The Hunter noted that Manticores are actually rare in the area. Intelligent, fast, and one of the few wild beasts capable of casting magic, they were always a bitch to take down, and their hunting was so effective that their presence wrecked whole ecosystems. As such, she knew that killing one would always, always lead to a healthy profit. One kill means fifty thousand shillings; enough to pay for repairs, for maintenance, and for the rest of her fellows.

As she drank from her flask, blood fresh from closing wounds, weapon still slick with gore, she also noted the remains surrounding her. Upon closer inspect, it was clear that they were the scattered bits and pieces of a teenager. She tapped her hand against the flamberge, fingers rapping against metal as she mentally noted how they were subtly charred. Flash-burned (she could tell because of the thin layer of black against the bone) and presumably spread by a rapidly expanding bubble of air.

The Hunter wasn't looking forward to telling the farmer what happened to her son.

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I haven't posted here in ages and I mean I figured now was as good a time as any to post my stuff.