Tarro didn’t know why they called him Twitch. Honestly, he was more concerned with avoiding their meaty paws and the pummelling that would follow if they caught him. He didn’t really know why they did it either. It wasn’t as vicious as the race hate they had for Grundarr the half-orc. He figured it was simply because he was smaller and big kids liked easy targets or maybe it was because the first few times they had tried it, Tarro and his brother had taught them that quick teamwork could easily overcome apparent advantages like size and strength, embarrassing them in the process… Dirk, the leader of this particular posse, reached out for him and almost caught him, but Tarro took a sudden turn and avoided his grasp. Hmm, maybe that was why they called him Twitch.
He couldn’t outrun their freakishly long legs for long. Normally, he just needed to flee until he found his brother, but today he was at home, sick, and involving their parents would just make matters worse for all involved. Tarro realized that, in his unthinking run, he had turned towards the woods on the edge of town. He spent far more time in there than most kids his age; maybe he could lose them in there. Otherwise, he had recently made a friend that lived in those woods and while Tarro hated to involve him in something that didn’t concern him, he didn’t hate as much as going home with a black eye. Now, where was that cave again?