The Adventurers’ Guild. A common sight in most frontier towns—widely recognized by its symbol depicting a shield and a staff. It’s where the tales start, where grizzled swordmasters and green initiates gather. To rest, to mingle, to pick up information of another dragon to slay or a legendary dungeon to delve in. Or, more likely, to pick up subjugation requests for low-level monsters that have been pestering the locals. Not every town has a wyvern’s lair or a portal to Purgatory in its area, after all.

Being the last buffer of relatively dense civilization before the high-magic zone of the south begins, the town of Aerst naturally has a Guild branch. Nestled between a bakery and a carpenter’s on the main street, it’s quite hard to miss unless one is deliberately avoiding it. And as any onlooker would gather, the robed man dragging an even-more-robed young woman along isn’t. He is, by all accounts, looking for it. Paying no attention to anyone around him, until the baker’s daughter hawking the morning’s batch in a stall outside the baker’s decides this man has the look of someone with coin and hunger.

“Hey, mister! The guild’s not going anywhere, but these loaves won’t stay oven-warm forever! One for the missus, and one for you?”

The man comes to a halt and looks at the aspiring entrepreneur. She sees an expression of bafflement on the man’s face turn into one of comprehension into one of anger, as if the very concept of bread offended his sensibilities.

“How dare you! The insolence of a common harlot to—“ The man begins to yell, his right arm reaching for his side when, realizing something, he stops and tones down his volume, “You cannot even comprehend your own luck, peasant. Do not speak to me again. Good day.”

All the while the bakerling stares at the huffing man. She shrugs and the man continues for the guild, girl in tow. The berobed bloke pulls the guild’s pinewood door open and steps inside. Before she gets pulled inside, the girl looks back at the baker’s daughter, who by now is calling for her mom.

This particular morning, the guild is less populated than usual. Still, the lobby-cum-lounge has a party and a few halves loitering around the tables, nursing various stages of hangovers. The less hungover heads turn to look at the arrivals, while the more hungover heads turn to resuming their attempts of escaping this painful reality—and the painful brightness of the morn—by falling into a slumber on the spot. Largely unsuccessfully, save for one remarkably large woman audibly snoring face-down on the table by the hearth.

What’s telltale sign of it being someone’s first time in an Adventurers’ Guild branch? Is it the glint in one’s eyes as they gawk at the heroes and veterans and would-bes on display? No, of course not. That only happens with children, and it’s not what people first notice.

The most common symptom of being new to the Guild is standing there and reading. Reading what? In this case, reading the following [Message]:

Welcome to Aerst’s Adventurers’ Guild!

Alerts: none

Free Quests: Bring Ezekiel Herbs, Vanus Wants Artifacts, Maddie Needs a Magic Tutor

Ongoing Hunt: Winged Spiders, Headless

No fighting outside the training grounds.

No posting quests without authorization. (Even if it’s “very funny trust me”)

The above do not apply to situations where imminent threats to life or safety are concerned.

Please treat each other with respect.

Remember to drink water.

Free quests require no registration to complete and are available to non-Adventurers.

Hunted monsters are paid for by kill, no proof of kill needed. (Skill-based verification will be used.)

Quest and monster information: inquire at the reception

Posting a new quest: inquire at the reception

Joining the Adventurers’ Guild: middle door in the back

-Vesta, [Receptionist]

This does not go unnoticed. On one table, a less-hungover man in chainmail armor mutters to a disarrayed lump of cowl and cane, “We got readers. Or a reader. Middle-aged man, reading. Kid, can’t tell.”

“Mrrghm,” the lump answers, revealing that it was in fact one of the more-hungovers. “Don’t shout, idiot,” she whispers. “Hurts me poor head.” The cowl-lump woman shifts into a slightly more arrayed position, pulling her hood down to block more of the evil, evil light.

“Not yelling. Talking. Throw an [Identify]?”

“I don’t wanna. It’s gonna make me headache worse.”

“Should’ve drunk less. Do it. Or I’ll pop a scroll,” the man threatens. This seems so convince the woman—now more a modestly arrayed wizard than a highly disarrayed lump—as she raises her bloodshot eyes and focuses on the two still standing at the entrance.

