Chapter - 3 A visit to the mercenary guild

The morning light filtered through the small window of the room, casting a pale glow across the barren walls. Dorian woke slowly, the events of yesterday still lingering in his mind like shadows. His body, still bruised from battle, ached less than before, the wounds from his skirmish beginning to heal. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the strange encounter he had. The mage, Orin, still lingered in his thoughts.

As he sat up, Dorian felt a twinge in his ribs, but it was manageable now. The healer had done her job well enough, and his body was finally beginning to return to its usual form. His muscles were sore, but that was nothing new.

As he pulled on his boots and prepared to leave the small room, the door creaked open, and in stepped the two soldiers who had accompanied him. Their faces were grim, the weight of yesterday clearly heavy on them.

The older soldier, his face lined with the exhaustion of a lifetime in battle, stepped forward first. "You're up early," he said in his usual, rough tone. "We thought we'd have a chance to say goodbye."

Dorian nodded, not quite knowing how to respond. He had expected this moment to come, but it still felt strange.

"We're heading back to the capital," the younger soldier added, his tone more tense than usual. "The battle we fought yesterday... something wasn't right. Orcs raiding isn't unusual for the western border, but this time, it was different. It was too organized, too... coordinated. We need to report it directly to the king."

Dorian's eyes narrowed. Orc raids were common along the western frontier, but the fact that something had felt off about this one made him uneasy. "How bad was it?"

The older soldier shook his head, frustration evident on his face. "We don't know yet. The reports are incomplete, but there were too many strange things about this raid. We've been ordered to head back to the capital immediately and report everything we saw. Something's not right."

Dorian nodded again, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I see."

There was a brief silence as the soldiers exchanged glances. Finally, the older soldier spoke again, his voice softer this time. "Take care of yourself, Dorian. Don't get caught up in this... if you don't have to."

Dorian's response was a quiet nod. He didn't know if he was truly the type to stay out of it. But for now, he was focused on his own path.

The younger soldier, who had been restless since yesterday, looked as though he was itching to leave. "We should go. The sooner we report back, the sooner we can find out what's really going on."

"Good luck," Dorian muttered as the soldiers turned to leave. He wasn't sure if he was wishing them well or just offering words to fill the silence.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Dorian took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

He spent the next few days resting, not in a hurry to rush out. The idea of seeking out Orin had lingered in his mind, but each time, he had hesitated. What was it about that mage? There was something unsettling in Orin's presence, yet something about him also called to Dorian. He didn't know if he could trust the mage, but curiosity gnawed at him.

A week passed. By then, Dorian's injuries had fully healed, and his body was strong again. He had spent most of his time walking through the streets, watching the familiar faces of mercenaries and traders. He had walked past the local tavern, the blacksmith, and the inns where men like him gathered. None of it felt any more alive than it had before.

Orin's cryptic words echoed in his mind, each syllable like a thread pulling him in different directions. He had no business getting involved in whatever dark dealings the mercenary had hinted at, yet something about the man's presence—something buried deep in Dorian's gut—made him hesitate. Was it mere curiosity, or was it something more dangerous?

The old soldier in him urged caution, the instinct that had kept him alive in countless skirmishes, but the part of him that longed for meaning—longed for a purpose beyond the endless cycle of violence—whispered that this was the chance he had been waiting for. But at what cost? The path ahead was murky, and he knew he would have to face whatever lay at the end, alone.

One afternoon, after days of pacing the streets and growing restless, Dorian made his decision. He would seek information about Orin.

Dorian stood in front of the large stone building that housed the local mercenary guild branch in the town.

A typical guild building was a large, sturdy structure made from stone or timber, depending on the region and available resources. The exterior often reflected the guild's specific purpose, through carvings, banners or symbols that represented its value or achievements. The mercenary guild's symbol was two crossed swords and a shield behind them.

The crossed swords were central to the design, symbolizing combat prowess and the mercenary's trade in battle. Behind the swords, a shield was placed to represent defense, resilience, and the idea that mercenaries were often hired to protect or fight for others.

