Reincarnated as a random race, of course I got goblin.

Chapter 86 - A Gathering of Champions

The city of G'cal
Valenas POV

Lychee and I are headed to the Razorback Armory, one of the best (and most affordable) smithies in G'cal to pick up our gear that's just been serviced. Just as we enter the door, a tense scene is playing out within.

"Ma'am-" "You'll address me as Sir, little one."

Anise's normally cheerful expression sours considerably as she's reprimanded by the Photian woman currently being served. 

"P-perhaps... Perhaps we should come back... come back later..." Lychee mumbles to me, seemingly quite put off by the presence of this unknown Photian. She seems to be trying to hide behind me. 

"Sir, we cannot service your weapons as they aren't properly licensed." Anise almost spits the honorific at the Photian woman.

She's most likely a high ranked Hunter, no other way she'd dare flaunt her looks otherwise. Her hair is loosely braided, making the strange color patterns adorning it all the more obvious. She's even wearing light eye-shadow to accentuate her large, hypnotic eyes. 

Photians are generally disliked, and the ones living in the nations north of the Illomen Forest do their best to either not be noticed, or keep entirely to themselves. This one is all but crying out 'look! I'm a Photian! What are you going to do about it?'

I do sense an odd connection to her though, as if she's a long time team-member. 

The Photian woman glances around the store, finally noticing us, or more importantly, noticing Lychee. Along with Lychee and I, there's a human man perusing the weapon displays, trying very hard to not make it obvious that he's listening in on the situation.

Odd, there's that same feeling.

"Are you sure it's not because of my race? Never in my life have I had so many hostile gazes directed at me since coming to this edge of nowhere town." The woman seems to be building up to something, and I don't like it. 

Of course, Anise and her adoptive father, Grisvold, are aware of Lychee's situation, can't measure armor without getting down to your undies after all. I step into the store properly, intending to wait my turn, and perhaps step in if the situation requires. 

"I assure you, Ma- Sir. We're not discriminating based on race. The fact of the matter is that your weapons have modifications that I've never seen before, and highly doubt they're legal to even carry around." Anise tries her best to retain her professionalism even as she subtly tugs at a hidden pull-cord under the counter to alert her father.

Sometimes it's best to call in reinforcements. 

I sneak a look at the weapons being discussed. They're clawed gloves of an esoteric design, most likely Photian in origin, but so severely modified to the point that there probably isn't even one original part left in the pair. Oh, they even have a closed-palm system?

There's a ruckus in the back as many metal items loudly clatter to the ground, followed by several choice Pyrean swears. Grisvold, a master smith, lumbers into the shop, having to edge through the door sideways as his height and width bars him from entering most doors any other way. 

A heavily muscled Beastfolk man with an almost titanic stature, his chest only covered by his blacksmiths apron, leaving room for the countless razor-sharp quills covering his back. Indeed, even in winter, he struts around without a shirt on for that reason. Blinded in one eye from an accident when he was younger, and covered in burns and scars, he looks more like a semi-feral bandit than a well respected member of society.

"Anise, dear, I... I tipped tha shield-stack aga'n." He mumbles to his daughter, who sighs before whispering something to him, most likely informing him of the situation. The size discrepancy between them is such that he has to kneel in order for her to reach his ear. Anise then flees into the back room to fix the mess her father made.