Grommash stood at the edge of the ravine, his hulking form silhouetted against the morning mist that clung to the mountain range. His green skin bore the scars of a thousand battles, each one a mark of his survival in a world that hated him and his kind.
The battered armor that clung to his massive body was cobbled together from the remains of fallen foes, a grim testament to the countless lives he had taken.
But Grommash was no mindless beast. Beneath the layers of muscle and brutality, there was a mind as sharp as the twin-headed axe he wielded. He was the last of his tribe, the sole survivor of the Goblin Wars that had ravaged the land for years. Once, his people had ruled the mountain passes, feared by humans and elves alike.
But that was before the Great Purge, before the armies of men had swept through the Goblin strongholds, burning everything in their path.
Now, Grommash was alone.
The memories of his fallen brethren haunted him, especially of his father, Grakkar, the chieftain of their tribe. He had taught Grommash that strength was the only law that mattered in this world, that mercy was a weakness. "Kill or be killed," he had always said.
But in his final moments, as the humans closed in on their stronghold, Grommash had seen something in his father's eyes he had never expected: fear.
It was a fear Grommash now knew too well. The world had changed. Goblins were a dying race, hunted to extinction. The few who remained were scattered, hiding in caves and forests, too weak to fight back. Grommash was different. He had sworn an oath to his people, to his father, that he would never stop fighting.
Today, that oath would be tested.
From the ravine below, the clanking of armor and the sound of marching feet reached his ears. A human patrol—armed and armored, their banners fluttering in the wind—was making its way up the mountain path. They had come for him. The last goblin. A bounty had been placed on his head, a reward for the one who finally ended his life.
But Grommash had no intention of making it easy for them.
He gripped the haft of his axe tighter, the metal cold in his hand. The humans had underestimated him, as they always did. They thought of goblins as stupid, cowardly creatures. They would learn today that Grommash was neither.
As the patrol came into view, he stepped from the shadows, his massive frame blocking the narrow path. The humans stopped, momentarily stunned by the sight of him. One of them, a captain by the looks of his armor, raised his sword and shouted an order. They rushed forward, weapons drawn.
Grommash roared, his voice echoing through the mountains. He swung his axe in a wide arc, cutting down the first wave of attackers. Blood splattered across the rocks as their bodies fell, lifeless. But more came, relentless.
For hours, the battle raged. Grommash fought like a beast possessed, each swing of his axe driven by the memory of his fallen tribe. He knew he would not survive this day, but that was not important. What mattered was that he fought to the end, just as he had promised.
As the last human fell before him, Grommash dropped to one knee, his strength finally failing him. His vision blurred, but he smiled grimly. His people had been avenged.