The morning arrives with a sudden, brilliant clarity that breaks over the rugged horizon like a wave of pure, liquid glass. The sun reaches high into the vast expanse of the sky, its golden rays washing over the ancient timber and stone architecture of the frontier settlement. The sky above is a deep, pristine blue, clear and crystal, entirely devoid of clouds, allowing the unfiltered sunlight to bake the dirt roads and cast sharp, ink-black shadows beneath the eaves of the crowded buildings.
Outside the heavy oak doors of the Forlorn Guild, the morning breeze stirs the thick, waxy leaves of the local ironwood trees, their deep green boughs swaying with a slow, heavy rhythm that matches the rising energy of the town. A solitary hunting hawk circles high in the crystal air, its piercing cry cutting through the ambient noise of the streets below, a stark reminder of the wild, untamed wilderness waiting just beyond the reinforced palisade walls.
Inside the grand hall of the Forlorn Guild, the atmosphere is thick with the scent of spilled ale, unwashed leather, and the sweet, heavy musk of pipe tobacco. Adventurers are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, a raucous, shifting crowd of mercenaries, sellswords, and spellcasters clustering tightly around the massive, iron-reinforced quest board that dominates the western wall. They push and shove with a practiced, casual roughness, their calloused fingers tracing the jagged edges of the parchment flyers, browsing the available hunting contracts, monster bounties, and security details with hungry, predatory eyes.
Right next to the bustling quest board, the main receptionist is buried behind her heavy mahogany desk, her fingers moving in a frantic, ceaseless rhythm as she organizes stacks of entry permits and official bounty receipts. Her desk sits immediately adjacent to the guild's sprawling tavern section, an interconnected labyrinth of long wooden benches and stained tables that provides essential hospitality services, overflowing mugs of cheap ale, and loud, chaotic entertainment for the transient adventurers. The tavern functions smoothly as the guild's ultimate, highly efficient money-making machine, devouring the hard-earned coin of the hunters as quickly as they receive it for their bloody trophies.
A young girl wearing a heavy, mud-splattered wool cloak detaches herself from the crowd, her footsteps light and hesitant as she approaches the reception desk. She pulls the deep hood back slightly, revealing a pale, youthful face and wide, curious eyes that blink against the bright beams of sunlight streaming through the high windows.
The receptionist looks up from her ledgers, her face automatically smoothing into a professional, welcoming smile despite her visible exhaustion. She adjusts her collar and taps her iron quill against the inkwell.
"Welcome to the Forlorn Guild," the receptionist says, her voice bright but efficient. "What can I help you with this morning, traveler?"
The girl in the cloak shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers nervously tightening around the hem of her mantle before she speaks in a quiet, tentative tone. "I... I want to register officially as an adventurer with the guild."
The receptionist doesn't blink. With a practiced, fluid motion of her hand, she reaches into a deep wooden drawer beneath the counter, pulls out a crisp, official registration form, and slides it across the scarred mahogany wood along with a freshly dipped quill.
"Take this form and register your full details here," the receptionist tells her, pointing to the blank lines at the top of the parchment.
While the young girl leans over the desk, her hand trembling slightly as she begins to carefully write out her name in an elegant, flowing script, the receptionist observes the delicate texture of her fingers and the small, leather-bound notebook tucked into her belt. Her eyes narrow with a flash of professional intuition.
"Are you a magic student by any chance?" the receptionist asks, her tone turning warm and conversational as she leans forward against her palms. "You have the look of someone who spends more time inside an academy library than out in the woods."
The girl stops writing for a brief second, a bright, genuine smile breaking across her face as she looks up, her eyes crinkling at the corners with an innocent enthusiasm.
"Yes, I am," the girl replies softly, her voice carrying a light, melodic lilt. "I really enjoy learning about nature, the flora, and the natural flow of the elements. That's precisely why I decided to join as an adventurer. I want to see the world beyond the school walls."
The receptionist smiles back, nodding her head with an expression of deep approval. "Ah, a field scholar. You have great, admirable ambitions, dear. Most people only come through those doors because they want to stab something for gold."
The young girl's smile falters slightly. She glances over her shoulder at the rowdy, shouting mercenaries gathered around the quest board, then leans closer across the wide wooden counter, her voice dropping into a soft, conspiratorial whisper that barely carries over the din of the tavern.
"Actually... if I'm being entirely honest," the girl says, her cheeks flushing a faint pink, "I'm doing this primarily so I don't have to get married early. My family has been trying to arrange a match with a local merchant's son, and I needed an official legal exemption."
The receptionist's eyes widen in an instant flash of absolute solidarity. She quickly covers her mouth with her hand, letting out a sharp, sympathetic gasp as she leans in until their foreheads are almost touching.
"Oh, I see!" the receptionist exclaims in a hushed, intense voice, her professional demeanor completely evaporating. "I understand completely, believe me! My parents have been urging me for a terribly long time to do the exact same thing. They keep sending photographs of dull city clerks to my lodging. It's absolutely infuriating."
