Three-Fang sat with his pack, looking down over the cliffs. Idly they sharpened weapons, boasted of the litters they would sire in the spring, and goblins they would kill when they little wretches emerged into the warmer weather. Three-Fang paid them little heed, he did not jostle for rank to breeding rights anymore, he did not need to anymore. Time and time again had he stared down the feeble, or beaten down the braves.
He was pack leader, without question, and these were his lands.
Everything north of the river, and as far east until it hit the orc caves. Here, his world was law, he spread his musk where he pleased, and took the bitches he wanted. All gnolls knew it was so, or they would speak to his teeth or axe.
Then...On the air... dwarf stink.
They still sought to test him from across the river? This dwarf entering his territory, had he not seen his scratching? Had he not smelt his spray? How dare he try to shame him in front of his pack. His hackles raised, the chatter died behind him as the pack felt something in the air. They gathered around, their eyes lowered.
This would be a demonstration, a show of might, he did not need his pack. Two of them, two of us. Three-Fang grabbed his litter-brother by the scruff of his neck and pushed him forward, then bounded ahead.
The hunt began.
How he hated the rank smell of dwarf. Metal and smoke. How they stank. Three-claw ran at him, his dwarf-trophy-axe held high. This was not the first dwarf he had killed in these hills, and it would not be the last. He barreled at the stupid dwarf, his supine charge sending him off balance, teetering then falling off the cliff edge...
The howl of victory died in his throat as the dwarf floated down like a feather.
But that still left the human who was mumbling at something in his hand. His magical axe, Biter, bit deep at that one. The human was sent sprawling and fell next to the cliff edge, one arm dangling over, as though reaching for the dwarf who was floating softly down and cursing at them. Three-Fang bared his teeth at the dwarf, then reached out with his foot, another show of his power to his pack in the hills above. He pushed the human over the edge where he tumbled, head over heels, two almost serene rotations into a satisfying crack and thud a hundred feet down.
He licked the blood from Biter then raised it high. His litter-brother crouched at his feet in a show of meekness. The hills erupted with the baying and howling of his pack.
These were his hills, and here, he was master.
