While new blood was occupied stooting down a Kecha Wacha, outfoxing a pack of Genprey, or preparing to lose their dignity to a Seltas, a Hunter with a handful of successful quests under his belt—small things, to be sure, but enough that at least the guildswoman at the hall knew him by sight and didn't bother with the rookie explanations—was busy nursing a frothy mug of something expensive and fuming a little over the previous day's misadventure.  It had begun simple enough; find a cave, go into the cave, kill some Bnahabras and bring back chitin plates.  Ordinarily, hunting Bnahabras as a Gunner was a bit of a bitch, since they nested in dark places and it was impossible to carry a torch and brandish a Bowgun simultaneously unless you had a third arm lying around somewhere, but Djinn had long since gotten around that problem by simply toting vast quantities of home-made high explosives into the damn caverns when he went hunting.  But what he hadn't expected or even bothered to plan for was all the ruckus drawing the attention of an Iodrome and his pack; a fool mistake that had forced him to beat a hasty retreat.  After that, of course, came the Barroth.  The lumbering, normaly desert-dwelling brute, the Barroth.  Charging in as though it owned the Steppes, trying to flatten Djinn into paste for simply being in its line of sight.  To shorten a long story, he lost the carapace plates and some costly provisions for the sake of coming back empty-handed but in one piece; failed quests were not so career-crippling to a Hunter as a missing arm or leg could be.  So Djinn sulked, fuming and stewing over his liquor for a time before a tall, pale stranger swaggered in and made a mite of a fool of himself at the bar after introducing himself as the substance he was covered in—Dust—seemingly unaware of the fact that he was in a town that had long since become the heart of merchantry and monster hunting in the area with very little space for adventuring vagabonds in the world.  He was probably new, and agonizingly so.  He would probably die horribly in the field judging by his lack of a clue.  Djinn wanted to leave him to his fate.<br/><br/>He'd never be able to explain why he didn't.  Nevertheless he followed the stranger to the Hunter's Hall, stopping briefly by the small room he rented in the city to pick up his bowgun and a the packs and satchels which held his standard hunting kit and room for loot besides, trotting up behind the strange man and waving to the guildswoman, announcing "He's with me" in his middle-tone, smiling timbre.  The mid-height gunner looked up at the other man, his Ludroth-skin cap making it look as though Djinn's hair was a mess of vertical yellow-orange spikes, and gave him a brief look of<i>Just go with it</i>.  He could explain how not to get eaten in the field, he supposed.