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Description
Hexil stood surveying his decimated herd. He was a scruffy-looking gremlin of average build who was never without a well-scuffed hat of virulisk hide, the wide brim of which was full of nicks. It had been garishly colored when it was new, but time, rough handling, and a lack of washing had rendered it a nearly uniform brown. His clothes, while considerably cleaner, matched his hat for disrepair; no amount of nagging from his mate could convince him to replace them until they were ready to fall off.

Hearing steps approaching behind him, the farmer turned his head to see his friend Durst walking toward the enclosure, his customary cigar hanging from his mouth. He was a short, squat gremlin in a leather apron who slept little and ate much, so it was probably a good thing he bred food creatures for a living. Durst plunked down on the edge of the wall and took the cigar from his mouth, gripping the well-chewed end between his second and third fingers. "Pen's looking a bit thin, there," he commented, his voice hoarse from years of smoking. Hexil scowled.

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Entry for Njthug's contest in the "What Do Monster Do All Day?" category. Dudes have to make a living somehow; not EVERY gremlin is in the military.

Description
Hexil stood surveying his decimated herd. He was a scruffy-looking gremlin of average build who was never without a well-scuffed hat of virulisk hide, the wide brim of which was full of nicks. It had been garishly colored when it was new, but time, rough handling, and a lack of washing had rendered it a nearly uniform brown. His clothes, while considerably cleaner, matched his hat for disrepair; no amount of nagging from his mate could convince him to replace them until they were ready to fall off.

Hearing steps approaching behind him, the farmer turned his head to see his friend Durst walking toward the enclosure, his customary cigar hanging from his mouth. He was a short, squat gremlin in a leather apron who slept little and ate much, so it was probably a good thing he bred food creatures for a living. Durst plunked down on the edge of the wall and took the cigar from his mouth, gripping the well-chewed end between his second and third fingers. "Pen's looking a bit thin, there," he commented, his voice hoarse from years of smoking. Hexil scowled.

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Entry for Njthug's contest in the "What Do Monster Do All Day?" category. Dudes have to make a living somehow; not EVERY gremlin is in the military.