What did they expect?

Probably that he was just like the rest of his kind - a race Styx unknowingly single-handedly birthed and has done everything in his power to disown and detach from. It was reasonable they'd see him and yet not SEE him. Green skin brought forth the Orc jokes, pointed ears only made poisonous tongues spit insults towards the Elves and yet neither race wanted anything to do with him.

Which was fine because he wanted nothing to do with them.

He was his own; there was nothing else like him. No one else that could become him. He was truly one of a kind and that brought with it trouble all on its own. They didn't need to tie him to the Rakash to find ways to boil his blood; a polite and sarcastic smile would adorn his face before his dagger found its way into their throats. One time. Two times. Three- maybe four. It changed depending on how pissed off he was.

Hundreds of years existing in such a jaded state has only worsened him. Contracts were a means of getting paid and starting trouble was honestly just a great fucking bonus. But there's something missing all the time; coming into existence with a horde of others that looked like him but weren't him still haunts his dreams. The chanting, the amber color that matched his eyes brought it an unsettling feeling to his stomach, waking him up each time in a brief panic before he'd remember it was just a dream.

A dream that was a reality.

A reality he couldn't remember.

Did he want to remember?

It's a question he has never given time to answer properly. The cynical wall of snark prevented any means of debate and the centuries old construct was not budging anytime soon.

Styx watches the other races in his down time. He watches their habits, their culture, the way they behave with themselves. He remembers contracts that have questioned if he has tried such with his own people; which he would spit quite quickly, "They're not MY people." without really knowing if that was true. There was an assumption slapped on that declared them mindless husks unworthy of effort. They just existed, unfortunately; kill one you came to learn there were hundreds more. They aren't him and he isn't them- so why do his dreams plant seeds of doubt in his mind?

The whispers and the amber shade-

The WHISPERS!

Hatred. Exhaustion. Confusion. Pain. Pain. Pain. HATRED.

Breathe...

A sudden calmness. The confusion not as heavy and then he's awake. Then he's aware of reality and it's back to another contract. Another list of lives to take. Another fucking paycheck to keep him moving forward, to drag himself further from this lingering exhaustion and to try and build a future he can say he's satisfied with.


SHRUGS. Wanted to write Styx. Going to write more Styx. More of a character study. This is the first thing I puked out. More to come.

I don't own Of Orcs and Men or Styx: Master of Shadows and get no monies from it. But shit, do I love this little stinker. If you have requests on Styx stuff leave it in a review or message me, I intend to do more goblin exercises since you can never have enough goblin-related material.