The white mists part and I’m looking at some kind of a crude-looking corkboard-bulletin. There’s scraps of what they must call paper around here pinned up with spikes of metal that had to have been forged by primitive blacksmiths. It looks like it’s composed of something like cork, at least. I reach my armor-encased hand up to rip a note with 10G printed on it.

The amount offered gets my attention and I smile darkly. The price catches my interest long before any details. If the price is high enough, no matter what, I’ll complete the associated task.

My eyes lower as I go over the request and my lips spread wide into a gleeful expression, perfectly matching the joy in my heart at the contents of the posting. PERFECT! Fucking perfect! I hunt those weasley bastards for no profit when I’m feelin’ particularly nasty, but they want to pay me ten whole good gold coins to get it done just ‘cause these bastards sacked some pilgrim villages? Says to take a full party along for the sake of safety. Hahaha… That would be sensible, but antisocial guys like me don’t bother with others except for business contacts. Team up with someone else for such a simple task? They’d either get in my way or become fodder for the beasties.

I chuckle. Fate provides for those who have faith in it far better than those that even faintly remember that damned goddess repaying her children for their belief on her best day. 

Cramming the ticket into the pouch on my belt along with where I keep the most convenient coins, typically reserved for certain jobs such as when I’m after information I can’t get through sheer intimidation or reasoning. Turning, my cloak flaps behind me and I meet the eyes of the so-called adventurers around me, flocking like geese at the posting board, but leaving a space around me. A few of them that know enough look at me with stark fear in their eyes. As for the rest, they’re just ignorant. They don’t know me like these few geniuses. I must have run into a few of them at some point, not that I recognize their faces like they do mine. Hahaha.

I walk through the path they subconsciously make for me. Even the ones that don’t know me sense enough about me to know enough to stay clear unless I want them for anything, and probably even then. The armor on my boots clank on the floorboards as I head to the stairs that lead out of this little hovel of an adventurer’s guild. 

My boots clank on the first of the stairs and they creak as I ascend. Small towns like Haldor’s Stand barely have decent facilities. I go up the stairs and when I reach the top, my eyes meet the eyes of the receptionist wearing glasses standing behind the desk, chatting idly with a no-name adventurer. The girl behind the desk is a tallish and voluptuous-looking one. Kinda motherly in the face, indicating that she’s the nosey type I hate, certainly not my type. 

Heading over to her, I reach into my pouch for the ticket to slap it firmly down onto the counter, saying, “This one’s mine, Minne.”

She licks her lips and lowers her eyes slowly to the note. “Move your hand a bit, will you?” Her mouth twists.

With a shrug, I slip my fingers off the note to let her see the ten gold tag. I very much like teasing the clerks, particularly when they’re haughty types like Minne. Make them work a little bit before they work you.

“Ah… I recognize that job.” She adjusts her glasses and essays a fake smile. “We have every confidence in you, Vayne Wyndblade. Good hunting.” She says that with a look in her eyes that says that I’m scum and that she hopes that the gobbies might actually manage to take me out.

I know her well enough to be able to say with certainty that she’s committed my name to memory thanks to my fairly frequent visits. I go to pretty much any such slapdash community’s adventurer’s guild and hidden assassination commision forums. Truth be, I’d not be a part of any adventurer’s guild and only take the latter jobs, but the adventurer’s jobs tend to be more plentiful if lower payin’. I’m pretty much admitting that I’m not much good for any work outside the art of tracking and killing creatures or people that need it, not that I need many other skills.

Turning away from the front desk, I leave the note on the desk with Minne as is custom, but no other adventurer will follow me and try to poach my prey. Etiquette keeps the asshat amateurs out of my hair, unless the clerk determined that the job was outside the skillset of an applying member. Since most want me dead but only the assassin forums would bother to try their hand at it, this job’s reward is pretty much already in my coin purse. 

Leaving the guild, I raise a hand and shield my eyes from the sunlight streaming down onto me as I greet the sun with a smirk.

Where… am I? I’m so tired…

My brow furrows. “What the hell?” I mutter under my breath.

