Chapter 83 Howling Cliff, the Jackal's Nature
Rain dripped down the rough animal skin cloak.
The gnoll, Grak, crouched on the crooked wooden watchtower, his wet fur clinging to his skin, making him itch all over. He scratched the fleas on his neck, caught one and stuffed it into his mouth, then squinted his red-glowing eyes and gazed at the muddy wilderness in the distance.
"Damn rainy season."
The gnoll cursed under his breath, a dissatisfied grumbling rumble in his throat.
Howling Cliff, the territory of the Red-Eyed Clan.
This is a mixed architectural complex consisting of natural caves and crude wooden sheds.
The jackals were not good at building, but they were good at plundering. The dried heads of their prey hung on the crooked wooden stakes, some of them wild beasts, and some of the unfortunate victims of passing caravans.
There were even a few that belonged to the gnolls themselves.
Those were traitors or cowards executed by the warlord.
Grak is a sentinel with a simple task: to keep an eye out and see if any ferocious beasts, monsters, or other monster clans are approaching.
If so, blow the bone whistle to notify your companions.
But today, its attention has been drawn to something else.
Something seemed to be moving in the distance through the rain, flashing by in an instant.
It squinted, its reddish-brown pupils narrowing to slits in the dim light as it tried to observe, but the rain blurred its vision, and it could only see the gray wilderness and swaying bushes.
Finding no suspicious targets, it withdrew its gaze without a second thought, yawning and listlessly continuing its surveillance.
A piercing, shrill laugh suddenly came from below.
It looked down and saw several of its kind dragging a deer carcass toward the cave, tearing flesh and blood with their claws and stuffing it into their mouths as they went. Their fur was covered in mud and blood, and saliva mixed with rainwater dripped from between their fangs.
"Hey! Grac!"
One of the gnolls looked up and shouted, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping: "Come down and get something to eat! Anyway, no one dares to approach Howling Cliff in this weather!"
Grak hesitated for a moment.
Howling Cliff is situated on high ground, making it easy to defend and difficult to attack. Its outer perimeter is covered with spike traps and deep pits, with sharpened wooden stakes stuck at the bottom of the pits, the tips of which are coated with poison.
Unless the danger comes from the sky, there's no need to be too nervous.
The sentry tower was cold and hungry, but it knew all too well the consequences of deserting his post. Last month, a sentry was slacking off and sleeping, and the warlord Bloodfang had torn him in half by hand. His body was still hanging on a wooden stake to the east, drying in the wind.
"No, you guys eat."
It shook its head, forcing itself to continue staring at the rain.
In the jackal society, the law of the jungle prevails.
The gnoll warlord, nicknamed "Bloodfang," is the absolute ruler of the Red-Eyed Clan, and his authority is built on violence and fear.
Grak had witnessed Bloodfang bite through an enemy's throat in battle, then dig out the heart with his claws and swallow it in front of all the gnolls.
It devours the heart of its companion.
Even to the ferocious gnolls, it was a terrifying thing.
The Corrupted Claw Priest represents another kind of power.
Grak's gaze unconsciously drifted into the depths of the cave, where faint chanting and the stench of burning flesh and blood could be heard.
As a priest, Rotclaw rarely appears before ordinary gnolls. It always hides in the darkest corners, slits the throats of its captives with a dagger, and smears its blood on bone fragments covered with runes.
It is said that...
It can curse enemies so that their wounds never heal, and can even briefly resurrect dead gnolls, allowing them to continue fighting at the cost of their restless souls.
Thinking of that horrific scene.
Grac shivered.
It disliked the rotten claws, but dared not disobey them.
All gnolls know that offending a priest has a worse consequence than offending a warlord.
At least Bloodfang will give you a quick death, while the curse of Rotclaw will make you wail for three days and three nights before you die.
