The first breath of open air brought with it the sight of the high priest's body, still sprawled where it had fallen, the symbols of its goddess etched into its cracked scales.
Skitz lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the corpse. There was no grief in his eyes, no flicker of hesitation, only the unshakable loyalty of one who had already chosen his god. Whether that priest had been kin, comrade, or even brother in the blood of the so-called goddess no longer mattered. His allegiance belonged wholly to his Lord.
Skitz's eyes gleamed as if a thought had just slithered into his mind.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "My Lord… what do you think about hunting cursed monsters?"
Lumberling tilted his head. "Cursed?"
Skitz grinned, fangs catching the firelight. "Remember what I told you before? The orc lord who drove us from our old territory."