The two women continue their lively, rapid-fire conversation, their voices blending into a comfortable, rapid murmur as they trade complaints about family expectations and traditional courtships, completely tuning out the chaos of the guild hall around them.
But the domestic peace of the reception desk is violently shattered an instant later. Right next to the young magic student, the atmosphere turns freezing and tense.
The receptionist suddenly stops talking mid-sentence. Her friendly expression vanishes, her jaw setting into a hard, rigid line as she turns her head sharply to her left. She begins glaring intensely at Comtois, who has materialized beside the counter with a cocky, unbothered posture. The receptionist's face literally contorts into a classic, deeply annoyed, at Comtois's exaggerated ":3" expression, her lips puckered in an unspoken snarl of pure, unadulterated frustration as her eyes lock onto his smug face.
Comtois doesn't flinch under the weight of her furious gaze. Instead, he bows slightly from the waist, a fluid, theatrical gesture of mock chivalry. He straightens up, a brilliant, supremely confident smile plastering across his features as he slams a thick, blood-stained quest flyer directly onto the mahogany counter with his palm.
"I'll take this mission," Comtois says, his voice loud, clear, and dripping with an insufferable, effortless arrogance.
The receptionist looks down at the flyer, then looks back up at him, letting out a long, heavy, and deeply dramatic sigh that seems to rattle the inkwells on her desk. She drops her quill onto the ledger, her shoulders slumping in absolute defeat.
"Fifty-one days ago, you came through those exact front doors to register as a temporary, one-time contract adventurer," the receptionist says, her voice rising in an angry, rhythmic cadence as she recounts his record. "And then, exactly twenty-two days ago, you showed up out of nowhere and did the exact same thing again. And today... today I look up from my paperwork and I see that hateful, arrogant face of yours staring back at me again."
She raises her hand, her finger pointing accusingly right at the center of Comtois's chest, her knuckles turning white with tension.
"You want to be an adventurer so badly, don't you, Comtois?" the receptionist snaps, her eyes flashing with irritation. "Why the hell don't you just register as an official, permanent member of the guild? It would save me a mountain of daily processing paperwork! We are completely desperate for personnel right now; we accept even Earthling Slaves into the lower ranks without a single administrative delay!"
Comtois chuckles, shaking his head casually as he leans his elbow against the high counter, completely dismissive of her fury.
"No," Comtois replies smoothly, his smile never wavering for a single fraction of a second. "I'll only work when I completely run out of money. Permanent status means permanent obligations, and I value my free hours far too much for that."
The receptionist's brow furrows into a deep, heavy frown, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as she glares at him. "Is this dangerous adventurer profession merely a casual hobby to you, Comtois? Do you think hunting monsters is a game for your amusement?"
Comtois shakes his head, his tone shifting into a flat, pragmatic register. "No... this isn't a hobby at all. This is simply my preferred way of earning extra spending money when my pockets dry up."
He leans in closer, his voice adopting a sharp, impatient edge as he taps his fingernails against the quest flyer.
"Why the hell are you being so incredibly complicated about a simple contract?" Comtois asks, his eyes locking onto hers. "Just stamp the approval sheet, sign the line, and leave me alone so I can get to the field."
The two of them stare at each other in an absolute, suffocating silence. The tension between them stretches incredibly thin, hot and volatile, like a tightly wound crossbow string waiting to snap. The young magic student beside them slowly slides her registration form away, her eyes darting between the two bickering figures with a look of profound discomfort.
Despite the heavy, crushing weight of the receptionist's silent glare, Comtois refuses to back down an inch. He tilts his head, a mocking smirk playing on his lips as he breaks the silence.
"Look, I'm not your boyfriend," Comtois states bluntly, his voice dripping with an insufferable, playful arrogance. "So please do me a favor and don't stare at me with that intense, longing look in your eyes. It's distracting."
The receptionist's face flushes a deep, furious crimson. Without a single word, she reaches out, grabs her heavy iron official seal, and slams the dead seal shut against the parchment document with a resounding, thunderous BANG that echoes off the timber walls like a pistol shot.
She violently shoves the completed permit across the counter, putting the heavy seal aside with a sharp clatter. When she speaks, her voice has completely lost all its anger, dropping into a flat, dead, and entirely lifeless monotone that carries the chilling numbness of an executioner reading a sentence.
"Remember to bring back physical proof of the kill," the receptionist says in that dead, mechanical voice, her eyes completely vacant as she looks past his shoulder. "No proof, no coin. Now get out of my sight."
"Crystal clear," Comtois says with a sharp, white-toothed grin.
He scoops up the approved parchment form, folding it with a swift, elegant flick of his wrist, and puts it away securely into the inside pocket of his worn leather vest.
Then, instead of turning around and walking back down the main aisle toward the exit like a normal human being, Comtois spins on his heel with an explosive burst of manic energy. He dashes across the crowded floor of the Guild hall, his boots cracking against the floorboards. He reaches the large glass window on the eastern wall, puts his hands flat against the sill, and opens the window with a violent shove.
