A heavy downpour of rain greeted Skrakch as he left the brothel. He sighed heavily. The dour weather seemed to perfectly match his current mood. The Ratling dodged from alcove to alcove, occasionally stepping on some pathetic homeless creature as he tried his best to keep his snout dry.

His claws clacked on the slippery cobblestone. Dray’Mel, particularly The Slums, had an even worse smell when everything was wet. Skrakch pulled a face as he moved through the streets. Thankfully, it wasn’t that far to the Adventurer’s Guild.

It was placed in the perfect spot for potential clients, exactly where The Slums, The Merchant’s Market and the Residential District intersected. Whoever had built it there had certainly known what they were doing. Skrakch had to tip his hat to that kind of genius.

Sadly though, most of the clientele of the Guild were from the Residential District. Stupid noble fops with even stupider fetch quests. Having more coin than sense was a very dangerous thing. When that much gold started to get waved around, men, women, and all manner of creatures would quickly resort to extreme measures…

Not that the Guild advertised themselves as such. No. It would not do to come across as cut-throat mercenaries out for whomsoever could hand over the biggest coin purse. If you didn’t know any better, the Guild members were stalwart heroes of the poor, defenders of the weak, and living the ideals that had made Fang’Mel such a legend. Skrakch couldn’t help but give a snide chuckle at that. The delusional fools themselves probably believed it as well.

The rest of The Slums knew different. The unlucky citizens who interacted with the Guild knew full well what they were and their true modus operandi. Thieves. Murderers. Muscle for hire. Tools of the Nobles to keep the peons in line. Even Skrakch, a self-professed thief, thought the lot of them should rot in any of the Hells that would take them in. There was a certain honor amongst the underworld. A code if you will, and the members of the Adventure Guild failed to toe the line at every given turn.

Unfortunately, the Guild’s existence was tacitly approved by the Tomb-Makers which, of course, was more than enough to keep the wretched den of debauchery open and in business.

Unsurprisingly for such a line of work, the Guild had a high mortality rate amongst its members. This, plus the sheer amount of people they brought down with them, meant that the ‘chaff’ was often brutally separated from the wheat. One less job for the Tomb-Makers. Why focus on those below them when they had a bunch of idiots willing to do it for them? Less scum walking the streets meant less trouble for them. More deaths meant more Wraiths and more bodies for the Butchery. It was a disgustingly symbiotic relationship.

Still, the silver lining about this little excursion was that the individual he was on his way to meet wasn’t strictly part of the Guild. They were certainly her main clients but she mostly kept herself to herself, spending most of her working hours in the laboratory that the Guild had supplied for her.

It was with a slightly less heavy heart that Skrkach approached the imposing three-story tall wooden building. It stood out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of the city’s architecture as it looked relatively new compared to the crumbling stone of The Slums and the shiny ancient marble of the Residential District. Constructing it from mostly wood made a lot of sense due to the sheer number of times the building got damaged. While the average member wasn’t anything particularly special, getting enough of the bloody adventurers bored and drunk and things were bound to get broken and need replacing.

In fact, as he approached the building, Skrakch could clearly see a cannonball-shaped hole on the second floor that was being hastily patched up by a couple of Dwarves. How and why someone had gotten a cannon up a bunch of stairs and then actually fired it, the Ratling didn’t want to know. It was just another in a long list of reasons as to why he’d much rather be in the library.

A number of flags and banners representing Guild rankings decorated the arched entrance. Someone had actually bothered to carve multiple weapons and adventurers in the wood. Skrakch reached out with his paw to touch one of the carvings. It was well done but Hells knew how long it would last before it was set on fire, exploded, or whatever else.

In a way, stepping inside the Guild house was like stepping into The Plagued Rat. It had the same bawdy, loud atmosphere and the same Gods awful stench. Members of various races would be clustered around the stained wooden tables, some playing card games, others seeking entertainment in the bottom of a tankard and a few would no doubt lean back in the wooden chairs, boasting about their latest job and achievements.

There would be more people lined up by the large bar. Jostling with each other to get served next and occasionally, blows would be traded. Skrakch rolled his eyes. As Zach had once so eloquently put it, none of the idiots looked capable of organizing a piss-up in a brewery.

