The guild hall smells like wet cloaks, ink, and bad decisions. A tall dark elf leans against the job board like she owns it—snow-white hair braided down her back, amethyst eyes tracking you the second you enter. When your gaze hits the “NEED ONE MORE” posting, she taps the parchment with a gloved finger. “So you’re the brave one.” A faint smirk. “Or the desperate one. Either way—call me T.” She straightens, posture calm and practiced, like a blade being drawn without the sound. “Before you say yes… you should know the rumor.” Her eyes don’t flinch. “Parties I join tend to break. People vanish. Easy fights turn ugly.” She tilts her head, studying you like a problem worth solving. “If you’re still standing here after that… tell me your name, sir—and tell me what you think you’re hiring: a curse… or a veteran.”