Chapter 9: The Guild Whispers

They walked for a while and soon enough saw the towering structure of an Adventurers' Guild come into view, its size and presence dominating the surrounding street. Noir's eyes flicked toward it, his lips curling into a knowing grin. "There it is," he murmured, his tone was low. "The beating heart of every city like this—a place where information flows as freely as the ale. Shall we?" 

Zuka's gaze lingered on the building. "It looks loud and chaotic. Places like this are as likely to feed us lies as they are to offer truth." 

"True, but even lies carry value," Noir countered, his cloak shifting slightly as his wings flexed beneath it. "You just need to know how to read the intent behind them. Besides, where else will we find whispers about nobles, mercenaries, and their sordid dealings? This place is a goldmine, brother. You know it as well as I do." 

Zuka initially said nothing, his expression sarcastic as he considered Noir's words. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, let's get this over with." 

As the brothers approached the guild's entrance, they became acutely aware of the stares following them. Even with their royal armor set aside, their cloaks did little to hide the striking features that set them apart. Their horns—caught the light of the streetlamps, gleaming faintly beneath the folds of their hoods. Their wings, though concealed, added to their broad, regal frames, giving them an aura of undeniable presence. 

The guild's interior was a sprawling cacophony of noise, light, and movement. The smell of ale and sweat was overpowering, mingling with the faint metallic tang of weapons being polished at nearby tables. Rough-hewn wooden beams supported the ceiling, and banners hung from the rafters, displaying the crests of various adventuring parties. The walls were lined with racks of swords, axes, and enchanted staves, their sharp edges glinting in the warm glow of magical sconces.

In the far corner, a massive hearth blazed with heat and light, casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls. Around it, adventurers huddled with mugs in hand.

"I swear on the Ancients," barked a bearded dwarf, slamming his tankard down, "the damn troll wouldn't die. Took four arrows to the throat before I even got close enough to swing my axe!"

Across from him, a hooded elf chuckled, swirling his wine. "Maybe if you aimed for the heart instead of screaming like a mountain goat, you wouldn't have needed the axe at all."

A grizzled werewolf leaned back in his chair. "Bah! Trolls are one thing. Try outrunning a stone guardian through a collapsing dungeon with lava pouring from the ceiling. That temple in the Emberdeep? Death trap."

Nearby, a young human adventurer leaned in, wide-eyed. "Is it true the runes glow when you get near the treasure vaults?"

The werewolf snorted. "Only if you're lucky. Sometimes they explode."

Laughter erupted as a tankard was raised in mock salute.

In the center of the hall, a large circular bar stood like a battle-worn centerpiece, its wooden surface covered in deep scratches and old burn marks. Bartenders bustled about behind it, pouring drinks from casks stamped with ancient sigils.

Above it all, a massive chandelier loomed—its frame made from the ribcage of some long-dead behemoth. The skeletal remains cradled enchanted candles whose blue flames danced eerily, casting light that never dimmed.

Behind the bar, the barkeep—a one-eyed tiefling with a scar running down his cheek—wiped a mug with a rag. "First round's free if your story's actually true," he growled.

From the far end, someone shouted, "Then you'll owe me a barrel, Malk! I've got a kraken tooth in my pack, and I didn't get it by buying fish!"

The room erupted into more laughter, clinks of mugs, and the endless rhythm of a tavern built on tales, triumphs, and near-deaths.

To one side of the room, an adventurer's board stood tall, covered in tacked-on parchment. Notes scrawled with hastily written requests for monster hunts, treasure retrievals, and missing persons flapped slightly in the breeze from the constantly swinging door. A group of eager-looking recruits crowded around it, their eyes scanning the postings for their first opportunity to prove themselves.

Among the pleas for help and promises of gold, one tattered note stood out, its ink smeared but legible: Three travelers missing beyond the city gates. Reward: 50 gold pieces.

Noir's sharp eyes darted across the room as he and Zuka approached the bar. His gaze lingered on a group of mercenaries sitting at a long table, their armor dented and splattered with fresh mud. Another table seated a trio of mages cloaked in deep indigo robes, their quiet conversation punctuated by occasional glances toward a map sprawled out before them.

"This is perfect" Noir murmured under his breath, his smirk faint as his gaze swept across the hall.

Zuka followed silently, his golden eyes scanning the crowd with a measured intensity.

As they neared the bar, whispers rippled through the room, their presence impossible to ignore.

"Dragonkin," someone muttered from a nearby table, their voice low and cautious.

"Look at them," another said. "The horns, the wings—you don't see their kind here unless it's for something big."

"And those cloaks—clean, expensive," added a third. "They've got money to spend, but what are they really after?"

Noir's smirk widened slightly as his ears caught every word. He leaned toward Zuka, his voice just loud enough to carry between them. "A charming welcome, wouldn't you say? It seems we've been noticed."