07-25-2017, 01:22 PM
Gloved fingers moved to the metal of the Hunter’s helmet, attempting to rub his forehead through the comforting solidity of the steel. After the briefest of moments, he looked back at the increasingly infuriating child. “You want to know if I’m happy?”
“Since I’ve had to attempt to defend my life choices to a youth less than a tenth of my age, wearing precious little aside from belts and a cloak, not so much. I’ve spent my life living the dream,” he said, folding his arms in front of him. “I’ve seen the arboreal citadels of the Elves, gilded spires rising from trees the size of mountains.” He remembered his homeland, the decades spent suffering in a society that he could never truly belong to, the war he fought defending it against the savage hordes of the Orcs. The pittance he was paid in exchange for all the dead men left at his feet, the scorn heaped upon him by a family elevated to the ranks of the war-mages. “I’ve waded through the sacred waters of the lady beneath a shining moon,” he said, neglecting to mention the werewolf he drowned within those pristine pools. The contract, if he recalled correctly, was for a direwolf; its hide flayed from its body after it breathed its last within the holy water. After the sun rose, the church was all too ready to pay the Man-Flayer’s price. “I’ve been toasted inside the great clan-halls of the Orcs, a hundred warchiefs raising flagons to my name.” He was fortunate that the clans were not overly offended at his efforts against them in the war against the Elvish sanctuaries. Strength was valued in their culture, and he had proven he had no shortage of it as he hunted down a coven of cultists whose connections had prevented the clans from handling it themselves.
“I’ve seen dragons and hippogriffs dance through the clouds, serpents the size of galleons breach the sea, and the cathedrals that the men have built to their Lady. But you know the most important thing I’ve done with all of my long life?” He took a step closer, his lanky yet muscular frame serving to reaffirm his maturity over the youth. The unfortunately-named young witchling took a step back, seeking succor within the sable sanctuary of her cloak.
“I’ve taught a lesson. That people can’t run from justice, that no matter how far they flee, there will always be someone that will seek them out and make them pay for their crimes. I’ve devoted my life to this, and I deserve to be compensated for it. Would you prefer I starve?” He asked, his natural inclination towards neutrality keeping venom from his voice. “Guards, wardens, and headsmen are all paid for their work, so why shouldn’t I? Just because I take a more proactive approach to hunting down criminals?”
He took a step back, shaking his steel-clad head. “You think I should do it for free? As a hobby? Hunting bandits and beasts out of some kind of sense of moral obligation to kill and capture people did wrong?”
“That’s just a serial killer with a particularly specific target demographic,” he said, the collection of knives he treasured being the envy of any butcher.
"B-but you're k-k-... hurting people," stammered the child, belts, buckles, and the anxiety of youth coiled tight within the cloak, like a spring just waiting to burst forth with righteous indignation. Or perhaps, shatter under the weight she was attempting to shoulder.
“So do they. I just stop them from hurting more people,” he said, the length of this assault on his morals, or rather, lack of starting to grate on him.
He sighed, looking at the two soldiers still nervously observing the heated conversation. “Gorman, you said? I’ll track him down,” he spoke, adjusting the collection of knives strapped to his chest. “You see, I’m my own boss. I pick my own work, get the job done, and go for drinks at the end of the day. And you know what, I’m not being paid to sit around and have to explain my choice of profession to a child.” He turned, leaving the woman and the waif behind, some absence about him serving to disassociate him from what one would assume would be a person: Nothing more than a vague blur that seemed more like a mannequin than a man, oblivious to the mutterings behind his back.
The shining city of Coruscant awaited.
“Since I’ve had to attempt to defend my life choices to a youth less than a tenth of my age, wearing precious little aside from belts and a cloak, not so much. I’ve spent my life living the dream,” he said, folding his arms in front of him. “I’ve seen the arboreal citadels of the Elves, gilded spires rising from trees the size of mountains.” He remembered his homeland, the decades spent suffering in a society that he could never truly belong to, the war he fought defending it against the savage hordes of the Orcs. The pittance he was paid in exchange for all the dead men left at his feet, the scorn heaped upon him by a family elevated to the ranks of the war-mages. “I’ve waded through the sacred waters of the lady beneath a shining moon,” he said, neglecting to mention the werewolf he drowned within those pristine pools. The contract, if he recalled correctly, was for a direwolf; its hide flayed from its body after it breathed its last within the holy water. After the sun rose, the church was all too ready to pay the Man-Flayer’s price. “I’ve been toasted inside the great clan-halls of the Orcs, a hundred warchiefs raising flagons to my name.” He was fortunate that the clans were not overly offended at his efforts against them in the war against the Elvish sanctuaries. Strength was valued in their culture, and he had proven he had no shortage of it as he hunted down a coven of cultists whose connections had prevented the clans from handling it themselves.
“I’ve seen dragons and hippogriffs dance through the clouds, serpents the size of galleons breach the sea, and the cathedrals that the men have built to their Lady. But you know the most important thing I’ve done with all of my long life?” He took a step closer, his lanky yet muscular frame serving to reaffirm his maturity over the youth. The unfortunately-named young witchling took a step back, seeking succor within the sable sanctuary of her cloak.
“I’ve taught a lesson. That people can’t run from justice, that no matter how far they flee, there will always be someone that will seek them out and make them pay for their crimes. I’ve devoted my life to this, and I deserve to be compensated for it. Would you prefer I starve?” He asked, his natural inclination towards neutrality keeping venom from his voice. “Guards, wardens, and headsmen are all paid for their work, so why shouldn’t I? Just because I take a more proactive approach to hunting down criminals?”
He took a step back, shaking his steel-clad head. “You think I should do it for free? As a hobby? Hunting bandits and beasts out of some kind of sense of moral obligation to kill and capture people did wrong?”
“That’s just a serial killer with a particularly specific target demographic,” he said, the collection of knives he treasured being the envy of any butcher.
"B-but you're k-k-... hurting people," stammered the child, belts, buckles, and the anxiety of youth coiled tight within the cloak, like a spring just waiting to burst forth with righteous indignation. Or perhaps, shatter under the weight she was attempting to shoulder.
“So do they. I just stop them from hurting more people,” he said, the length of this assault on his morals, or rather, lack of starting to grate on him.
He sighed, looking at the two soldiers still nervously observing the heated conversation. “Gorman, you said? I’ll track him down,” he spoke, adjusting the collection of knives strapped to his chest. “You see, I’m my own boss. I pick my own work, get the job done, and go for drinks at the end of the day. And you know what, I’m not being paid to sit around and have to explain my choice of profession to a child.” He turned, leaving the woman and the waif behind, some absence about him serving to disassociate him from what one would assume would be a person: Nothing more than a vague blur that seemed more like a mannequin than a man, oblivious to the mutterings behind his back.
The shining city of Coruscant awaited.
Torcher of tomes, slayer of sorcerers, taker of ears, and flayer of men. Reasonable rates.