“[Identify]. The man’s a Level 13 [Disgraced Noble], Level 4 [Outlaw]…probably ain’t a problem unless he starts to level up the B-class while he’s here, right? Reader that age, he’s gotta be a foreigner.”

“Right. And the kid?” the man asks, continuing to keep an eye on the newcomers with a hand on his scroll pouch.

The woman doesn’t like this. “Why ye gotta be like this to me… The girl’s…[Identify]…oh, piss.”

“What?”

“We’re havin’ a situation. She’s…”

⁂

Having finished reading, the robed man steps forwards, closer to the counter. No [Receptionist] or anyone else for that matter is standing behind it. The girl’s gaze remains fixed on the floor, while the man takes in his surroundings. Wondering if he should lower himself to addressing one of these odorous ruffians. But before he can come to a conclusion, a relative inodorous man in chainmail rises up from his seat and briskly walks towards the pair.

“You look new. Want the [Receptionist]?” he asks. Not waiting for the robed man’s reply, he continues, “Ring the bell. In the locker by the counter. She’ll pop right up.”

“I—humph. Thank you.”

Slightly flabbergasted and slightly glad about the relative scentlessness of this apparent [Knight] of some description, the robed man manages to eke out through his outrage a few words of thanks in a tone nearly absent of venom.

“No worries. I’m Sammy. You?”

Sammy extends a leather gloved not-very-smelly and not-very-hungover hand forwards. The robed man looks at it, then at Sammy, and then back at the ratty leather glove. Whether it’s because he finds Sammy to be beneath him or that keeping his own gloves pristine is more important than manners, he does not offer a handshake. Nor a name.

“I have to say. Not going to make friends with that attitude,” says the armored man.

“Thank you, again. I will take your advice into consideration.” His tone makes it clear that the advice has been summarily dismissed.

Unperturbed the man’s attitude, Sammy grins and asks him, “This your kid?”

The contempt on the man’s face gains an edge, but he replies, “…Yes, it—yes, she is mine.”

“Girl, huh. Why’s she hiding? Under the robes, I mean. You got a name?”

The question doesn’t elicit a word from the girl, but it does make her shrink a bit more into herself. Meanwhile, the robed man opens the locker Sammy indicated.

“…Excuse me, but I am…we are in a hurry. Do I pull this strap or have you a hammer?”

“Huh? Oh. Pull the strap. Rings the bell.”

“And if you must know, it is because I found the roads too unsafe to travel undisguised. Now, leave me to my business,” the man harrumphs and tugs on the strap. Ting-a-ding, the bell resounds throughout the Guild’s interior. The adventurers perk up at the sound; even the mostly comatose ones who had a sipful too much last night rouse and take a look at what’s going on. Sammy lazily raises an arm, and with a dismissive wave the adventurers mostly go back to their own business. However, at least one person in each table seems to have an eye on what’s going on in the counter.

The first door on the right, the closest one to the counter, bursts open. In rushes a tall, slender elven woman hastily buttoning up a light blue vest.

“What’s on fire now!?” she yells, eyes towards the bellringer, finishing with the last button. Said bellringer opens his mouth to speak:

“I presume you are the—” “Hey Vesta. Help these two out?” Sammy cuts off the man, pointing his left thumb over his shoulder at the girl. “New to this neck of the woods,” he finishes. As he talks, his right hand settles under his chin in an almost thinking gesture.

Vesta, the guild’s [Receptionist], narrows her eyes at Sammy. She brushes a tuft of her golden hair behind her pointed left ear.

“I’ll do that. Why don’t you go ensure that your lightweight friend doesn’t puke on my floors again? You’re going to have to pay for a new parquet if the smell sticks,” she tells Sammy, who then looks back at his table. There, the wizard-woman (now upright in her chair, a lump no longer) is looking rather green in the face.

“Aw—Claine!“ he yells, dashing towards her.

Vesta walks behind the counter and starts doing her job.

“Welcome to the Adventurers’ Guild. Are you seeking information, or would you like to post a quest? Perhaps the little miss wants to join? Or is there another way I could help you?” she speaks with a smile, as she produces an ink bottle and quill alongside a logbook from a drawer with practiced motions, not breaking eye contact.

