Gumir shuffled through the damp undergrowth, the chill of the approaching night seeping through his threadbare hide vest.

Exile.

The word echoed in his mind, a hollow drumbeat against the symphony of forest sounds. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a constant companion since his banishment from the tribe.

He wasn't cut out for being a Brute, the physically adept warriors of the Bleak Fang tribe. His limbs were scrawny, his reflexes sluggish; since young he just was not built physically. Yet, there was a glimmer of hope, magic.

The elders had sensed a latent talent in him, a weak affinity for the arcane. So, they trained him, hoping to mold him into a Mana Scribe, a scholar of the mystical.

But Gumir wasn’t meant for that either. Spells fizzled out before completion, leaving behind acrid wisps of smoke. Although he could have tried his hand in potion making, his tribe did not deal in arts such as those.

The Bleak Fang tribe was located at the edges of the great forest. They were to serve as a first line of defense for the larger goblin tribe that was located deeper in the forest. Hence their main goal was increasing their combat ability in order to defend against the  humans who constantly attacked them. The tribe was filled with Combatants both of a physical type and of the arcane type. The rest were auxiliary support members who would do every other thing but fight within the tribe.

The elder goblins had noticed his talent and thus he wanted to grasp at that opportunity and become someone great within the tribe. He knew he’d rather die than spend his life daily  as a goblin runt of the tribe, being ordered by others.

His only peculiar talent, the ability to smell Mana, was the only thing he could depend on. Therefore he trained day and night, all in a bid to master the art of spell flinging and become an apprentice mage within the tribe, something that would have solidified his status within the tribe and earned him his place.

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Yet he had failed in distinguishing himself as an important member to the tribe. He was a useless sniffle in a world that demanded explosions and illusions. He couldn’t master ileven the simplest of spells and was constantly grasping at straws. The elder mages were fed up with him after a time. He was then excommunicated from the tribe since he did not want to form part of the auxiliary support teams.

As he walked within the undefined trail, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves was suddenly overpowered by a metallic tang. Blood. A primal fear coiled in his gut. He veered off the path, his bare feet silent against the damp forest floor. The pungent smell grew stronger, a beacon in the twilight.

He emerged Into a small clearing. A sight greeted him that sent a fresh jolt of terror through him. A young deer lay sprawled on the bloodstained grass, its lifeless eyes staring vacantly at the sky. A clawed hand, tipped with wicked talons, protruded from the carcass. He was familiar with the animal, a Griffon beast.

Panic propelled him forward. He had to get out of there. Scrambling about among the bushes he tried running away from the scenery. Griffons were solitary predators, but the scent of blood could attract others. He pushed himself harder, his ragged breaths echoing in the stillness.

A twig snapped under his foot. He froze. Silence. Then, a guttural screech tore through the air, chilling him to the bone. It was close. Very close. He whirled around, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Two emerald eyes glinted through the foliage. A monstrous Griffon emerged from the trees, its grey feathers ruffled, its beak dripping with fresh blood. Its gaze fixated on Gumir, the weak looking goblin, and it let out a bone-chilling shriek that seemed to split the night.

Knowing better than to waste time in the face of danger, he bolted. He weaved through trees, his lungs burning, his legs screaming in protest. The previous pangs of hunger were no longer a concern. The thunderous thrumming of the Griffon’s wings beat behind him, a relentless pursuer. He could feel the hot rush of its fetid breath on his neck.

He stumbled, crashing through a thicket of ferns. He scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. The Griffon was upon him, its massive talons outstretched.

Gumir bit down on his lips and clenched down hard on the moist ground. He was angry. Angry at himself, at his powerless nature, at his fate. Death had come and it had not even been a day after his excommunication. He did not want to accept his impending doom, as the Griffon swooped down, aiming for his countenance all he could think was how he could turn the tables on it.