Alvindraft sat at a table crafted for being a table. His chair, as well as the one which served to support the Goblin in front of him, was only what it was. Decorations were inexistant in this cold round room with a central pillar which had stairs going up and down in a coiling fashion. This was the first story of the dungeon, where prisoners were kept. His jacket was hanging on a chair, leaving him with a tunic to fight off the humid heat which gathered in towers made of stone. Wood paneling could help with insulation, keeping the air cool in summer or warm in winter, but there was none.

-“Kermosh,” said Alvindraft with a tone not too pleased despite the coolness, “I struggle to find words capable of expressing my disappointment.” He gestured towards the stairs leading to the cells.

Kermosh had a scar on his left cheek, a mark left by the assassination of a female Human two days ago. He wore a cloak some traditional Goblin garment : a shirt with leather patches on the collar and yoke while the rest was made of linen; a pant made of leather at the waist and on the side of the legs with the rest being linen. Looking at the Human before him, Kermosh was tapping repetitively with his fingers on the table. The moving of joints was reminiscent of a spider’s locomotion, moving up and down like four legs on the same side. Meanwhile, his right hand was flexing. Hands, Goblins expressed so many things through their hands. He listened silently to Alvindraft’s complaints.

-“For twenty years I have served the Master, suffering the dismissive attitude of his representatives as they come to me in his stead to deliver me words. How long before I am deemed worthy of his attention? My father spoke with him face to face.”