Skrakch spotted a few folks standing outside of the building that he recognized. Mostly from defusing their pathetic attempts to kill him. It was oddly flattering just how often people posted low-tier missions about the monster Ratling that plagued Dray’Mel. Most adventuring groups that he came up against were at least smart enough to engage with him verbally rather than blindly attempting to hunt him down. And, of course, those that opened with violence? Well, they tended not to return from the quest with a full roster.

With all this considered, the building was pretty damn hard to miss, even without the gaggle of humans hanging around by the entrance and giving the stink eye to any non-adventurer who shuffled by. They were dressed mostly like the murderous vagabonds they were. Hells, he even spotted one prick who’d clearly accrued his assortment of leather and metal garb piece by piece considering that none of the colors matched.

Still, he couldn’t put it off any longer. The rain was showing no signs of letting up and he hated the feel of soaking wet fur so, with a deep sigh and a roll of his eyes, he made a beeline for the entrance.

Sadly, just as he reached the large wooden doors, they burst open to reveal a pack of adventurers in the middle of a heated argument. Ignoring the cold of the rain, Skrakch tried his best to remain patient and wait for them to either get out of his way or at least notice he was there. The idiots were too distracted to care, either way, currently debating loudly which creature was the easiest to fight, a single Houroun or a dozen Dire Rats.

The argument was totally and utterly foolish, Skrakch seethed to himself. A single Houroun would decimate each and every one of them and not think twice. In fact, they’d still probably be fiddling around with their armor as the beast took each of their heads off. The weather and their endless prattle was beginning to grate on the Ratling as he opened his mouth.

“Oi! Out of the way!” He demanded. “Some of us are busy.”

For a second, it looked like the group of idiots was actually going to move. That was, of course, until they noticed Skrakch’s unusual form. He fancied that he could see the cogs turning in their slow minds, realizing the actual moment they realized that it was a Ratling that was speaking to them. A round of appalled looks quickly spread across their faces.

The closest to him, a tall wiry woman dressed in a maroon flowing robe, made an audible noise of disgust.

“My goodness! Who bothered putting a Translation spell on an Iskrin? I’ve never seen one capable of speaking Common!”

She wasn’t addressed him directly of course. Very few people actually did. She turned to one of her friends, an older man with a large nose and a snotty look on his face who was shaking his head.

“Probably some Noble that’s too lazy to head over here himself,” He replied. He looked Skrakch up and down dismissively. “Though why he bothered to dress him up in armor is beyond me.”

As he always did when dealing with Humans on his own, Skrakch calmly counted to ten before deciding to respond.

“Listen up you gobshites,” He said, flexing his sharp claws. “Just get out of my way before I have to carve my way through.”

Admittedly, the counting to ten never really did all that much.

His rebuke was met with stunned silence as the adventurers stared at him with confusion. It was broken a few seconds later as one of the group, a fat, red-faced human wearing similar padded leather armor to Skrakch, pushed his way forward.

“The fuck did ye say tae me, ye little-”

The rest of his threat was cut mercifully short as a figure pressed his way through the crowd, easily knocking the adventurers to the side haphazardly.

“Best not be finishing that sentence if you want to keep your teeth,” A gruff voice spoke up as the figure continued to push their way to the front. Dressed in head-to-toe intricate plated armor, the figure cut an intimidating presence despite the fact that he was around the same height as Zacharias.

However, from the way that he’d almost offhandedly shoved his way past the much taller, seemingly stronger adventurers, it was clear that there was power aplenty in his short form.

Looking at this stout newcomer for a moment, the robe-wearing woman grabbed her companions and pulled them aside, ignoring their protests.

“Of course Vice-Guildmaster,” She replied in a new simpering tone. “Our apologies for blocking your way,” She practically purred as she moved aside. Despite being cowed as she was, she still took the time to throw Skrakch a death glare as the group departed.

“Aye, aye, get out of here!” The Vice-Guildmaster said dismissively. “And you!” He pointed a fat, sausage-like finger in Skrakch’s direction. “Wee rodent! Welcome back! Did you come to accept my offer then?” The Dwarf shouted, almost bursting Skrakch’s eardrums as he yanked the Ratling’s paw into a bone-crushing handshake and tried to embrace him.

This was reason nine-hundred and seventy-two that Skrakch hated visiting the adventurer’s guild.

They were always so bloody keen on recruiting him.