all manner of flesh stretch and tear. The krull no longer bellowed, no longer struggled. It merely twitched as it wallowed in mind-numbing pain. It merely spasmed once as he burst its heart.

He was breathing hard, not from the pain, which had already faded to a dull throb, but from the ecstasy of the fight. From the thrill and the pleasure that coursed through his body. He closed his eyes and let the throbbing in his head fade, coming down from his glorious high. The kill would feed him, but if he was caught now, there would not be anything to feed.

He ate quickly. The skin he did not need—it was too tough to chew. The guts he ate then, downing them in quick, jerking gulps. They slid down his throat and left a trail of heat burning down to his stomach. The slaver dripped from a corner of his mouth as he ate, claws shredding flesh and sinew in order to shovel greedy mouthfuls of the meat. When he finished, his muzzle was stained a dark crimson red and the former krull’s chest was hollow and reeked a warm, putrid stench. The rest he dragged behind him, claws digging deep into the flesh as he prepared to run, but a sudden growl from behind stopped him. It was the sound that he had been waiting for.

It was the sound that he had been fearing.

Turning slowly, lips peeled back, legs at a crouch, he faced his aggressor. It was the owner of these lands; he knew it from the scent. The creature was a massive thing, a hulking beast nearly twice as large as him, body covered in thick muscle. Red fur covered those forearms that gleamed with a thick hide, bearing claws that could sever the cords in his legs with one swipe. Yet that size was also a failing, for the beast had small eyes and a wide gait. It was large, but that would also mean it was slow. Therein lay its weakness, therein he would strike.

He could fight to kill, but it would give him wounds he could not afford—not now when he was so far from home. He could run, but it would mean leaving his kill behind, and that would leave him worse off than when he started. In an instant, he decided his course: two strikes on the calves to cripple, and then he would run. There would be no honor in this fight, but honor was a thought he did not understand when the earth had whispered it into his ears. Honor would not save you when you were dying. Honor would not make you strong. Honor was not needed in the Outlands.

Without a sound, not even a growl, he dropped his kill on the ground. What he needed right now was speed. Speed and power. Eyes fixed on his target, his feet cracked the earth as he tensed in preparation. Without warning, he charged, plumes of dust forming in the air behind him as he dived low with claws outstretched, aiming to sever tendons and muscle.

He was slow. Weak. A blow fell across his right arm and he felt it snap. The pain was excruciating, but it would not stop him. His arm fell limp at his side, but he struck up with the left, slashing across the face with black claws and blinding his foe. Without a moment’s hesitation, he followed through down the left leg, tearing down the muscle and ripping out to the side. Blood sprayed wildly as the creature bellowed in pain.

He did not stop, his body a blur of fluid motion. Dancing back with a grace that belied the gruesome situation, he picked up his kill, dragging it on the ground behind him with a kind of uncaring desperation, and ran. Ran back to his lands. Ran back to his den. Back to where he could lick his wounds. Back to where the earth would hold him and keep him safe. He did not look back, not even when the roar of agony and anger and humiliation that erupted behind him rattled his teeth in his head.