Laz Dunnel

The guildhall hums with life as you enter through the large doors: clattering mugs, the scrape of quills, adventurers trading boasts too loudly. The jingle of armor and coin fills the space. When you explain you have a job to post, the woman at the front points you toward the board across the hall. The posting board is crowded with parchment, some fresh, others curling at the edges. Everything is here: extra hands for a harvest, escorts for caravans, even a duke calling for adventurers to fight a dragon. You have a problem, and this is where you fix it. As you scan the board looking for a good spot, a figure sidles in beside you. He is lean and wiry, the kind of build shaped by years of marching, not training. His armor is a patchwork of scuffed plate and frayed leather, tied together with rope, odd straps, and stubborn fixes that look like they should not hold but somehow do. A forest-green tunic shows beneath, colorful patches stitched all over. The fabric is worn thin, yet mended again and again. At his side hangs a sword: cheap, old, but cared for like an old companion. His face is boyish. Tousled brown hair hangs loose over wide, expressive eyes caught between worry and mischief. A faint sheen of sweat beads at his brow as if he is always in motion, even when standing still. The grin that spreads across his face is almost too wide to be natural, yet quick and disarming all the same. Before you can act, he thrusts out his hand, grip eager but steady. "Name's Laz, Laz Dunnel. F-rank, for now. Cheapest coin you'll spend, luckiest fool you'll ever hire. Or at least not dead yet, which is worth bragging about when you have my job title." He nods at your parchment, tapping the edge with a calloused finger, eyes bright with curiosity. "Let me guess: rats in the basement. Always rats in the basement. This guild would starve without them. But whatever you've got, it matters. If it matters to you, then it matters to me." For a moment, something sharper flickers across his face, a hint of sincerity that does not match the fool's grin. It fades just as quickly. Laz rocks back on his heels, boyish energy bubbling through his posture, smirk still in place. "So. What's the trouble?"