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This… This was wrong.
Grog shifted from foot to foot, rubbing this thumb nervously along the still sore tattoo bands on his ribs. The faint pressure made his head spin, a dull roaring in his ears that only the frantic whimpering of the gnome - so small, so fragile, and grey hair, so strange to see - seem to penetrate. A hand on his back sent him almost staggering forward, a lifetime of being the smallest, the weakest allowing him to catch himself just in time. Couldn’t show weakness, not here, not now. Not with those words burbling in his throat.
He spun on his heel and shoved the other Goliath in the chest, baring his teeth in a growl, noise a reflexive purr, followed by a laugh from his fellows. Grog was the smallest no longer, and this was the Goliath way. Pushing and pushing and pushing, never backing down, never giving in. Grog had never seen someone like this gnome before with his soft brightly coloured clothes, not patched together from scraps. No trophies weighed heavy on his chest or decorated his ears, except for one golden symbol pinned to his cloak and pair of shining glasses over his eyes. He was old, hair grey and skin wrinkled.
Adrenaline roared in Grog’s veins, the familiar stirring of a rage deep in his blood, words nearly choking him as his uncle stepped forwards. Kevdak was half a head taller than him, muscles rippling beneath his skin. He should have been a comfort to Grog, the one constant in his life. People left the Herd of Storms whether by way of death or by the clashes between two wandering herds, paths crossed for a heaving mass of limbs, blood and bone before they departed once again. But Kevdak had always been there, carried Grog when he was too young to run with the herd, let him trace the tattoo on his chest until Grog had memorised every twist and turn of the deep brown ink.
“Please, please!” the gnome begged, so pitifully small and weak, pulling fruitlessly against the Goliath’s hold only to topple to the ground when he released suddenly.
“You die now,” Kevdak said, cracking his knuckles with a sickening snap, grinning at the gnome’s helpless squeak of terror. Grog couldn’t, wouldn’t let this happen. He stepped forward, ringing in his ears, hands trembling, heart in his mouth and looked at his Uncle.
“No.”
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Grog shook as he lay on the ground, feeling the last of the adrenaline leave him numbly, more blood escaping him with every weakening thump of his heart. The gnome was gone, surprisingly quick on his feet once the attention turned to Grog as he intended. Grog was tired, so tired. Tired and cast out, alone. Blood coated his tongue, coughing out a broken tooth as he groaned, eye slipping closed for just a little rest. A short rest, then he would move on, alone.