A Party of Misfits and Sharp Edges

Kael’s eyes drifted across the chaotic tapestry of parchments on the quest board one last time, deliberately skipping over the high-paying, high-risk requests. A contract for a goblin patrol? The risk of an ambush was too high, the variables too unpredictable. Escorting a merchant caravan to the next town? The thought of sustained social interaction was exhausting. His gaze finally settled on a small, unassuming notice tucked into the bottom corner, half-hidden by a gaudier poster offering a bounty on a griffin. “Rat Extermination.” The promise of a measly 200 bronze cirens made it the least glamorous, lowest-paying job on the entire board.

It was perfect.

After the humiliating confrontation with Brolin, attracting more attention was the last thing he needed. He craved a simple, straightforward task—a controlled environment where he could test the waters of this new life without immediately drowning in them. He carefully peeled the notice from the splintered wood, the cheap parchment rough and dry under his fingertips, and carried it to Greta’s counter like a verdict.

She took the slip, her eyes flicking from the text to Kael’s face, her expression as unreadable as worn stone. “Miller Bess’s cellar,” she stated, her voice flat. She slammed a heavy, ink-soaked seal onto the parchment, branding it with the guild’s authority. “Brave choice for a man who can’t fight. Don’t get bitten. Rumor is they’re the size of house cats and twice as mean.”

Before Kael could formulate a reply to the backhanded encouragement, a heavy, calloused hand slammed down on the counter beside his own, making a nearby tankard jump. “Not planning on going alone, are you, Tricksy?”

Kael looked up into the weathered face of a barbarian, though one who seemed more worn down by the world than by any recent battle. He was a mountain of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a tangled mane of fiery red hair and a beard to match that looked as if it had been set ablaze. He wore no real armor, only scuffed leather trousers and a tunic that had seen far too many seasons. Slung across his back, however, was his most defining feature: a massive, round shield of wood banded with scarred iron. He gestured toward the rat notice with a thumb the size of a sausage.

“That’s a two-person job, at least,” he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. “The name’s Ronan. I’ll be your shield, your muscle, your frontline.” He leaned in, his breath smelling faintly of ale and roasted meat. “You split the pay with me, sixty-forty.”

Kael raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sixty-forty? For rats?”

“My shield and my experience are worth the extra ten percent,” Ronan declared, his face splitting into a booming, unapologetic grin that revealed a missing tooth. “Besides, you look like a strong breeze could knock you over. Face it, you need me.”

He wasn’t wrong, and the blunt honesty was almost refreshing. Kael was about to agree when a crisp, feminine voice cut through the tavern's din like a shard of ice.

“If he requires muscle, he certainly doesn’t need a drunkard who smells like the floor of a brewery.”

An elf approached the counter, her movements possessing a fluid grace that seemed utterly out of place amidst the rough-hewn furniture and boorish patrons. Her hair was the color of spun silver, woven into a long, intricate braid that fell past her waist. Her eyes, the sharp, cool green of a winter forest, scanned the room with unconcealed disdain. She carried a finely crafted bow of polished yew, and her entire posture radiated an aura of aristocratic contempt.

“However,” she continued, wrinkling her perfectly sculpted nose, “I find myself temporarily… short on cirens. And the thought of having to associate with brutes like Brolin makes my skin crawl. I will join you.” She didn't look at Kael, but rather spoke to the space he occupied. “I am Nira. I will handle any threats from a distance. You two can… get your hands dirty.”

Ronan’s friendly grin vanished, curdling into a deep scowl. “Look here, pointy-ears—”

“Do not,” Nira hissed, her cool composure cracking as her green eyes narrowed into slits, “call me that, you lumbering oaf.”

As their bickering began to escalate, a third figure seemed to coalesce from the tavern’s shadows, drawn by the forming group like a moth to a strange, volatile flame. He was a quiet young man with pale skin and stark, silver-white hair that marked him as a half-drow. He moved with a silent, deliberate purpose, his dark, intelligent eyes fixed on Kael with an unnerving, scholarly intensity that seemed to peel back layers.

“I am Cyras,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost lost beneath the argument. “I am a student of elemental and arcane magic. What I saw you do earlier… the way you manipulated a concept without a chant, a rune, or a shred of mana… that was not magic as I know it.” His gaze was unwavering. “I would like to observe you. I will offer my magical support in exchange for the opportunity.”

