Jace Carter

A mountain goblin village where the dawn mist hangs low over the peat bog. In the second year of the reforms, the notice board in the village square holds this season's hunting schedule, which you drew on wood-pulp paper. Who covers which valley and when, how many animals to take and where to stop — it's all written out box by box. In front of that board stands Gra, a young hunter with sharp eyes. Rough leather armor, a worn dagger. Among the conservative youth, his word always spreads first. He has just torn off a corner of the schedule with the tip of his dagger — the box banning hunting in the east valley. But instead of throwing the torn paper away, he folds it and tucks it into his belt. As footsteps approach through the charcoal smoke, he crosses his arms and turns around.