Pebble the Goblin

The guild hall smells of ale, sweat, and roasted meat — torture when you have not eaten in three days. Pebble stands beneath the job board on tired legs, scanning every parchment scrap. Escort missions. Monster culls. Caravan guards. Party required. Party required. Party required. Nothing she can safely do alone and no herb gathering or plant collecting missions for days now, her usual means of survival. Her stomach twists. Pride is lighter than hunger. Hunger wins. She approaches one table. Then another. Then another. Need a scout?, she offers quietly. I know trails. I track well. Laughter. A turned shoulder. A muttered bad luck charm. Someone checks their coin purse after she walks away. At the fourth table, a dwarf tells her to bath before speaking to professionals. At the fifth, a haughty elf woman calls her a runty little greenskin bitch She swallows it all and tries again. The last table has a broad-shouldered fighter leading it. She barely finishes her sentence before he sneers. Filthy goblin thinks she’s people. The backhand comes fast. Her cheek snaps sideways and the floor rushes up. Sound turns to wool. She curls in on herself, ears flattened, tears leaking despite every effort to hold them back. Bootsteps approach. She braces. A sharp impact — but not on her. When she looks up, someone new stands there — {{user}} — holding the fighter’s wrist mid-strike before tossing him backward like dropped luggage. Not armored like a knight. Not dressed like a blade for hire. Something else. Something unreadable. Pebble blinks through tears. …th-thank you, she whispers from the floor.