The strange little voice in the back of my brain doesn’t repeat itself. My lips twist and I spit as I turn to my horse that’s tied up to the nearby hitch. Unfastening the complicated knot that I always tie horses off to hitches and such to make sure no one makes off with him for the brief periods I go into an adventurer’s guild, I don’t expect too much in the way of thievery in a little pisspot village like this. If someone wanted my horse, they could just cut the reins free, but an adventurer’s cantrip to drive your horse mad in the event of the horse having been freed in the incorrect way is an invaluable trick, that among other little jewels that anyone claims to be an adventurer has to learn.

I swing up deftly into the saddle and squeeze the horse’s ribs with my knees to guide him up the road leading out of the walled town to the north. Worse it gets, the further away from civilization this way, not that the whole of the mountains aren’t infested by assorted beasties, but the southern peaks less so, thanks to adventurer activities. 

Villagers that I pass along the dusty street shy away from me as I urge my nameless horse into a gallop. I don’t much bother with naming horses in a world where you can lose them quicker than you can procure them.

When I clear the last row of low and meager-looking buildings and tall stonewall with its open gate that protects this pisspot village, Haldor’s Stand, I eye the immediate surroundings. A grizzled man usually posted at this gate nods at me as I pass him, leaving a cloud of dust to choke him.

Being one of the oldest of the remaining old walled villages in these mountains, these people guard themselves better than the idiotic pilgrims up north that found new villages in these near-cursed mountains as though their deaths aren't automatically assured. I prod my horse for a bit more speed as we race along the road, heading up beneath the spreading branches of shady trees from this valley and higher up into the mountains along their rocky paths.

There’s good goblin hunting grounds, a good ways to the north of here. Five or six of their heads slung over my saddle and this prize is mine. Where you may not find that many in a group you find, you might find others in separate caverns and concealing thickets. I may take a dozen extra heads for good measure, just for the pleasure of it.

Since it’s a mite far, using a mount refreshing cantrip wouldn’t be a bad idea.  

My horse picks his way through rough terrain as I cut cross-country through valleys and up inclines towards the nearest large roadway that I know will cross my path at some point, not that they’re all that common up here. With a frown, I reach into another of my pouches for a strip of dried meat and chew idly on it while I cast my eyes about me, looking for signs of goblin activity or sign of their passing.

Honestly, I’m starting to get pissed off. As fun as this job should be, compared with many others I could have picked, I’m annoyed that I haven’t yet seen any sign of any goblin activities up here pretty much nowhere I’ve looked. Foam flies from my horse’s mouth from how hard I’ve had to ride him. That’s another problem I don’t want to have to deal with. Another freaking broken down horse.

Mustering my magick, I slip some energy to him via a refreshing cantrip. The horse whinnies and his gait strengthens.

You ride them all day long and they break down, even with a refresh cantrip, like they were made out of brittle dried clay. That’s one thing I don’t like about horses. As handy as they can be, they can’t keep up with you. You have to baby them now and again.

But despite what I’ve said, I’ve never killed a horse. I leave them behind when they become a liability, and frankly, my current horse is swiftly becoming a liability, despite all my help. Ah well.

We ride onwards over the horizon and finally I see something interesting. Huge plumes of smoke rise into the sky off in the distance.

“There’s no way that’s coming from chimneys. Coulda swore there’s a village off in that direction, but…”

Smallest kinda place you ever saw. Tiny community. Ignorant farmers, gatherers and hunter pilgrims. “Those idiots live up here in the Goblin Mountains, expecting nothin’…”

Yeah. I’m sure that’s where all that smoke’s coming from.

Clenching my legs, I urge my horse into a gallop towards the smoke in the distance. I wanted some sign of goblin activity and there’s no better proof. As hardened as I am, I can’t laugh. Certainly not when a pile of decaying bodies are probably waiting to greet me ahead. Nah. It’ll have gotten started by now. 

It’ll be too dangerous inside the village if things are as bad as I expect. By now the place is crawling with monsters.

Hauling back on my horse’s reins, not that the horse needs much restraining at this point, I swing a leg over and down to the brush-covered ground. As I drop to the ground, I throw the reins to wrap around a low-hanging branch and tie it off.

Eyeing the grass growing beneath the boughs of the tree, I nod. The horse should have plenty to eat to recharge. This tree should be a safe distance from the village too.

