Marcc hated when his work took him to the less desirable parts of town.
"Town" was perhaps a misnomer. New Mureybat was an enormous city with a population of about eighty-five million humans, metahumans and monsters possessing some amount of humanlike intelligence living somewhere in its many districts. The two-hundred story skyscrapers stood out from the center like the stem of a mushroom. The downslope of this area towards the edge of the city, where moss might grow on a tree's trunk, represented the less privileged areas between the opulent city and the untamed wilds of the forests to the west.
It wasn't necessarily that Marcc thought he would be accosted or mugged or any other horrible fate. Some undesirables liked messing with elves because 'they got enough time.' Some didn't for fear that they could swing their wealth like an enormous sledge and squish them like vermin.
As a half-elf... Marcc wasn't quite so lucky in either variety. Anyone who knew the first thing about elves would know he was a hybrid just by eye. The real giveaway was his more humanlike fashion, with his tailored suit, waistcoat and watch chain. A full elf still attached to the old ways would never so much as touch any artificial textiles with a gnarled stick for having too much respect for the stick.
But what could he say? He looked good, and he loved the shiny look and feel of polyester. Maybe it was his human side coming forward.
Marcc walked evenly, but swiftly, through the blocks and blocks of old brick buildings, disused mills, and many neon signs advertising sin. Some promised nude women and metawomen of any shape requested, and the peep show had hundreds of potential pairings... some that sounded impossible or maybe illegal.
He walked past them all, trying not to look at them, nor to turn his nose up at them. He really should learn to drive so he could avoid these places, or at least be safe within the metal confines of an automobile. But that was just one more thing that could be taken from him if he was caught unaware. And one more human habit the elders could use as an excuse to sneer, participating in the creation of air pollution.
On the side of the street that Marcc was on, there was a nightclub with a long line to enter, a startling variety of metahumanity standing in a row like ducklings, waiting on the caprice of the cyclops bouncers. Good planning kept a pair of them facing opposite directions to stop anyone from sneaking in behind them, backs pointing to each other like they were dueling roommates in a sitcom.
Whatever was happening, the sidewalk would not be passable anytime soon, and the cyclops gentleman may have been staring at him from behind his weird one-eye sunglasses. (Sunglass?) Marcc crossed the street at the nearby intersection, squeezing between two parked cars to get through to the opposite sidewalk. He hadn't been at this part of the city before... but it was all about the same low level of danger. Nobody really ever got hurt out here. That's what the forest and all the untamed wilderness is for, for those adventurers to go out and level up. He just had to get back to the subway line, whatever way through the grid of similar blocks and roads took him to get there.
Then, his sharp ears heard something. Music. It sounded like a flute, but a little lower pitched. He'd never heard something quite like it. Among the bustle, traffic, and noises of general sin, Marcc craned his head about, trying to find the origin of this tune.
After traveling for a few blocks, in a quieter, darker part of the city, there was a folding table with a small goblin woman sitting on a rock behind it. The woman played a melancholy melody on her curved flute with her eyes closed, gently rocking her head with the imagined beat. Behind her was a coat rack with some rather rudimentary tools made of rocks and sticks, with a few metal weapons probably stolen from fallen adventurers. What sort of poor weapon couldn't protect a human from a goblin, Marc wondered. Maybe someone stole it from a camp as everyone slept.
The table was covered with some other gadgets and 'inventions' of unknown purpose. They could be weapons, or they could be more musical instruments. In the center of the table, there were some plastic handheld devices that looked sort of like torches... or rather, what the less posh residents called "flashlights."
Despite the fascinating selection of junk on display, Marcc found himself listening to the goblin woman's music. He had never known a goblin to be skilled in any musical instrument... except the drums, of course. He was much more used to the goblin merchant yelling to get their attention about bargains, bargains, and yet more bargains. He just stood there, forgetting what a bad part of town this was, listening to her play.
The goblin woman opened one yellowed eye as she realized she was being watched. She set her flute down on the table and engaged him. She wore an embroidered tunic that looked like it was made of straw, with strings of very large beads around her neck and knotted into her hair. Her ears were pierced, but there were no rings or other jewelry present. There were just unoccupied holes in her earlobes.
"Hello, elfy man!" She smiled at him. Her teeth were... better than most goblins she'd met, but not good enough to be fake.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." Marcc said. "Your music was very lovely."
"Thank you, handsome elf man." She bowed a bit from her seat. "I wanted to make money as a musician, but most orchestras and bands don't have a place for the goblin flute. The only thing they want are drums."
Marcc had seen goblin drum performances on talent programs before. They didn't look choreographed. The smallest of the goblins either crawled on top of the drum or was swung by the ankle to act as a heavier mallet to make the performance louder. It looked fun, at least.
He looked to the table. He still could not ascertain what these knick-knacks were for. "What are you selling here, Miss...?" Marcc asked.
"You can call me Gobriella." She said. "And nothing I'm selling would likely impress the well-dressed elf man, I'm sure. Can't compete with elven weaves and dwarven steel. But we got rocks!" She picked up a sliver of tanned leather with long straps. "We got slings! Find a nice smooth rock, and you can send that thing quite a distance. Hit them right in the side of the head, and they won't get up!"
Marcc picked up the device from the larger leather piece where the projectile would be placed. "As an agent of the peace, I'm not really allowed to use weapons. But this seems like good construction."
"Oh yeah!" Gobriella smiled. "Goblin berserkers use them as jock straps. They whip them off and sling rocks with them!"
Marcc dropped the device back to the table. Every race that wore underwear had probably tried using it as a slingshot. Maybe that's why centaurs loved their bows so much. He discreetly rubbed the fingers that touched the device on his pocket square as he looked at her other wares.
"What's in those bags?" Marcc pointed to a series of cinched burlap bags.
"Genuine lizard jerky!" Gobriella said. "Great to chew if you're trying to quit smoking!"
