A heavy cloven hoof held him down to the ground. His back was wracked with pain from the crushing pressure and previous injuries. Knugoc had been defeated, and could not move from whatever punishment had laid in wait.
"You filth," Boghac had spat, "You dared to call me a weakling, that my horns were not true!" Another force had made itself evident upon the side of Knugoc's head. "A lesson in horns is what you need, whelp." A pulling sensation had appeared, and pain began to accompany it. "You'll be below every gor. Every ungor. Even turnskins!" That pain magnified.
The feeling of pulling turned into tearing. The brays of pain that left Knugoc's body fled everlasting into the night.
The herd was always on the move, trampling through the shadowy forest. There were caws from birds sailing through the trees littering the air. The calls of deer were ringing through the sea of trunks. What was clear through all the noise was the sound of a blade impacting a shield.
Knugoc travelled in the back of the roaring pack, being cowed by gors with impressive horns and plates upon their bodies. In their hands were gigantic axes, only being rivalled by the largest of all puny man weapons.
In Knugoc's hands rested two familiar cleavers, both simplistic and savage. They always made such short work of any beast or man who stood against him and the herd. The handles had been wrapped in dirty rags, and the metal had been slightly rusted. Soon, it would be time to get another pair of weapons hammered for himself.
The only piece of armor, if one could call it that, he had possessed was his loincloth and footwraps, both messes with dried blood among other stains he had long forgotten or cared about. Scars littered his exposed body, some reminding him of the wretched day his status had been stripped of him.
His hooves were moving swiftly, keeping pace with those around him. In his immediate surroundings was two bestigors, keeping the weaklings going, three ungors, and several brays. They were not of importance to him. Every gor within this herd was upon the beast path, maneuvering quickly through the immense trees, trampling fallen branches in their wake.
One of the brays had brushed up against Knugoc during the travel. It was not possibly an accident as there was no reasonable way it could have been one. Even the bray acknowledged the touch with surprise, knowing just what an action would garner.
Knugoc barked, dipping his head towards the insolent hornless fool. He thrusted his head at the bray, smashing his skull against his chest. The impact both knocked the bray back with a significant crack and made it emit the sound it was named after. He then used the flat of his cleaver to slap the now more distant bray, hearing the whimper of the whelp as the weapon connected.
The action was now paid in full. Seeing how the wretch had received its punishment, Knugoc charged onwards. His nostrils flared with disgust at such a spineless and hornless weakling. Hate was what he felt for such weakness. Hate was all he could feel for someone with no horns. Hate will be all he'll have for those who cannot lose their horns.