Looking to my right, I facepalm. The river passes by here, so the horse would have plenty of it if I hadn’t tied him off right away. Not to mention, I’ll end up with a dead horse if anything nasty wanders over here. Ain’t no way he’ll get the water he needs, otherwise. With a grumble and writhing lips, I untie the reins and tuck them into his bridle. 

The horse’s nostrils flare at me and he whickers. 

Stupid creature. He’ll draw attention if he keeps making so much noise. Fuck. Whatever.

Whether the villagers are alive or not, I prefer to avoid much scrutiny. I figure he’s probably too weak to go much anywhere else on his own, so leaving him untied will have to do. With a pat on my horse’s sweaty flank, I creep off along the riverbank while he browses at the grass, sneaking to the edge of the village. I shake my head at seeing what I already expected.

Plumes of smoke rise from the burnt out frames of the houses. Not one’s been left standing. To completely take out a village of this size means around eight separate bands are behind it. Some buildings would still be left standing if it was a small group. It oughtta be easy to find one of them. With any luck, the first I uncover might have enough heads to cash in.

Gobbies go in small numbers, banding together to pull off big tasks like burning down a sizable, but undefended village. However big the group is depends on the strength of their leader.

Considering those things, I decide that it might take two after all to make the quota, if their leader’s a weakling.

They slaughter everyone in sight, killing more than they can conveniently eat, leaving too many behind to turn bad… Fucking disgusting.

Among the charred frames with the remnants of their soot-covered stones left over from what made up their chimneys and other related structures, I detect some motion and crouch in the bushes to avoid notice. Waiting a good while, the beasties reveal themselves in their search for things to kill and devour. They wander numbly, having already turned on each other.

Blood covers a few of the beasties, typical. Counting their heads, I make out the shapes of ghouls, direwolves, even a couple of enormous ogre-types. That’s the fate of a human being that dies that doesn’t get eaten by some beastie that isn’t properly buried. Only way to survive is to live the smart way and these dumb bastards went and built their shit community here, just because it is so damned beautiful and natural or some such. I won’t pretend to understand their dumbass creed that makes them kill themselves off, neither. At least I can say one thing for ‘em. Dumb as shit, but they weren’t cowards like the southerners.

Such ignorance is rewarded. “Hmph.” I grumble. I’ve seen this, time and time again, and this won’t be the last. Ever since I caught sight of this place, I thought it was nice for such a shitspot village in the middle of nowhere, but charming and sweet as it and pilgrims can be, giving you a hand if you need a mite of help, they’re all doomed to ignominy and death sooner than later.

Turning from the village, I quickly trot through the brush as quietly as I’m able, tempted to kill off all the monsters lurking here, but knowing that no one will pay me for my time, I shrug. Besides that, there’s an annoying as shit itch between my shoulder blades and the back of my brain telling me I got to complete this job as quickly as possible. When you get experienced enough, you start listening to your gut or face death.

Maybe this isn’t about my own life. I rub my chin thoughtfully, thinking briefly of my old teacher. I shrug. Doesn’t feel like it has anything to do with my own survival. But what else could this damned itch be about? A disaster or some such hovering over our heads? Heh… if I ignore it, maybe I can triple my reward or more… but feelings like this sometimes lead me to greater profit… or just plain survival.

Examining the ground as I pass, leaving little sign of my passage, I check for the signs of others leaving the village, knowing that I need to be quick about it before the beasties start scattering and interrupt my tracking efforts. It’s not too long before I find one of their dragpaths. They pull dead bodies in their sacks behind them as they retreat to eat somewhere private and secure before feasting. Crafty as they are, nothing makes the job easier than following the marks of their passing away from the site of their dirty work. 

Turning my head back in the general direction of the tree I’d stopped under and its surrounding thicket by the river where my horse should still be waiting, I shrug. 

Damn thing will be in danger if any of the beasties wander that way, but hell if I care if he runs off to save his life. That horse can run while he can if he wants and I can probably track him down too. I rode him too hard today for anyone with good sense, but he’ll be just fine.

Breaking into a run along the path that leads up into the upper passes above the forestline, I take a deep breath of fresh air as I climb up above the treeline to where the jagged white peaks claw at the skies. 

Beautiful and peaceful-lookin’ mountains. Only their name betrays that they’re home to goblins now.