GOBLIN WITH A GUN

Glory and Purpose

"mhm" Fianna grunted, he had not been listening as the man before him had gone on about payment and contracts. That was the realm of guild administration, Fianna would do this for free if not for them, far simpler he thought. Rove around the Brine Colonies killing anything that ought to be killed. The man Fianna spoke with was a human with the over-inflated face of a new-born, pale as though it had never seen the sun, but at the same time glossy from perpetual sweat. If this man is what people meant by 'upper crust' Fianna thought it must be a derogatory term, Fianna had subconsciously come up with a million methods to kill them, and the list only grew as they relaxed and offered up new opening with the expressive flailing of their hands. They were in a meeting room in one of Jok's government buildings, Fianna didn't take note of which it was as he lack an ability to care for such things a governance. Fianna wondered why he was even here, was this man truly so important he couldn't just leave a request with the guild like everyone else or was something else at play. The meeting room was pragmatically lavish, with metal trims on the varnished wood of expensive furniture, a long table at the room's centre which Fianna rested his bloodstained boots on. Sculpted busts of self-proclaimed important figures lined the walls but trying to read the plaques beneath them lead to his vision going fuzzy, yet somehow, they remained more interesting then what the man was saying to Fianna.

"are you listening?" they asked as if ignoring what he had to say was some great offense.

"no" Fianna turned to look at the man whose name he failed to recall; his glare disguised by the tired appearance of bags beneath his lidded eyes. "tell the guild about this, I don't care for logistics. Fianna saw the man bite back a comment, likely one about the foul nature of goblins like Fianna, Fianna had never killed some one, but he has been pushed to sending a message in the past.

"I have cleared the details with the monster hunters guild, but I hold I necessary to clarify all details with all parties involved. Consider you decorum when you speak with me hunter" the man leaned back in his creaky chair as though he felt his commentary profound. Fianna leaned forward, his face barely poking over the high table.

"I care about two things, what am I killing and why" Fianna stood on the chair, growing tired of craning his neck to look at the flapping jowls of this man. On paper Fianna was not imposing, he was well above average height for a goblin at over 4ft, while his physique was that of muscle and bone, but the cold expression that he wore in perpetuity reflected a different reality. eyes glaring, nose hooked, ears jaggedly pointed and carnivorous yellow teeth glittering every time her opened his mouth to speak, it made him look more like a red cap than a goblin. Fianna planted his hand on the table and glared across the table at the man.

"right, of course" they nodded.

The matter at hand was a simple one once the wasted breath had been separated from what actually mattered. there was a wyvern nest, small pack hunters around the size of bear but individuals vary, often conflated with dragons but baring no relation other than the visual. Wyvern's reproduced rapidly and asexually which made rooting them out an urgent and constant responsibility of any monster hunter, the venom of a wyvern so potent it could make a clay golem groggy. Standing now in the guild hall Fianna was still something of an oddity which drew attention from his fellow hunters, the Brine Colonies were not a particularly diverse place, unlike the Bronze Colony down south where goblins, half-elementals and cold-bloods amongst others were a dime a dozen. Even in the Bronze Fianna doubted he would disappear in a crowd, as his green skin the pale shade of animal sick was hardly of note when the goblin wore a revolver rifle on his back with a crystal cylinder, a thing only ever seen in the revolvers of the native population's greatest warriors, lodged into place on his rifle. The prevailing rumour was that Fianna stole it; Fianna didn't engage in gossip. Fianna sat at a table slipping syringes of anti venom into loops of leather, once satisfied he took the roll of tanned hide and tied it around his thigh, he could not hunt if he was dead, was his logic. Fianna's preparations were halted when another hunter burst through the front door dragging behind him the still steaming head of a Cherufe, the craggy visage of the magmatic creature left Fianna somewhat saddened, it likely migrated north due to habitat loss, and now it would be a hunter's prize. Fianna looked to the crystal in his cylinder, a gift from a friend he thought it, the pale blue gem produced a thin trail of cold vapour whenever it felt like it, the polished surface reflecting back a distorted version of Fianna's face. It was blisteringly cold to the touch. Despite pity Fianna would have done the same thing to the Cherufe, it had dared tread where it would do harm to the island of Nova Drangey.