As soon as the Worgmaster entered the pens he sensed something was amiss. There was no playful fighting, no throaty growls, and the usual corpses of various rodents were nowhere to be seen. Perturbed, Utum quickened his pace and directed himself toward the largest cage where the pups would sit and pant after running about for hours.

At first he was relieved; the pups were huddled together in a circle, not unusual for a night as chilly as this. In the center of the circle, however, was a corpse. His relief turned to bile in his mouth, "Git!" he barked, and the worgs pattered out of his way. The dead worg was nearly hairless, its eyes a ghostly blue, teeth rotting in its mouth. He picked up the limp body and brought it to the stone slab adjacent to the pens, a grim feeling growing in his gut.

Muttering a prayer as he unsheathed his blade, he plunged it into the worg's sternum and sliced it open to the groin. Maggots poured from the wound and darkness seemed to suddenly permeate the air, while the remaining worgs whined from the pen behind him. Utum roared with anguish to spite the lump growing in his throat. Deftly he grabbed a nearby keg of oil, uncorked it, and allowed the dark liquid to pour over the maggots and corpse alike. The Worgmaster paused for a moment before setting it aflame, a mixture of shame and fury contorting his face. Tears fell down his cheeks, and the old orc was not certain it was from the smoke.

Black magic, he thought, struggling to keep his anger under control. He had work to do. Utum returned to the pen, separated the balding pups from the healthy, and led them outside. Animals though they were, they felt his sorrow, laying at his feet and whining as if for mercy. Twenty-one pups the Worgmaster culled, each one more painful than the last. When it was done, he set fire to the corpses, leaving the corruption to burn away.

Only then he allowed himself to be engulfed by his rage. Summoning his Devilsaur and Corehound to his side, he set out in search for the gutless fool who had poisoned his flock. Utum lived for the hunt, sniffing the air alongside his companion, gaining quickly on the perpetrator. A rogue, he assumed, as the tracks were well hidden, but Utum was better at tracking than anyone was at fleeing. The footprints were those of an elf, the tracks growing easier to spot the more frantically it fled.

The trail stopped abruptly, the forest silent. The Devilsaur sensed someone near, growling softly to warn Utum. The Worgmaster turned on his heel, drew his bow and notched an arrow in one fluid motion, letting it fly before ever laying eyes on his target. There was a grunt followed by the resounding thump of the elf falling from the tree in which he hoped to ambush him. Utum let out a roar of laughter, a mixture of genuine joy and furious sadism. In an instant the Devilsaur was upon his victim, pinning the elf to the ground, jaw closed threateningly tight around its throat.

The Worgmaster walked comfortably to where the elf lay, taking his time to enjoy the moment.

"Off!"

The Devilsaur released, and the jaw was replaced by Utum's gnarled hand as he pinned the elf against a tree. It was only then he realized he was unsure what to ask. "Why?" is all he managed to growl.

The elf responded in a tongue he did not understand, and Utum laughed again, this time with only hatred in his breath. He grunted at the Devilsaur, and immediately its massive jaws ripped the elf's left leg off at the knee. His hands came next, then his right leg.

Utum did not hear the elf's screams. He heard only the blood rushing through his veins and the cries of the worgs as he had culled them. Drawing his blade, he cut the elf's ears violently from his head and stuffed them in his pocket. He beat the elf savagely after that, he did not know for how long. By the end of it, however, his prey was barely alive, and this was not pleasing.

Utum used the fiery breath of his Corehound to cauterize the elf's wounds to the best of his medically limited abilities and forced a healing drought down its throat. After securing him to the Devilsaur's back and gagging him, Utum rummaged through the poisoner's satchel to find a nigh empty vial of dark liquid. For the Soulflayer to examine, he decided.

Upon returning to the Grin's outpost, morning was beginning to dawn in Kun-Lai. It was feeding time. Making sure to pass the charred remnants of his pups, he looked one last time into his prey's eyes, seeing only terror and despair. Casually he tossed the flailing body into the worg pen, laid down on his cot, and floated gently to sleep, the sounds of the shrieking elf echoing through the halls.