He did not know what to do with her tears. So he stood there, helmet tilted, and said the only comfort he knew:
Lizard Priest, a hulking saurian with a gentle voice, told her once: “He is not a man who fights goblins. He is a weapon pointed at goblins. Weapons do not ask why. They only aim.”
Once, she saw him stop. Just for a moment. A goblin had grabbed a captive village girl as a hostage. The creature pressed a rusty knife to her throat, chittering in its crude tongue. Priestess raised her hands to cast Protection . Goblin Slayer 01-12
He was repairing a gauntlet. His fingers moved with the precise boredom of a craftsman. “Easier to clean blood off dirt than off floorboards.”
She wanted to say something brave. Instead, she started crying. Not from fear. From a sudden, terrible understanding: he had never expected anyone to protect him. He had fought alone for so long that the idea of a hand reaching for him, not past him, was foreign as a song in a dead language. He did not know what to do with her tears
There was work to do.
Priestess collapsed against a pillar, her heart a wild drum. Goblin Slayer stood over the champion’s corpse, breathing hard. He looked at his own hands—red to the wrists—then at her. Weapons do not ask why
Priestess did not understand what they meant until the battle at the water town. The goblins had taken a temple. Not a cave—a temple, with walls and a moat and a mirrored chamber that reflected moonlight into a killing floor. A champion led them, huge and cunning, wearing the looted armor of a fallen knight. The party fought for hours. High Elf Archer’s arrows ran low. Dwarf Shaman’s spells frayed. Lizard Priest’s fangs cracked a goblin’s skull but could not reach the champion.
He caught her staring. He did not look away.