There’s an uncomfortable silence as the robed man stares at the [Receptionist]’s ears. Then, as if returning to this reality from an astral trip to the Plane Beyond, he answers.

“Yes, um…I, that is, we would like to hire some guards for a trip towards Ravensburn. Not all the way to the city, but some…twenty miles southward.”

“A quest, then. Guard duty is quite a popular job, so I’m sure we won’t have any trouble filling it. Would you be willing to answer some questions so that we can find suitable adventurers for the task?” Vesta asks wearing that common expression on her face—what many Adventurers’ Guild regulars swear has to be a [Dazzling Smile], though she has never admitted to having such a Skill. Meanwhile, the robed man’s expression is more of a [Dissatisfied Frown].

“Fine. But I take my privacy very seriously.”

“That’s quite alright! First, will you be providing means of transportation and travel supplies, or should the guards…”

⁂

As Vesta questions the disgruntled traveler, still tightly gripping onto the girl’s wrist, on the other side of the long room a small commotion starts to take place.

“Don’t! Claine! Breathe in deep!” yells the chainmailed man Sammy to Claine, the former lump. Staring unfocused into the distance, she says, “Don’t yell, gonna vomit.”

Sammy looks exasperated. “Oh for—bathroom. Can you get there?”

“Can’t move, gonna vomit.”

Sorry, now Sammy looks exasperated. Earlier, he was merely flummoxed. He looks around, spots the rotund woman by the hearth, and stomps next to her. She’s no longer snoring face down on the table. Now she’s merely slumped over, head sideways with a cheek against the hard surface, lazily staring at the situation unfolding at the reception desk.

With some urgency in his voice, “The bucket. Where is it? You used it last night.”

“Bucket’s gone, friend. It ain’t no more.”

Sammy looks exasperated. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. The slumped-over woman looks up at him and continues.

“You heard me. It’s gone. No more bucket,” the woman unslumps, moving into a posture some would describe as golemlike. “I sold it for real good money.”

This seems to baffle Sammy. “You sold it. The bucket. That you vomited in.” He obviously doesn’t like that she sold the bucket.

The large woman grins. “Technically, I sold the vomit. The bucket was just a necessary part of the deal. I’m gonna pay Vesta back for it later.”

“You sold the vomit. Sid. You sold vomit.” Sammy looks shaken. He would’ve obviously preferred that she had sold the bucket.

The large woman, Sid, looks satisfied with her business decisions. “There’s some real nasty freaks out there in the world, friend. Real nasty freaks. They pay the best money.”

As if some innocent part of him had died, Sammy stands there wordlessly, while Sid guffaws. He looks at his gloved hands like the world had failed him. He turns around, about to hopelessly shamble back towards Claine.

But then he notices that her situation’s grown worse. Her body’s tense and her chest is heaving, lips pursed tight. This is a woman about to regret her past decisions.

Sammy breaks into a sudden dash towards her. “Don’t you dare! [Armored and Ready]!” Mid-step, there’s a flash as his capstone Skill activates and a full set of plate armor appears on him. Gauntlets, greaves, cuirass, pauldrons, and most importantly, helmet. Sammy pulls it off of his head at a record speed, flips it upside down, and stops on a dime next to Claine, helmet offered as a sacrifice. He sighs.

“Use this.”

Everyone but the most mischievous individuals present looks away and pretends the sunshine and rainbows isn’t happening. With the hurghing and blerghing going on, it’s a difficult feat to achieve. But soon the last ray slinks into the helmet and Claine starts looking a little more alive.

“Never gonna drink again. Sammy, can ye do somethin’ for me?” she asks.

“You always say that. Do what?” he asks, trying his best to keep the helmet’s eyeholes plugged. The padding is going to need changing.

With grave sincerity in her voice, Claine pleads him, “Promise me ye won’t sell that.”

He does not dignify her with an answer. “…Let’s go outside. Helmet won’t fit more. Someone carry her? Hands full.”

Along with three other adventurers, the large woman stands up. “I reckon I can carry someone her size by myself,” Sid says, “so why don’t the rest of you stay here.”

But the three don’t want to miss the fun. And so, the man in full plate carrying a helmetful of vomit leads a large rowdy woman carrying a wizard and three onlookers to the door. They exit the building as Vesta questions the robed man about what kind of threats the guards need to be able to handle.

