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The era of the Woodsie Lord was approaching, Grum could feel it.
The soil beneath his feet was warm, damp, and full of life. A sticky, sweet scent wafted around him and palm-sized insects hummed lazily around his head, but there was no breeze, no wind rustling through the leaves - the calm before the storm. A storm brewing in their inner sanctum, the Maw of Chaos, now that their master, the Trickster God, had returned. A storm that would blow away all the mortal men with their filthy hammers and gears. The feeling made his fur itch.
Grum had seen him, with his own eyes, the Woodsie Lord, the mighty goat man, with his broad hooves, horns, and sly eyes.
And Grum had celebrated, drank - the sweet taste of honey mead and blood - and in ecstasy he had danced with his brothers and sisters around the huge campfire in their midst. They had cheered their master's return until he fell asleep from exhaustion, bedded on the soft moss that sprouted wherever his master's dryad had stepped on the soil.
He had seen her too, then. She had been right by the trickster`s side and she had laughed, her hips swayed to the sound of the drums, her eyes as red as the blood on her hands.
And finally he had been able to take a look at the human who had brought them The Eye, that magical stone that would restore the strength of their pagan god. Grum couldn't see much of him. Two of their pagan warriors dragged the unconscious man behind them. His cloak was in tatters, his hands had been tied with thorny tendrils, and he had left a trail of blood on the ground. The human's skin was of an unhealthy gray pallor, like so many of the unfortunate residents of the city who believed themselves save behind their stone and metal walls.
The Pagans had carried away their prisoner, deeper into their master's realm, into the heart of the Maw of Chaos. And the trickster had followed his prey while the celebration of his honor went on. So Grum had continued to drink, feasted on the fruits of the forest, until he fell asleep.
In the morning, he woke up with a headache and a dull pain in his eye sockets, but still with the taste of victory in his mouth. As soon as he had left his camp high up in the trees, he could feel this tingling in the air –Something grat, something meaningful was going to happen that day.
An inner restlessness drove him to wander through the swindler's forest, criss-crossing, aimlessly, his back bent, his long arms almost dragging across the ground. Here, the air was vibrating with life. Will-o'-the-wisps danced around him, drawn to his movements. In the distance, a tree beast crossed the footpath. The bushes around Grum giggled softly when he stopped and they all sounded like the voice of the beautiful dryad.
Once he thought he had seen figures in long cloaks among the trees, surrounded by a pale blue light. However, when he checked there was nothing to be found there.
His fur was starting to itch, damn fleas. He paused, stepped restlessly from one leg to the other, hummed, "Hmm ... uhg."
He became even more restless.
That was, when he noticed: the bushes around him had stopped giggling, the melodic ringing of the will-o'-the-wisp had stopped, its light nowhere to be seen.
Something was moving behind….
"Uuhhg?"
The pungent metallic smell of blood rose to his nose and underneath it, almost hidden, the smell of smoke from chimneys and kilns - the stench of the city.
He spun around, his long arms flapping. He was fast, but not fast enough. A figure emerged from the shadows of the trees. A pale, sunken face, twisted with pain. And the look in its eyes - no - in the eye. Only one was remaining. The other one was an ugly black and bloody hole.
He had seen this expression many times before, on rats, on foxes, on wild dogs when cornered. Anger, fear, panic and then wild desperate determination.
Hairless hands, wrists torn with thorns, clutched a heavy branch. Grum could see the blow coming, but he was to slow to dodge. The branch that man had used as a club slammed against his skull. It cracked and splintered. Stars exploded in front of Grum's eyes and he fell flat on his face.
The human, unbalanced by the momentum of his own blow, fell to his bloody knees and groaned.
Grum understood: this was the thief, the Trickster's puppet, the prisoner. He was trying to flee, trying to escape. Grum had to stop him, had to convene his brothers and catch the prisoner. He tried to get back on his feet, grabbing for his trusted rusty sword.
Again, the human was faster and kicked the sword out of his hands. Grum opened his mouth, bared his yellow canine teeth, and started howling to raise an alarm. It was obvious the man didn´t want to give him this opportunity. Wild animals were dangerous when cornered. Apparently that also applied to humans. He threw himself on Grum, yanked him around and wrapped something around his neck. The human had caught hold of one of the many thorny green tendrils that covered the ground. With this tendril he started to strangle him, pressed on his windpipe, took his breath away. Grum could only gasp, choke, he couldn't scream, couldn´t get out one word. He tried to shake the man off his back, but the human clutched the tendril even tighter, tightening the noose even though they cut into his palms and blood oozed from between his fingers.
Grum's movements became more uncoordinated, slower. His fingers and toes began to tingle. His mouth stood open, saliva dripping out but he couldn´t get the air back in his lungs. His field of vision was slowly growing smaller, darkness enveloping him.
He sank to the floor, the grunting human still on top of him.
Just before he lost his consciousness, he mused with some regret:
“It could have been such a glorious day.”
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Garrett stood up, knees shaking. He spat out blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Damned Ape Beast! Time to get out of these woods.