the smuggler’s bible


Nogin crouches beside some rough-hewn wooden crates while the goblin walks past on patrol, making some really gross, wet oinking sounds as it goes. It pauses and Nogin notices a couple gold coins half-buried in the muck. He reaches out and accidentally selects the goblin’s battered leather boot. The small stealth icon beside his health bar flickers and disappears.

“Oh, shit.”

The goblin takes a deep breath, but Nogin is already three layers deep in his magic menu selecting fireball.

“Hope you’re happy,” he says, watching his mana bar drain against the warm orange glow of the tunnel. “Run’s dead.”