Although business was never Smed's shtick, he nevertheless found himself in some small, unmentionable little excuse for a port town. It was his kind of place, really. Any goblin's kind of place. Compact, seedy, and a little bit on the dirty side.
Smed's business was an interesting one. He ran quite the large shadow empire, after all. Goblin tribes all over Le'Ranna considered themselves members of the Anklehacker Confederacy, and such a union needed a steady supply of imports, just like a proper nation. If, of course, imports was another word for Thanati slaves and narcotics.
It was starting to get late, so Smed supposed it'd be time to turn in soon enough. This was one of the rare moments in which he traveled alone, so he quickly found himself entering the nearest tavern.
The doors swung open, and most of the patrons looked to see the newest entry. Many faces paled, others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Somewhere, near the back of the bar, somebody whispered "The Anklehacker!" in a shaky voice.
Then, Smed smiled, and everyone went back to their business. He walked to a table, and sat opposite of the drunk man already there. No sooner had his rump touched the seat, than the drunk spoke up, leaning forwards against the table.
"Hey! I'm saving that table for my friend, you gray little gutter rat! Move along!"
"Were you?" Smed asked, and shot a clawed hand forwards, skewering the man's cheek and pulling the now screaming and whimpering man's head closer towards him.
"Too fucking bad."
Pulling forwards, he tore his claw out towards himself, leaving the man with one half of his jaw disconnected from his face. Clutching it and crying, the man scurried away, and Smed tapped a hand on his table, signaling for a drink.