Grak knew that the two big shots did not get along. Bloodfang thought the Rotclaw ritual was too slow, while Rotclaw thought Bloodfang was too reckless and brainless. But in any case, they jointly ruled the Red-Eyed Clan, giving the gnolls a place in the wilderness.
As the rain intensified, Grac hunched his shoulders and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
The gnoll culture does not have the concept of 'loyalty', only 'obedience to the strong'.
Grak didn't feel any respect for Bloodfang or Rotclaw, but it knew very well that in Howling Cliff, the weak either obeyed or became ornaments on stakes, and this principle applied equally to the wider wilderness.
It glanced again at the distant wilderness, which remained empty.
"Looks like nothing will happen today."
Before the words were finished, a dark shadow swept across the clouds, moving so fast it seemed like an illusion.
Grac's fur bristled instantly, a kind of instinctive fear gripping its heart. It wanted to blow the bone whistle, but its paws froze in mid-air, and only a weak whimper could escape its throat.
The thing appeared again, this time closer, and without any attempt to conceal itself.
That thing—that dragon—hovered above Howling Cliff.
Rainwater fell on its layers of scales, then flowed down the grooves, gathering into silver threads at the tips of its claws. It simply hovered quietly, neither attacking nor roaring, silently surveying its territory below, exuding an indescribable aura of power and oppression, calm yet dangerous.
Upon seeing the dragons, Grac began to tremble.
It had seen ferocious beasts and powerful monsters, but had never felt such fear.
Its stomach was convulsing, its teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and even its tail was stiff as a frozen rope.
It is naturally sensitive to danger, and no one in the entire Red-Eyed Clan has a better sense of perception than it, which is why it can become a Sentinel. At this moment, every nerve in its body is screaming.
escape!
But it can't move.
Damn it! Get moving! Get moving!
Grak screamed inwardly, but his legs felt like they were made of lead, frozen in place, and wouldn't obey his commands. Then, in extreme terror, torn between his mind and body, the gnoll rolled his eyes and fainted.
Garros blinked, noticing the gnoll sentinel's lapse in composure.
"Scared to death? No, she probably fainted."
He exuded a dragon's might to announce his arrival, instilling fear and terror in the vast majority of the red-eyed gnolls, but very few gnolls fainted directly.
Sometimes, being less perceptive is actually a good thing.
For example, you can't sense how dangerous and terrifying the dragon in front of you really is.
The gnoll sentinel fainted, actually because it was more aware of its surroundings.
At the center of Howling Cliff is a semi-natural, semi-artificial cave, hollowed out into multiple layers.
Jackals emerged in large numbers from the caves, their backs hunched, muscles taut, red eyes gleaming in the rain, and saliva mixed with fear dripping from between their fangs.
Galus could smell the scents wafting in the air.
Rotten chunks of meat, cheap animal fat, and the distinctive stench of gnolls.
The jackals were clad in plundered iron armor and carried weapons such as maces. Some of the larger ones had their equipment engraved with alchemical runes and were of excellent quality.
Several strong gnolls held grappling hooks, but did not act rashly, watching Garros warily.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the cave.
The copper ring on Bloodfang, the gnoll overlord, gleamed blood-red in the rain. He straightened his chest, displaying the scar that ran across his torso—proof that he had ripped a petrified lizard apart.
It approached Garros, stopped beneath him, and said respectfully, "Noble dragon, why do you visit the lowly Howling Cliff?"
By nature, gnolls like to follow powerful dragons.
The key lies in strength.
If a weak dragon were to visit them rashly, they would not hesitate to kill it and use its blood to perform rituals to strengthen the tribe or clan.
The jackal overseer used his peripheral vision to measure Garros's size.
Although incredibly strong, the dragon's body, which is less than eight meters long, is not particularly outstanding in terms of size. After all, the Red-Eyed Clan has hunted giant monsters that are more than ten meters long.
While waiting for Galos's reply, Bloodfang's eyes flickered, his spine straightened slightly, and a different thought arose in his mind.
(End of this chapter)
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