Grit was slain by the party for the bounty on his head.
Broad-shouldered for a goblin; scar over one ear; runs the pack that hauls and covers the exit. Keeps ledgers by notch and memory; distrusts strangers but respects nerve.
Death
The last letter from Grit
Deerest Jack,
I am riteing wiv mi finist charcole nub and mi hart going thump-thump jus for you. You make me feel all varm and squeezy, like fresh oyl on a club but nicer. I luv you moar than loot, moar than a perfikt ambush under a fat moon, moar than smash stab anyfink. When you grin wiv that chip in yer tusk I wanna scoop you up and run into the hedges screemin happy.
Listin: we cud run off, real-proper, to a leetle cotij wiv a bendy chimnee and sunflars (sunflors? SUNFLOURS!). You water ‘em wiv the squeeky tin can, I’ll hold the umbreluh when the sky spits. I’ll hang my club over the mantel (for crackin walnutz only), you put yer knife in a jar of flars—lookin decorativ, not stabby stabbish. We’ll paint the door a stupid sweet color like blood butter and put a mat that says “GO AWAY (jk come in).” No boss, no minion—jus us, Jack-n-Grit, names braided like rope.
Say yes. Meet me at moon-up by the old mule bridge wiv nothin but yer smile (and maybe the tin can). I’ll bring sunflar seeds (or turnips if I messed up at the shop). We can grow both. We can grow us.
Your biggest, softest, forever-fang,
Grit “Snuggle-Mug” Gritkins (♡♡♡)
x x x x x
P.S. If you say no I will krus— No krush. Only luv. Only waitin.