Grizik

Grizik is a putrid little wretch of a goblin. Frail and short even to regular goblin standards (As if there were standards for the feral tribes). If he’s not throwing his own shit at the rodent cattle he can generally be found conducting blood rituals. He’s obsessed with the unfounded idea that these rituals will cause him to gain the strength he needs to right all of the wrongs he’s faced in life. Or maybe just enough strength to punch that BASTARD Pikpuk right in his stupid shard-filled mouth. Grizik has replayed the glorious moment over and over so often that he can see it when he closes his eyes.
Bloodletting is a practice of the most primal of the goblin tribes. It’s been largely abandoned by the other tribes because it rarely provides any useful results. Besides, it’s a shame to be spilling good drinking blood all over everything. For such a low success rate it’s astounding how it’s still so prevalent amongst the feral tribes. It’s likely that the obsessed, rage-filled members of the tribe are the only ones keeping the tradition alive.
On this particular morning when Grizik awakes in his small hovel he’s managed to claim for himself. His tribe are scattered around the small cavern and some have fashioned huts for themselves inside the husks of giant mushroom stalks. The first thing that Grizik sees upon opening his large, weepy eyes is Pikpuk located just across the pathway from him. Pikpuk glares at Grizik before sneering at him.
“Wake your arse up and get to work shit-for-brains” Pikpuk bellows. “Shut your face-hole, I’ll be there soon” Grizik weakly retorts.
Facing away from the other members of his tribe, Grizik takes a sharpened piece of flint and pulls it towards his left clawed hand. Looking across his heavily scarred palm, he manages to locate a spot where he can run the sharpened rock to open his skin. He’s not one of these fancy goblins that can use the blood of animals or slaves so he has to resort to using his own. With a quick and painful slash, he opens up his palm. He looks at the blood pooling in his hand and, as he’s done many times before, tastes it before starting to pack a blend of crushed herbs into the open wound. After he smears dirt across it as a crust. Grizik then proceeds to his usual 16 hour shift of tossing rodent shit from one area of a pen to another while the animals try to claim him as an opportunistic meal for themselves.
Around 10 hours into his shit-shovelling-shift, his hand starts to throb. Not the usual dull painful throb that he’s become accustomed to but a hot, almost pleasant throb. Grizik keeps quiet but looks closely at his palm. He rubs the dirt away slightly to see that the wound has mostly healed. Some of the scars on his palm have also diminished in size. He realises that the scars aren’t getting smaller… He is getting bigger. His eyes turn a bluish hue as the blood races to every part of him that it can. His body jerks and contorts as his frail frame gets more muscular. All of a sudden Grizik finally feels the power he’s been working so hard to achieve. Immediately and without thinking, he grabs one of the rodent cattle and rips it in half before sucking the blood straight from the still wriggling halves he’s created. He turns to grab another as his mind turns to mist. Pikpuk, hearing the racket, runs over to see what the commotion is about. Grizik, now a hulking mess in the centre of a pile of dead rodents, turns to face Pikpuk before letting out a demonic smile.

This is a submission for my first ever Summer Camp in 2024 - I hope you enjoy my writings and I'm looking forward to hearing your feedback!