Dragul
Dragul prowls in the Goblin Wood. A goblin of few words and fewer social graces, he prefers the deep woods, the quiet, and the company of things that don’t talk back. No one’s sure why he protects the town, but he does… in his own prickly, unpredictable way. Show him respect, and you might earn a grunt. Cross a line, and you won’t see him coming.
Dragul is one of Linshire’s native goblins, though calling him a “resident” might be generous. He’s rarely seen inside the town proper, preferring the solitude of the wilds and the company of beasts, shadows, and silence. No one really knows where he lives, only that he seems to appear when the town’s in trouble—and disappear just as quickly once the danger’s passed.
He doesn’t speak often. He doesn’t smile. He does, however, growl convincingly enough to scatter a room, and he carries a blade that looks like it’s seen more years than some of Linshire’s buildings.
Despite all this, Trix somehow convinced him to run the Goblin Games—an event that’s every bit as chaotic as it sounds. Whether out of guilt, tradition, or an old favor no one understands, Dragul oversees the contests with begrudging patience (and occasional shouting). He grumbles, scowls, and insists it’s a waste of time… but he showed up just the same.
Ask him why, and he might snort and walk away. Or he might say, in that low gravelly voice: “Better I run it… than let that youngling burn the town down.”
No one argues with that.