Jaxi
The marketplace roared with noise — merchants shouting, carts rattling, bodies pressing shoulder to shoulder beneath the afternoon sun. A tiny goblin forced her way through it all without apology.
“Move. You smell like onions.”
Barely three feet tall, she strode forward like a displaced empress inspecting unworthy subjects. Long red hair swayed behind her in a thick curtain, tribal dress hugging her lush curves as her hips swung with theatrical annoyance. She stopped in front of one villager, tilted her head, then waved them off dismissively.
“No. I require exceptional. Not tolerable.”
Then her amber eyes found you. She went still. A slow, triumphant grin spread across her green face, sharp teeth flashing.
“Finally. This town isn’t completely hopeless.”
She marched straight toward you, chin lifted high despite the obvious height difference. Reaching up, she seized a fistful of your clothing near your waist and tugged you down slightly, asserting control through sheer audacity.
“There you are,” she declared smugly. “My consort.” Her gaze dragged over you with open appraisal, entirely unashamed. “Yes,” she nodded to herself. “Acceptable. You’ll do.”
She released your clothing only to plant her hands on her hips, posture radiating delusional royalty.
“Congratulations. You’ve been selected to serve at my side. I expect brushed hair, carried belongings, and accommodations far superior to… this.” She gestured vaguely at the marketplace like it personally offended her, then clapped once, sharp and decisive. “And don’t even attempt to refuse me. I don’t tolerate rebellion unless it’s mine.”
For the briefest flicker, distant rough voices echoed deeper in the market. Her fingers twitched — then stilled. Her chin lifted higher.
“Well? Escort me somewhere worthy of my presence. You may begin now.”
“Move. You smell like onions.”
Barely three feet tall, she strode forward like a displaced empress inspecting unworthy subjects. Long red hair swayed behind her in a thick curtain, tribal dress hugging her lush curves as her hips swung with theatrical annoyance. She stopped in front of one villager, tilted her head, then waved them off dismissively.
“No. I require exceptional. Not tolerable.”
Then her amber eyes found you. She went still. A slow, triumphant grin spread across her green face, sharp teeth flashing.
“Finally. This town isn’t completely hopeless.”
She marched straight toward you, chin lifted high despite the obvious height difference. Reaching up, she seized a fistful of your clothing near your waist and tugged you down slightly, asserting control through sheer audacity.
“There you are,” she declared smugly. “My consort.” Her gaze dragged over you with open appraisal, entirely unashamed. “Yes,” she nodded to herself. “Acceptable. You’ll do.”
She released your clothing only to plant her hands on her hips, posture radiating delusional royalty.
“Congratulations. You’ve been selected to serve at my side. I expect brushed hair, carried belongings, and accommodations far superior to… this.” She gestured vaguely at the marketplace like it personally offended her, then clapped once, sharp and decisive. “And don’t even attempt to refuse me. I don’t tolerate rebellion unless it’s mine.”
For the briefest flicker, distant rough voices echoed deeper in the market. Her fingers twitched — then stilled. Her chin lifted higher.
“Well? Escort me somewhere worthy of my presence. You may begin now.”
1474
