The Employed Hero

Hello to everyone that may have read some of my other works (and welcome to those that havent :) ) I decided on attempting to create a bit more of a story than what I normally do (ie. Lotz o' sexXz0rz, d00d!)
More of a love theme, with chapters being updated regularly (or whenever I'm blitzed out on Dr. Pepper) so I hope you all enjoy :)

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The final gurgling cry of the dying summertime wolf before him caused his recently moistened lips to curl upward in a smile. The goblin would be pleased, he thought while dragging his mighty weapon along the ground to clean the blood and other random fluid. Soft, wild grass crunched beneath his heavily armored boots as he turned and walked away from the dead animal. The intense heat would decompose the body quickly, he pondered silently. The buzzards would be upon it in a moment's time.

He traversed the long and winding roads of The Barrens, the midday sun cutting through his plated armor and heating his flesh uncomfortably. No complaint would escape his wide lips, however, that he was certain of. The earliest Orcish teachings he could recall from childhood lectured discipline. Honor.
No, he thought. He would not complain.

Sweat began rolling from his forehead, dripping into his thick, untamed beard. He quickly smoothed the coarse hair with a gloved hand. Although he had grown from a child in these lands, he detested the heat the way a Winterspring leopard would. It was a kind of dry, sizzling heat that one would expect to arise out from a campfire while roasting a fresh kill.
Despite himself, he grinned. He was complaining, he thought, but not out loud. He would have to find a way to curb such a childish habit.

“Greetings, Sloane!” the familiar face of a Trollish friend, of whom he knew to be Zib'Jalin, sounded from a hut as he set foot in The Crossroads.
He had befriended this being long ago, of which the particular time eluded him in the present.
“Lok'Tar, friend,” he replied back in a smooth and glassy voice.
“How ye be?” was the response from the Troll, “haven't seen ye in quite some time. Makin' a name fo' yoself out dere I suppose.”
“One way or another,” The Orc, known as Sloane, replied.
They shared a warm laugh together.
“Well, it be good te see an old face once in awhile,” the Troll responded while gesturing with one of his three pronged hands, “care te come inside? I got a fresh stew cookin'.”
“I would love to, in any other occasion,” Sloane replied with a hint of regret, “but I must be going. A rich goblin has employed my services and is paying me well.”
Zib'Jalin flashed a small smile upon his pale face. Sloane thought he saw something flash by his friend's amber eyes. Sadness, perhaps.
“Well, ye be comin' back around sometime soon den,” was his reply, “I be always cookin', so be sure te come by and eat.”
Sloane laughed heartily.
“Alright, old comrade,” he concluded, “until we meet again.”
He bowed deeply.
“Take care of yerself, mon,” the Troll muttered and waved to him.
He took his leave then, stepping past his friend and into the small encampment.

After he had purchased some provisions from the local meat seller and offered his shining armor for repair to a wide eyed, smiling Blacksmith, he was on his way.
“I should be paying you to be dealing with such a fine set of steel,” the voice of the Orc rang in his head as he left the town limit, “one of a kind.”
The road snaked ahead of him several hundred yards, dropping from view under that of a steep incline. He thought he witnessed the brown outline of structures ahead of him. Perhaps a mirage, he pondered; the sun had struck him again once out of the quaint town in the center of The Barrens. A fly made it's presence known suddenly, a black spec now zooming past his black irises and ears. He swatted at it lethargically while his footsteps continued padding upon the soft earth.

At long last, he had made it. Ratchet; the town he had visited those many days ago and bumped into the wealthy goblin that was currently employing him. Literally. His mind floated back to when he was staring upward at some shop sign when a small impact was felt at his thigh.
“Ouch, watch where you're-” the goblin had said to him, but cut off short.
Sloane remembered him staring upward at his heavily muscular frame, caged by plated armor, for several moments.
“You may be exactly what I am looking for!” he remembered him almost shouting in delight, “you are a fighter, are you not?”
He had nodded.
“Excellent!” he responded, “If you don't mind a little task – and a whole pile of money behind it – I may have something in store for you to do for me.”

The remainder of the thoughts eluded him as he was now upon the doorstep of the Goblin's house. It was quite a deal larger than the rest of the structures around it; obviously portraying the wealthy citizen that resided here.
Sloane rapped his knuckles upon the door in three sharp taps. A long pause.
“Who is it?” a shrill, almost squeaky timbre resonated through the wood of the finely crafted door.
“Sloane,” he responded quickly, “your new worker.”
“Ahh yes, come in, come in,” the voice now said with a new tone of welcome.
Sloane accepted the invitation and pushed the door open.

“I trust you were able to deal with those pesky beasts out there?” the Goblin asked upon Sloane's arrival.
He was seated in a long chair; his feet propped, his mouth occupied with a long pipe. Dark, murky puffs shot from his lips.
“Of course, Hazil,” Sloane replied with a grin and a bow.
“Well, good,” he said, “those creatures really put a damper on some of my trade routes. Perhaps now they will think twice about disturbing precious cargo.”
The Goblin smiled, showing off a set of golden teeth. Sloane continued to stand, a bit awkwardly. Hazil appeared to change expression.
“I suppose you are wondering where your payment is, hmm?” he almost cooed the words, it sounding strangely odd in combination with his usual harsh vocalization.
Sloane nodded slowly.
“Unfortunately, one of my shipments to Booty Bay is running a bit late,” he replied, “So I'm afraid my payment to you will be running a little late on this task.”
Sloane cursed under his breath. Perhaps working for an arrogant, wealthy Goblin wasn't a positive idea, he thought to himself with venom.

Hazil's expression morphed again, now to something Sloane did not completely recognize.
“I do have a little something special for you, however,” he continued the thought with a mischievous tone, “consider it an appology for your late payment.”
The Orc furrowed his brow.
“Explanation is not necessary,” Hazil interrupted any attempt at thought, “just go up the stairs into the second room. It's waiting there for you.”
He walked with heavy strides to the room behind the relaxing Goblin. A staircase led upward, spiraling upward into an unknown second floor. His foot set upon the first padded step as he began his climb. The stairs steadily creaked louder as he scaled the incline faster.
Gold? Some kind of treasure? What was it this Goblin had for him?

All thought was purged from his mind as he reached the remaining step. Three doors greeted him. A greedy tongue ran over dry lips as he quickly approached the middle door, grabbed at the wooden handle with a steady hand, and wrenched it open.