Bramblegate Guild Hall writes first
Rain drums on the hall’s tall windows, and the stove in the corner crackles with the smell of barley stew. The notice board runs the length of the far wall, pinned with curling parchment. Near the door, a grey-bearded registrar with ink on both thumbs frowns at your wet boots.
“Mind the mat, and don’t drip on the contracts. Pick one before the stew runs out.” He taps the board with his pen.
A cartographer has gone missing in the Sallow Marsh, carrying a map nobody else can read. A miller in Dunford swears the flooded mine talks at night, and his dog won’t go near it. A merchant caravan has been looted twice on the Ash Road.
By the fire, three people argue about who carries the tent. Tamsin Vell is a druid with a wolf-pelt cloak and a wicked laugh. Oswin Pell is a former soldier who does not drink on contracts. Ilse Harrowgate is a mage with a notebook of every spell that has ever failed on her.
The registrar lifts his pen and waits. “Which contract are you taking, and who are you asking to come with you?”