Without a single moment's hesitation, Comtois throws his body forward, jumping straight out of the high window frame into the open air of the street.
The crowd of adventurers gasps as Comtois executes a flawless, gravity-defying mid-air somersault, his body spinning tightly through the bright morning sunlight before landing heavily on his feet in the dusty road below, kicking up a small cloud of dry gray dirt. He straightens up, shakes his hair out, and immediately begins sprinting down the alleyway without looking back.
Inside the hall, the receptionist stands completely frozen behind her desk, her iron quill slipping from her fingers and hitting the floorboards with a small, hollow roll. She stares through the open window in absolute, wide-eyed disbelief, her mouth hanging open for several seconds before she finally finds her voice.
"Oh my god," the receptionist whispers to the empty air, her hand rising to her temple in sheer, unadulterated exhaustion. "The Forlorn Guild has a perfectly functional front door! It's literally twelve feet wide!"
The young magic student beside her simply blinks, looking out the open window with a mixture of awe and profound confusion as the dust settles in the street.
Meanwhile, Comtois is already three blocks away, his legs moving in a rapid, rhythmic sprint as he tears through the market district. He skids around a corner, his boots sliding through the loose gravel, and runs directly into the dim, metallic-smelling interior of a nearby weapons shop. The walls of the shop are lined with rows of gleaming broadswords, heavy iron pikes, and racks of oiled leather armor.
Without taking a single breath to stabilize his lungs, Comtois begins tearing through the inventory with a frantic, haphazard urgency. He grabs items off the racks entirely at random, tossing them onto the wooden counter in a messy, disorganized pile.
First comes a standard, utilitarian short sword with a simple crossguard. Then, he hauls over a full suit of basic iron plate armor, the metal segments clattering loudly against each other. He reaches onto the back wall and rips down a curved steel saber, followed by a heavy coil of thick hemp rope, and finally, he grabs a massive, heavy iron pickaxe from the mining supply section, its sharp pointed head glinting dully in the dim torchlight.
The old shopkeeper, a burly man with a thick gray beard and hands permanently stained with forge-grease, looks at the chaotic pile of equipment resting on his counter. He shifts his pipe to the corner of his mouth, his brow furrowing into a deep line of intense confusion as his eyes settle on the heavy iron mining tool.
"Hey, lad," the shopkeeper asks, his deep voice rumbling through his chest. "The rumors say the Wyverns are wreaking absolute havoc over in the eastern hills. Why the hell are you carrying a heavy stone-cutting pickaxe for hunting airborne Wyverns? You plan on mining them out of the sky?"
Comtois snaps his head up, his features contorting into a sharp, irritable scowl as he glares at the old man, his patience completely exhausted by the constant questioning.
"Leave me alone!" Comtois snaps violently, his voice sharp and aggressive. "I want to be properly, thoroughly prepared for every single mathematical possibility out there! Just tally up the cost and shut your mouth!"
Without waiting for the shopkeeper to calculate the exact total, Comtois reaches into his leather pouch, grabs a massive handful of loose silver coins, and tosses the money carelessly onto the wooden counter.
The impact is messy and uncoordinated. Half of the silver coins miss the wood entirely, falling directly to the floorboards with a loud, chaotic clinking sound, rolling away into the dark corners of the shop beneath the weapon racks. Comtois doesn't care. He doesn't stoop to gather the fallen silver, nor does he wait for his change.
He lunges forward, scooping the short sword, the suit of armor, the saber, the rope, and the heavy iron pickaxe into his arms with a clumsy, powerful grip, and runs straight off out of the shop, his boots slamming against the dirt road as he charges toward the distant village where the Wyverns are rumored to be destroying the local livestock.
The old shopkeeper simply stands behind his counter, staring down at the silver coins scattered across his floor, shaking his head in quiet, bewildered resignation.
Outside, the bright morning sun continues to bake the open landscape, the pristine blue sky stretching out infinitely over the rolling hills. Comtois sprints down the dusty northern road, the heavy iron armor clattering loudly against his chest with every stride, the massive pickaxe bouncing against his shoulder. The wind whips through his hair, stinging his eyes, but his gaze remains fixed on the dark, jagged peaks of the mountains rising along the horizon.
A sharp, predatory smirk cuts across his face, his eyes shining with an unstable, obsessive light as he increases his pace, his chest heaving as he begins to chant a low, rhythmic mantra under his breath, his voice rising and falling with the beat of his running feet.
"Money... Money... Money..." Comtois smirks, his voice a raspy, ecstatic whisper that carries through the empty valley. "Money... Money... Money..."
The rhythmic chant becomes faster, more intense, a driving internal engine that propels his body forward through the dust, entirely consumed by the singular, glorious image of the silver reward waiting for him at the end of the trail. He doesn't look back at the town; he doesn't think about the receptionist or the rules of the guild. He only sees the coin, his mind repeating the three sacred words over and over into the vast, silent wilderness as he storms toward the Wyvern's nest.