"There are nearly 1000 guilds in all of Goblinsville. Unfortunately, only about 30 are answerable to us." Mathis confessed.
"Wait, you're barely a police station, much less parliament." I laughed at his not-so-supreme commander ass.
"You've got me there, but we're all you've got," Mathis replied.
"That being said, we need to discuss important matters." An elderly goblin with a whisky white beard interjected. He wobbled as he spoke.
"Christ's sake. Day in and day out, we bicker endlessly about the fucking Imitator. Someday, when that fucker finally levels this godforsaken city, our discussion will continue into hell." Mathis suddenly raged.
"I'm not here for that today. Forgive me. I've grown too weary for it. The older one gets, you see, the more willing one is to write things off as a consequence of life, like a failed business venture, a death of a loved one, or the stupidest apocalyptic harbinger I could imagine shitting on everything I ever built or held dear." The elderly goblin responded, silencing us.
"What do you want, then? I'm all yours, Elder Garn." Mathis sighed.
"We need to give the people any kind of victory." Garn rasped.
"What did you in mind?" Sergei cautiously interrupted.
"I don't understand why you're always so against it, my dear Mathis. We hunt down the four sinners and hang them in the town square."
"Four sinners?"
"Surely, you've heard of the massacre at Welmin Kindergarten? Done by your kind, yes?" Garn gravely growled. Sergei and I exchanged surprised glances.
"We cannot hunt our own. That's final." Amere warned.
"You must think that the consequences of death are different for yours and mine, then. Well, no matter. Foreigners always believe the strangest things." Garn slowly complained.
"I know you won't believe us, but you're more right than you know." Amere sighed.