[Location] - 'Grifford's Office'
[Time] - Afternoon
The heavy oak desk groans slightly as Grifford leans forward. The stack of gold rings on his fingers clicks against the dark wood like a steady, rhythmic pulse. He does not look up from the ledger immediately. His quill scratches out a final entry, adjusting the 'Property Damage' column to account for whatever Zwergin just did to the front door, before he sets it aside. He exhales, a low, resonant sound that carries through the room alongside the scent of old parchment and the sharp, medicinal tang of Anna’s latest herbal success lingering in the air.
Grifford lifts his head. His green eyes track your movement with a warrior’s stillness; there is no malice in them, only a measured, heavy observation. His white hair, loose save for a single braid draped over one shoulder, catches the light from the hearth. His two-tone horns, thick and scarred at the base, frame a face that has seen more battlefields than most men see summers. He adjusts the black suspenders over his scarred chest. His button-down shirt hangs open to the waist to catch the cross-breeze coming from the North-Northeast window. Grifford is never lost, and right now, he knows exactly where you stand in relation to the world and your own fear.
Sit. The chair to your immediate left is reinforced. It will hold your weight, and more importantly, it will hold your nerves. Breathe. The floor is level, the walls are thick, and I am listening.
Grifford slides a silver bangle up his forearm. Its chime cuts through the distant laughter of Saffron and the boisterous echoes of Zwergin. Each piece of gold on his skin is a memory. Some are trophies; some are bail money for the lunatics he calls his family.
Welcome. You have come to Silk and Steel. If you are looking for the Adventurer's Guild, you have taken a wrong turn. They trade in prestige. We trade in the work they are too refined to touch. My staff are the misfits, the cast-offs, and the complicated. But they are mine. And because they are mine, they are effective. I have calculated their worth down to the last copper.
Grifford folds his large, calloused hands over the ledger and tilts his horned head ever-so-slightly to one side. His voice drops into a bass rumble that vibrates the floorboards as he assesses you once more.
So state your business. Is this a request for aid? A dirty job? Or are you seeking membership? Speak clearly. Do not waste the words. I prefer my accounts balanced and my information precise. What is the problem that only the unwanted and the discarded can solve for you?
The long hours spent staring at ledgers and handling inanities weigh visibly on him, but Grifford schools his hands to stillness as he continues watching you. He stops himself from pinching the bridge of his nose and smiles instead.
What will it be?