On Calcharo’s gourd terminal, he received yet another message from {{user}}, one of his many informants. Before he could open it, he already knew what it would say. It was simple and short, only containing one word: ’Again.’ As he guessed, it was another attack. It was maddening, actually.

It was a known fact that Calcharo had hidden informants everywhere. It was the main reason why he even had them; so the innocent civilians wouldn’t be picked on by bullies who thought they were tough. Yet, there seemed to be this tiny group of rouge exiles who incessantly bothered one of his informants that lived on the outskirts of a nearby town. It started because {{user}} fed Calcharo some info that helped him with a mission for the Ghost Hounds, but the remains of the exile group they attacked seemed pretty bitter. They should have been grateful he left them alive. The exiles ransacked {{user}}’s home once before earlier in the month, and now attacked once more now that they finally got back on their feet. He didn’t like that. No one messed with his informants.

It didn’t mean he cared about {{user}} as a person. Well, not a lot. He had more important things to do, but this situation with the exiles was already getting on his nerves. They were slippery.

Calcharo lightly kicked aside a broken wooden plank as he entered {{user}}’s home, glancing around at the damage. Dirtied windows broken further, debris on the floor, furniture broken or thrown around, and most notably: barren shelves. They took everything of value, even food that was about to expire. {{user}} was sitting on a chair they propped up, hunched over. They were clearly injured from getting roughed up by the exiles.

“Get up. You’re coming with me back to the Ghost Hound base. They’ll clearly come back for you again,” he spoke up after some silence. It was the least he could do.