A Fragile Alliance

The system that was the Adventurer's Guild had become volatile. My words, cold and logical, had not quelled the chaos; they had fractured it. The room was a cacophony of competing, inefficient emotional outputs. Fear warred with disbelief. Anger clashed with denial. Adventurers shouted over one another, their arguments fueled by years of ingrained assumptions about their world. Goblins were pests, not armies. Orcs were legends, not neighbors.

The City Guard captain, his face a grim mask of frustration, tried to impose order, his voice a roar that was swallowed by the din. "We need to fortify the walls! Now!"

"Fortify them against what? A boy's bad dream?" a grizzled archer retorted, his hand clutching his bow tightly.

The Guild Master, a thin, balding man who usually managed the administrative flow with quiet efficiency, now looked overwhelmed, his hands trembling slightly as he attempted to restore a semblance of control. "Silence! Silence, all of you!" he finally bellowed, his voice surprisingly strong. "This is not the time for bickering! If there is even a chance of an invasion, we must act!" He turned to the City Guard captain. "Captain, what do you propose?"

The Captain nodded, his expression grim. "We'll need to mobilize the City Guard fully. I will send runners to the Lord's manor immediately. But even then, our numbers are limited. We'll need the Guild's full cooperation." He swept his gaze across the assembled adventurers, then hesitated, his eyes flicking towards the entrance. "And... we will need to speak with the mercenaries."

The word 'mercenaries' fell into the room like a stone, creating a new, ugly ripple in the chaos. A fresh wave of grumbling and curses erupted.

Just as the Captain finished speaking, as if summoned by the very mention of their name, the heavy wooden doors of the Guild Hall swung open. The sound was a loud, deliberate creak that cut through the lingering tension. A group of hardened individuals entered, their presence immediately shifting the atmosphere.

These were the mercenaries.

They did not move with the boisterous, often disorganized energy of the adventurers. They moved with a quiet, predatory confidence. Their gear was not flashy, but practical and well-maintained—dark leather, chainmail that didn't gleam, and weapons that bore the nicks and stains of constant, professional use. Their arrival was not a quiet entry; it was a deliberate, almost challenging intrusion into the Guild's space, immediately drawing all eyes.

At their head was a woman with a face that looked like a roadmap of old battles. A long, jagged scar ran from her left eyebrow down to her jaw, pulling one corner of her mouth into a permanent, cynical smirk. Her eyes were sharp and assessing, missing nothing as she surveyed the chaotic scene.

"Well, well, well," she drawled, her voice low but carrying, addressing the room at large. Her gaze landed on the Captain. "Looks like the Guild's finally having a bad day. What's the fuss, Captain? Did a stray goblin raid your pantry?" A ripple of uneasy laughter, mostly from her own ranks, followed her words.

The Captain's jaw tightened, but he held his composure. "This is no raid, mercenary. We have an emergency. An invasion is imminent. Goblins and Orcs, organized. We need your blades."

The mercenary woman raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine interest, or perhaps amusement, in her eyes. "Orcs, you say? That's a big claim, Captain. And a big payday, if true." Her smirk widened. "But what's in it for us? Your Guild's always been quick to push us aside when the easy coin's flowing. Now you need us, suddenly?" Other mercenaries around her grunted in agreement, their gazes flicking between the Captain and the agitated adventurers, clearly enjoying the Guild's predicament.

"The survival of Raven," the Captain stated, his voice firm. "And fair compensation, of course. The Guild will pay for your services, proportionate to the threat. We need every able body on the walls. This isn't a raid, it's a war."

A heated debate erupted anew. Adventurers from the Guild voiced their distrust, citing past grievances and the mercenaries' perceived lack of loyalty.

"They only fight for coin! They'll abandon us the moment things get tough!" one shouted.

"They're unreliable! Untrustworthy!" another added.

The mercenaries countered with accusations of the Guild's arrogance and unwillingness to share lucrative contracts. The air crackled with resentment, a predictable outcome of their established antagonistic relationship. It was an inefficient display of tribalism in the face of a mutual threat.

"Their fighting skills are a quantifiable asset," I interjected, my voice cutting through the renewed clamor. "Their motivation, while financial, is a predictable and reliable variable. If a clear contract is established, with payment contingent on the successful defense of the city, their self-interest will align with the city's survival. Their inclusion in the defense matrix would increase the probability of a favorable outcome."

My statement, logical and devoid of the emotion that fueled their arguments, was met with blank stares and renewed grumbling. The idea of reducing loyalty and survival to a "defense matrix" and "quantifiable assets" was clearly a foreign concept to these emotionally driven entities.

The Guild Master, however, sighed, running a hand over his bald head. "He has a point, however... difficult to swallow. We need every blade, every spell. Captain, approach them. See if we can negotiate a temporary alliance. For the city's survival."

The scarred mercenary considered the proposal, her eyes narrowing as she looked from the Guild Master to the Captain, and finally, for a brief, assessing moment, to me. "A contract, then. Not an alliance. Our terms are simple. We defend one gate. Our gate. We operate under our own command, no Guild or Guard interference. Payment upon completion, with hazard bonuses for confirmed Orc kills."

"Separate gates? No overlapping patrols?" the Captain asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"You heard me," the mercenary leader confirmed. "We work better when we're not tripping over idealistic fools or city-funded bureaucrats."

After a tense silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity, the Captain finally gave a curt nod. "Fine. A temporary contract. For Raven."

The mercenary woman's smirk returned, a final, triumphant gesture. "Good. Now, which gate are you giving us? We'll take the one with the best field of fire. We're professionals, after all."

Her words were a grudging acceptance, a conditional agreement based on the perceived severity of the threat and the promise of profit. The immediate crisis had forced a temporary, albeit fragile, cohesion between the city's warring factions. The system, on the verge of collapse, had found a new, unstable equilibrium. For now.