Mercenary guilds had a network of branches located in almost every major town and city across the kingdom, except in smaller villages. They functioned as both a business and a community for those willing to take up arms for a price. Each branch operated similarly but was independent in certain respects, adapting to local needs and politics. Mercenaries could join these guilds to find work, secure funds, and access various resources, including training, gear, and connections.

The guilds were structured into several ranks based on skill and experience. New recruits started at the lowest rank, performing smaller tasks and building a reputation. As they gained more experience, they could rise through the ranks, taking on more dangerous jobs and earning more prestige. Dorian, being an experienced mercenary, had access to a higher rank, which meant better pay and access to more high-profile contracts.

The ranking system in the mercenary guild was based on a color-coded hierarchy, with each rank representing a level of experience, skill, and responsibility. Since mercenary work was tied to life and death, the ranks were regarded with respect and sometimes fear, especially the highest rank, black.

The green rank, novice, was the starting point for all mercenaries. These were newly initiated members who have shown promise or have recently completed basic training. They were often tasked with simpler, less dangerous jobs such as escorting merchants, patrolling local areas, or hunting down minor pests. The work was typically low-paying, and green-ranked mercenaries were still building their reputation.

Mercenaries in the yellow rank, apprentice, had gained some experience and were trusted with more dangerous tasks. They often worked in small teams and were given more challenging jobs, such as protecting villages, hunting dangerous animals, or investigating minor conflicts. Yellow-ranked mercenaries were respected for their potential but were still considered apprentices in the guild.

Red rank, veteran, was a significant milestone, marking the transition from apprentice to seasoned warrior. These mercenaries were experienced and capable of handling complex and hazardous jobs. They were often hired for high-risk missions such as participating in small-scale wars, tracking dangerous criminals, or securing valuable assets. Red-ranked mercenaries were known for their combat skills and tactical awareness, and they were given considerable responsibility.

The white rank, elite, was reserved for the most skilled and respected mercenaries in the guild. These individuals were known as elite warriors and tacticians, often sought after for critical missions like leading large-scale operations, taking on elite targets, or overseeing mercenary teams. White-ranked mercenaries were often in high demand by powerful clients, such as nobles or military generals, and were respected both within and outside the guild. They were often tasked with the most dangerous, life-threatening jobs and received the highest pay.

The black rank, sacred, was the highest and most revered rank in the mercenary guild. Only those who had demonstrated unparalleled skill, wisdom, and leadership were inducted into this rank. Black-ranked mercenaries were seen as near-mythical figures in the guild, often taking on legendary contracts or serving as mentors to the next generation of warriors. Black ranks were not only feared for their combat prowess but also revered for their deep connection to the mercenary life and the acceptance of death as part of the profession. They were considered sacred figures within the guild, and their judgment was absolute.

Every guild branch had a job board, where mercenaries could find contracts posted by clients in need of assistance. These jobs ranged from small, local tasks—such as protecting a caravan or hunting down a fugitive—to larger, more dangerous missions like defending a town from a raid or participating in an army's campaign. High-ranking mercenaries, like Dorian, often worked on bigger, more lucrative jobs, but the risks were higher as well.

Reputation played a significant role in the guilds. A mercenary's success, or failure, was tracked across the network. Their reputation determined the quality of contracts they could receive and the level of respect they earned from their peers. Mercenaries with a poor reputation were shunned, while those with good standing were highly sought after for difficult and high-reward jobs.

Guilds offered various resources to their members. They had skilled craftsmen who could repair weapons and armor, and they sometimes worked with alchemists to provide healing potions or other magical items. The guild also had a reputation for organizing training sessions, where mercenaries could improve their skills. They didn't just train for combat—they also trained for survival, stealth, and negotiation, making them versatile in any environment.

