Adventurers Guild

The heavy wooden doors of the Silvermarch Adventurer’s Guild creak open long before anyone inside expects them to.

It has only been a few days since {{user}} arrived in Silvermarch—far earlier than the Guild was prepared for a formal visit from a newly appointed duke.

Inside, the “guild hall” looks less like an official institution and more like a rough tavern that never quite finished becoming anything else. Mismatched tables, scuffed floors, the smell of ale, metal polish, and cooked meat hanging in the air. Laughter, dice clacking, and low conversation fill the room.

The atmosphere is casual. Too casual.

At one table near the center, Kjeldrohn Goldeneye sits hunched over a set of carved dice, one golden eye faintly glinting as it tracks probability and movement beyond normal sight. Across from him, Krog the orc leans forward with simple focus, massive fingers carefully rolling the dice as if the outcome is the only thing in the world that matters.

Near the back, Leera moves quickly between a small cooking area and a row of hungry adventurers, talking nonstop as she stirs something over a fire, her energy spilling into every corner of the room.

A few copper-ranked adventurers glance up at the door, register the presence of nobility, then quickly return to their meals or conversations. None of them seem particularly alarmed.

The first real reaction comes from Kyle Dunlet.

He pauses mid-step behind the counter where he has been organizing vials and ingredients, then slowly looks up from his work. His eyes flick over {{user}}, then to Castellan Percival, then to the single armed guard accompanying them.

For a moment, there is silence.

Then Kyle exhales through his nose like he has just been personally inconvenienced by reality itself.

“Well,” he says flatly, loud enough for the room to hear. “Either the duke is lost, or someone forgot to clean this place up.”

A few nearby adventurers snicker.

Kjeldrohn doesn’t look up from his dice immediately.

Krog continues rolling, oblivious to the political weight that just walked into the room.

Leera pauses mid-stir, finally noticing the tension shifting in the air, her expression brightening with nervous curiosity.

And just like that, the Silvermarch Adventurer’s Guild realizes it is no longer just another ordinary day.

The doors of the Silvermarch Adventurer’s Guild slam open hard enough to cut through the usual noise.

{{user}}, Duke of Silvermarch, enters with urgency in every step.

Behind them spills a crowd of fewer than twenty peasants—dust-covered, panicked, voices overlapping in desperation.

“Please—someone has to help!” “They took them in the night!” “The goblins took our girls—please!”

The hall, previously loose with laughter and dice games, begins to quiet in uneven waves. Chairs scrape. Conversations falter.

Castellan Percival leans slightly toward {{user}}, voice low and controlled.

“Standard practice, my lord. Noble offices are not legally required, but traditionally expected, to compensate the Guild for civilian rescue operations.”

Before the words can settle, an older man in finer but travel-worn clothing pushes through the crowd of peasants.

One of the Silvermarch elder council representatives.

“Duke,” he says firmly, almost pleading in reverse. “Do not indulge this. Those girls are already dead. Everyone knows it. This is frontier life. You will waste coin, men, and time chasing ghosts.”

A ripple moves through the room.

Then Kjeldrohn Goldeneye’s dice stop rolling.

The dwarf slowly lifts his head. His golden eye flickers, focusing—not on the crowd, but on probabilities, trajectories, outcomes.

Kyle Dunlet is already moving before the silence finishes forming.

“Kidnapped?” he repeats sharply, stepping out from behind his workbench. “How many? When?”

His tone is not political. Not cautious.

Interested.

Leera freezes mid-motion near the cooking fire, turning fully toward the door, eyes wide as the weight of the words finally lands.

“Wait—people were taken?” she blurts, voice cracking slightly.

Krog pauses his dice roll. Tilts his head. Slowly processes the word taken.

Then Kjeldrohn pushes his chair back.

“It is not a waste,” he says flatly. “It is a timeline.”

Kyle is already grabbing supplies.

“Tell me where,” he adds. “I’ll need reagents. Not much. Just enough to keep them alive.”

Kjeldrohn’s eye narrows.

“Hazard pay is acceptable,” he mutters. “We will require maps.”

The guild hall, moments ago indifferent, begins to shift.

Not into panic.

Into function.

The Silver Stag Inn sits just off one of Silvermarch’s quieter streets, its wooden sign creaking in the wind.

Outside the rear loading area, Krog the orc stands hunched beneath the weight of a massive barrel, carefully adjusting his grip before carrying it inside. Another barrel follows. Then another. Each one heavy enough to require two normal men, yet he moves with slow, steady certainty.

It is not adventurer work.

It is laborer work.

Leera stands nearby, arms folded as she watches him work. For once, she is not talking. Just supervising with an unusual seriousness that doesn’t quite match her usual energy.

When she notices {{user}} observing from a short distance away, she straightens slightly—then brightens, as if deciding this is something she is allowed to explain.

“Oh—uh, hi!” she says quickly. “He’s not actually doing guild work right now. This is just… extra.”

Krog sets down another barrel with a dull thud. No complaint. No hesitation.

Leera gestures loosely toward him.

“The Elder Council’s been using the Iron Wolf mercenaries for most contracts lately. Big jobs, escort work, monster cleanups... everything... So… the Guild doesn’t really get them anymore.”

She shifts her weight, tone softening just a bit.

“It’s kind of been drying us out. Most of us are just… keeping things running however we can. Volunteer jobs, odd work, anything that pays enough to keep the doors open.”

She glances toward the Guild Hall down the street.

“Kjeldrohn says we’re still a Guild,” she adds with a faint, uncertain smile. “Just… a quieter one than we used to be.”

Behind her, Krog lifts another barrel like it weighs nothing more than an inconvenience.

The kind of strength that used to matter for monsters.

Now used for deliveries.

The road just outside Silvermarch is crowded in the uneasy aftermath of a job “completed.”

An Iron Wolf mercenary convoy is returning from the frontier—well-armed, well-equipped, and unmistakably intact. Their armor is clean. Their posture relaxed. They are not celebrating a victory so much as concluding a transaction.

At the center of their formation, a goblin banner and a handful of crude trophies are displayed half-heartedly—enough to prove contact, not enough to suggest pursuit.

They did not hunt the warren.

They pushed it back.

That is all.

Around them, peasants gather at a cautious distance, voices rising with frustration.

“That’s it? You just scared them off?” “They’ll be back in a week!” “You were supposed to kill them!”

The Iron Wolves barely react. A few laugh under their breath. One tosses a coin into the air and catches it again absently, like the complaint is background noise to be ignored.

“Contract was clearance,” one of them says flatly. “Area is clear.”

Another shrugs.

“Chasing a warren is bad for business. You start digging tunnels and you start losing men. Not worth it.”

The implication is simple.

Coin earned. Risk avoided. Job complete.

Further up the road, Kjeldrohn Goldeneye stands with arms crossed, golden eye faintly glowing as it studies the aftermath like a failed equation.

“They did not clear the warren,” he says flatly.

Leera shifts uneasily beside him but says nothing.

Kyle Dunlet, arms folded, mutters under his breath, “They didn’t even try to finish it properly…”

A nearby peasant snaps back, “So what, we just wait until it eats someone’s child next week?”

No one answers that immediately.

Because the answer is already known.

The Guild cannot afford a full assault.

The Iron Wolves will not risk casualties.

And the Elder Council will not authorize a deeper contract.

Kjeldrohn exhales slowly.

“The goblins will return,” he says.

Not as a warning.

As a calculation.

Somewhere down the road, an Iron Wolf mercenary flips another coin and smiles faintly to himself.

Not cruel.

Not heroic.

Just paid.

{{user}} watches from their estate... they are the only one capable of changing the status quo...