Outside, the crew of six walk past the Guild’s windows. One frowning, four laughing, and one groaning without dignity.

As soon as they get to the alleyway between the carpenter’s shop and the Guild, the mood changes.

Sammiel dumps the vomit to the ground and straps the helmet to his side. Sid lets Claine down. She brisks up, digs out a potion from her cowl’s numerous pockets, and drains it. One of the three others—a roguish man with soft features and long, dark blue hair nonchalantly stands by the corner, leaning against the carpenter’s wall and looking at the Guild’s door.

“What’s the situation?” Sid asks, looking at Claine. She shakes her head, taking deep breaths, and motions at Sammy.

“Girl’s a [Slave]. Man’s an [Outlaw], Level 4. And [Disgraced Noble], Level 13. [Detect Magic] pinged. On her neck and his hand,” he explains.

“Suppose it’s an Amulet of Protection?” proposes the man by the corner with a wry smile.

“Very funny, friend. Very funny,” Sid replies, unamused.

“Claine, can you talk? What’s your opinion?” the most armored person in the alley asks his wizard-friend.

“Aye…Just, ye know…hangover potions,” she gets out between heavy breaths and gritted teeth. After a few more breaths, she seems to have recovered enough to keep going. “Sorry, those things ain’t fun. Anyway, first priority is keeping the girl safe, or else…” she leaves the conclusion unsaid, but it’s enough to get shudders going through everyone present. She continues explaining, “Second priority, disablin’ the man without killin’ him.”

“I sssay we kill him,” a yellow-eyed woman with slitted pupils who joined as an onlooker chimes in. “It would be a ssservice to the world.” Her expression betrays none of her emotions.

“Don’t be stupid, Ankie,” exclaims Sid, “There might be more [Slaves] wherever he came from, or at his destination.” Her expression betrays that she too would prefer the man dead, but knows it’s not the best choice of action.

“Sssid is wise beyond her yearsss,” the expressionless woman nods, but adds, “yet I have told you again and again, my name isss not Ankie.”

“Sure, Ankie.”

“That isss not what—!” the brewing squabble gets cut short by Claine loudly clapping her hands together. “Ye two can hash it out later! Assume the worst; collar with a paired ring on a mental trigger and a dead man’s switch. Ideas?”

The roguish man has a roguish idea, “Knock him out with an old-fashion sleeping agent.”

“Ain’t good enough. Could have a resistance to poison from his noble class, and how are ye gonna boozle him to eat anythin’ ye offer?” the wizard shoots down the idea.

Sammy’s ready to act. “We go in. I cut his hand off. You [Spellshield] the girl.”

But he gets shot down too. “Ain’t gonna work. He’s holdin’ onto her with his left hand. That’s the one that had the magic.”

The last onlooker, a short green woman with white hair, raises a hand timidly. “Um…I don’t…really know anything…about slave collars. What is the issue…? Could anyone explain?”

“The issue, friend, is that when the [Slaver] activates the collar, it’ll discharge a second-tier [Slash] straight into the lass’s neck,” Sid explains in a frustrated tone. “We’re assuming he can do it at will and that it happens automatically when he dies. Or in this case, when the ring or bracelet or whatnot goes from being on a live-and-attached hand into a dead-and-detached one.”

“Oh,” goes the green woman.

“Oh indeed, friend. Oh indeed.”

There’s a moment of silence, and the short green woman—not a goblin, mind you—speaks up again. “And…I take it…[Spellshield] would prevent it?” she asks, looking at Claine thoughtfully.

“Aye. The command’s too fast to [Counterspell], but a [Spellshield] or better’s gonna block it. The issue’s that as long as he’s touchin’ her, I’m gonna shield both. Then it’s not gonna block jack,” the wizard answers, harrumphs, and leans against the wall.

“Oh,” goes the green woman again.

“Oh indeed, friend,” says Sid, who’s always taken a strange delight in repeating things.

“No, I mean oh, as in…oh, we just have to…get him to let go of her,” the not-goblin clarifies her oh.

“Aye.”

“Isn’t that…really simple? For example…we could…”