One of the most important services provided by the mercenary guilds was the guild bank. Mercenaries could deposit their earnings into the bank for safekeeping. This was particularly useful for those who spent extended periods of time away from home or on the road. Access to the bank was available at any guild branch, and mercenaries could withdraw funds using their guild token. The guild bank also provided a level of security, as it prevented members from losing their money to thieves or in dangerous encounters.

Dorian entered the local mercenary guild branch with a sense of purpose, the door creaking as he pushed it open. The familiar scent of wood smoke and leather met him as he crossed the threshold. The bustling room was filled with mercenaries of all kinds: men and women sharpening weapons, discussing contracts, or engaging in heated arguments over past jobs. It was a place where the unspoken rules of the guild governed every interaction, and Dorian was no stranger to this environment.

He approached the bar area where a tall man with a scar running down his cheek leaned against the counter. The bartender, a gruff-looking woman, greeted him with a curt nod before returning to her work. Dorian gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment before addressing the man.

The man with the scar looked Dorian up and down, assessing him before speaking. His voice was low and rough, but not unfriendly. "You look like you've got a reason for being here," he said, his eyes flicking briefly to the guild's job board in the corner of the room. "Most don't come in unless they're looking for something—work, information, or trouble."

Dorian's gaze flicking to the job board before returning to the man. "I'm not here for work. I need information."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Information, huh? Not exactly the usual request around here. What kind of information are you looking for?"

Dorian hesitated, not entirely sure how to phrase it. "A mage. Orin the Seeker. Do you know where I can find him?"

Dorian leaned against the counter, waiting for an answer, but instead of the serious response he expected, the scarred man let out a sharp bark of laughter. A few nearby mercenaries, who had been drinking or speaking among themselves, turned their heads at the sound.

"Orin the Seeker?" The man grinned wide, shaking his head. "You sure you ain't looking for some character out of a bad adventure tale?"

A chuckle rippled through the nearby tables. Even the bartender, who had seemed indifferent before, smirked.

"The Seeker?" another mercenary echoed with amusement. "What's he seeking? Better naming sense?"

Dorian sighed inwardly. This was getting nowhere. Clearly, if Orin existed, he wasn't someone common enough to be known here. He kept his expression neutral and shrugged. "Forget it."

The scarred man wiped a tear from his eye. "Damn, haven't laughed like that in a while. So, if you're not here chasing fairytales, what are you here for?"

Dorian tapped the counter. "Collecting my money."

The bartender nodded and motioned toward the back. "Guild bank's that way. You know the drill."

Dorian stepped past the main hall toward the banking area, where a clerk sat behind a sturdy wooden desk, flipping through a thick ledger. The moment Dorian placed his guild token on the counter, the clerk's expression shifted. He picked up the token, inspecting the color of the emblem on its surface.

"Red rank?" The clerk whistled, impressed. "That's something. Young, too. Most don't get that rank until they've seen their fair share of winters."

A few other mercenaries nearby overheard and gave him curious glances. Some nodded in respect, while others whispered among themselves.

Dorian ignored them, waiting as the clerk counted his funds. The mercenary guild's banking system was straightforward—mercenaries deposited earnings, and the guild took a percentage based on the difficulty of the jobs completed. This percentage varied, but the guild always claimed a cut in exchange for handling contracts, providing resources, and ensuring payments were made.

In return, every mercenary received a monthly stipend based on their rank. It wasn't a fortune, but it ensured that even those without current work weren't left completely penniless.

The clerk finished his count and placed several stacks of coins in front of Dorian.

"Here's your withdrawal. You've got three gold, seven silver, and fifteen copper remaining in your account. One hundred coppers make a silver, one hundred silvers make a gold, as you know."

A full meal cost five copper and was a modest, yet satisfying dish that provided enough sustenance for the day. It typically included a thick slice of rustic bread with a hunk of hard cheese, a small portion of salted or dried meat, and some simple stewed vegetables like carrots or potatoes, cooked in a basic broth. For a drink, there would be a mug of watered-down ale or herbal tea. While not a lavish feast, it was enough to fill the stomach and fuel a person for the day ahead, especially for those on the move or working long hours.