Kael’s internal alarm bells began to clang with deafening urgency. This one is the real danger. Ronan wanted coin. Nira needed it. Their motives were simple. But Cyras was interested in him—in the strange, uncontrollable power he had just discovered. Bringing him along felt like inviting a wolf into the henhouse. Yet before he could formulate a polite, decisive refusal, the final member of their nascent party arrived.

She had been watching from a quiet corner, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It was him. It had to be. The man whose name had been whispered to her in a divine revelation just last night: Kael. The voice of her goddess had been clear, echoing not in her ears but in the sanctum of her very soul. “A man will arrive like a stone cast into a still pond,” the celestial voice of Freyja—the Daughter of Njörd, the Vanir Twin—had resonated through her prayers with the warmth of the morning sun. “He will carry the emptiness of another world within him. Find him. Follow him. Your path is to tend to the cracks in his soul, for a great purpose awaits him.”

Now, seeing his guarded posture and the profound, isolating loneliness that clung to him like a shroud, she knew her holy quest was not beginning in a grand temple, but here, in the noisy, ale-soaked hall of the Gilded Gryphon.

She approached the tense group, her simple, clean robes a stark contrast to the worn leather and polished steel around her. “Please, forgive the intrusion,” she said, her voice a gentle, calming balm on the rising tension. “My name is Catherine. I am a Saintess Candidate. I can heal wounds and offer divine protection.” She gave Kael a small, reassuring smile, though her eyes held a focused, unwavering purpose. “Even simple quests can be dangerous. It would be my honor to ensure everyone stays safe.”

The four of them stood there, a perfect storm of clashing personalities circling Kael. Ronan, the blunt barbarian shield. Nira, the proud elven archer. Cyras, the unnervingly observant mage. And Catherine, the gentle Saintess on a divine mission. A collection of loud, out-of-place mismatches, each drawn to this pathetic quest for their own private reasons: coin, necessity, curiosity, and a Goddess’s command.

Kael looked from one to the next, his mind shifting into a cold, analytical mode. He was not assessing people; he was assessing assets. He wasn’t looking for friends. He was looking for tools.

Ronan: A living wall. He can take the hits I can't.

Nira: Ranged damage. She can kill things before they get close.

Cyras: A liability, but a powerful one. Magic is a resource I don't have.

Catherine: A healer. The most valuable piece on the board. A safety net.

Together, they were a complete, balanced party. Alone, he was just a man with a dangerous secret and a weak constitution. Pragmatism, the brutal logic of survival that had guided his old life, won out.

“Fine,” Kael said, his voice cutting through their chatter with sudden authority. They all fell silent, turning to look at him. “The quest pays 200 cirens. The guild takes ten percent, leaving 180. Divided five ways, that’s 36 cirens each. We do this one job. If it works, we can discuss… continuing. If it doesn’t, we go our separate ways. No attachments. Agreed?”

Ronan grumbled about the steep pay cut but eventually gave a reluctant nod. Nira sniffed disdainfully, her chin held high, but agreed with a curt, “Acceptable.” Cyras simply inclined his head, his unnerving gaze still locked on Kael. Only Catherine beamed, a bright, genuine smile that lit up her face. "I agree!"

"One more thing," Ronan interjected, eyeing Kael's empty belt. "You can't go down there with nothing but harsh words. Don't you have any weapons?"

Kael’s silence was answer enough. "I don't..."

With a sigh, Ronan unbuckled a shortsword from his hip. It was a plain, functional weapon, its leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from use. "Here," he said, holding it out. "It's better than nothing." Kael took it, the unexpected weight of the steel feeling alien and clumsy in his hand.

“It’s a party, then,” Kael said, turning back to Greta, who had watched the entire exchange with a deeply amused smirk. He pushed the quest notice toward her. “We’ll take the rat job.”

Greta dipped her quill and, with a loud scratching sound, officially registered their impromptu group in a new ledger. She didn't bother asking for a name. She just listed their five, followed by the title of their first, pathetic quest.

“Try not to die in the cellar,” she said, her tone dripping with delicious sarcasm. “The paperwork is a nightmare.”

As one, the unlikely group turned and walked out of the Gilded Gryphon. The bright light of the Ashvale street seemed to cast their differences in sharp relief, their five mismatched shadows stretching out long and separate behind them. They were a gathering of broken pieces and sharp edges, united by nothing more than a shared contract to kill oversized rats in a basement.

It was, Kael thought with a flicker of his old-world cynicism, a fittingly absurd start to his new life.