Striker was a simple sandwing. You put gold in front of him, and he would do what you asked. Currently, that meant making sure another dragon did not wake up the next morning. He didn’t particularly care what that specific had to die. Wasn’t his business. His business was making them die.
His target was on the other side of Scorpion Den, of which Striker moved his way across. Various merchants and condragons shouted out wares, of water and brightsting cactus. Grilled meat and pretty baubles, held in tents and stalls that looked to be more at place in a junkyard than standing up.
The sheer horde of dragons, mostly other sandwings, but tribes such as sky and ice and rarely night were visible as well, made for thunderous din, a true racket of sound. And the dust they kicked up. Little dragonets, particularly the street gremlins would use the dust clouds as cloaks of stealth, snatching a purse or satchel under its guise.
Striker sidestepped around a minor brawl, happening right outside a tavern called The Rusty Bucket, many of its patrons drunken buzzards of individuals. A sandwing and seawing were grappling, claws scrambling. Wasn’t Striker’s business, so he carried on.
One of the aforementioned street gremlins tried to nab one of his coin pouches, but a quick grab to the wrist, and the barbed tail pressing against the neck of the true assailant stopped them both. They warily backed away, their plan failed.
Striker chuckled to himself as he moved. Their attempt was a good one, just futile. He pulled out a simple gold coin, no engravings on either of its faces. Just sheer pretty gleam of the lustrous metal. He flipped it around his claws in circular motions while he walked, as something to do.
Sometimes another dragon made to snatch the coin, but Striker always danced it just out of reach, the coin flowing almost like water across his claws. Flipping it one final time, he put it back into its pouch as he arrived where he needed to be, according to his contacts. Fisher, while a shady sea/sky, was reliable.
He walked into the bar, merely called Tooth and Claw. It was hub of the underfilth of dragon society, a place of wretchedy and dragon depravity. Patrons bustled about, yelling insults to others, and harassing the staff who took it stone faced, only the most hardy of individuals lasting any length of time in such an environment.
So Striker was right at home. He passed by as someone got shanked in broad torchlight, no one moving to help. Striker simply made to avoid stepping in the dripping crimson fluid of life. As he walked, he pulled out a clawdrawn folded sketch of the target, the charcoal having rubbed against the yellowing parchment.
Well, wouldn’t you know it? She was right in front of him. He didn’t mind she was a she. He wasn’t one to discriminate. If someone wanted someone else dead, Striker didn’t care if it was the queen herself, that dragon would die, or he would die trying.
She noticed him, a shy little mudwing. She seemed far away from her siblings. Well, it was no matter. Striker gave her neck a crimson smile using a tiny knife he had concealed in his palm. Her body joined the slumped ones on the floor.
While Striker was here, he decided to buy himself a drink to reward a job well done. A glass of a filthy brown liquid was swiftly slid over to him across the aged, scratched, dented, and somehow holding together wooden bar, and he enjoyed himself the rest of the night.
When Striker left the Scorpion’s Den, he whistled a merry little tune. Well, a job was done, time to collect his reward. As he casually flipped his coin, its gleam was the last thing a wannabe bounty hunter saw. Really sad how they send children to fight nowadays.
Striker vanished into the desert sands, the Den out of sight.