Dorian nodded, already familiar with the system but letting the man do his job. He swept the coins into his pouch and took back his token. As he turned to leave, a voice called out from one of the nearby tables.

"Hey. You. The one askin' about Orin."

Dorian stopped, glancing over. A man, seated with one boot propped up on the chair beside him, leaned back casually. He was slightly shorter than Dorian, maybe older by two or three years, with brownish hair that looked like it hadn't seen a brush in a while. There was something roguish about him—not just in appearance, but in the way he held himself, relaxed yet alert. His features were sharp, and though he wasn't traditionally handsome, there was an undeniable charm to him.

His grin was lopsided, and his tone was dripping with amusement. "Didn't expect to hear that name in a place like this. Thought I was the only poor bastard who ever ran into him."

Dorian studied him carefully. "And you are?"

The man placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "Come on, now. Ain't polite to ignore a man offering information, is it?" He sat forward, lowering his voice slightly. "Name's Marek. And I might know a thing or two about this 'Seeker' of yours."

His smirk widened. "Course, it depends on how nicely you ask."

Dorian arched an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly as the man—Marek, as he introduced himself—smirked and leaned in closer.

"So, you're looking for Orin too?" Dorian asked cautiously. He wasn't sure how much he could trust this Marek, but the fact that the man had recognized the name was intriguing. The more Dorian heard about this "Seeker," the more it seemed like there was something larger at play.

Marek's grin faltered for a moment, his gaze flickering with a mix of amusement and something darker—something Dorian couldn't quite place. "Can't say much yet. Let's just say I've got my reasons for looking for him, reasons I'm not ready to share just yet." He leaned back again, running a hand through his unruly brown hair. "But, hell, you're already in this mess with me now, so you might as well know what I know."

Dorian nodded, waiting.

"The thing about Orin," Marek continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "is that he's tied to a group. A weird group. They don't have a name, at least not one anyone talks about. But I'm sure you've heard whispers—there's always some talk among the higher circles of mercenaries about them." He paused, ensuring Dorian was paying attention. "They're... well, they're not exactly your usual band of rogues."

Dorian frowned. "A group of mercenaries with no name?"

"Exactly," Marek said, as though the very concept was enough to intrigue him. "They don't even have any public reputation. In fact, they're not really known among most mercenaries. But the ones who know them? The ones who've crossed paths with them? They're... different. Weirder. And, trust me, I've been on a few strange jobs in my time, but this lot? They're not like anything you've seen."

Dorian crossed his arms, his curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by 'weird'?"

"They've got these strange names. All of them. Almost like aliases, but something about it feels off." Marek leaned in, his voice dropping even lower. "I mean, Orin the Seeker is just one of them. There are others. But no one knows how they choose their members. Or what their real motives are. Some of 'em, we know—they've got warrants for their arrests from the king, and they've committed crimes even the most hardened criminals wouldn't dare to. But beyond that? It's a mystery."

Dorian frowned deeply, feeling a knot form in his stomach. "So they're criminals, and the king's after them?"

Marek nodded grimly. "Not all of them, but a good chunk of them are. I've heard rumors—whispers that this group's tangled in things even the king can't control. Power plays. Dark dealings. You name it. But the worst part? They don't follow any rules but their own. They do what they want when they want, and anyone who gets in their way? Well, they're either bought off or disappeared."

Dorian let the information sink in. "And you want to find them, too?"

Marek chuckled, a hint of mischief in his tone. "Wouldn't say I want to, but... I'm in this mess already. Like I said, I've got my reasons. But look, I'm no fool. I can tell you're not the type to shy away from something dangerous." He studied Dorian for a moment, sizing him up. "So how about it? We team up for a while. You help me find them, I help you track down this... Orin."

Dorian regarded him silently for a moment, weighing the risks. Marek didn't seem to be lying—there was something in his eyes, a certain sharpness, that told Dorian he was being genuine about wanting to find this group. And, if nothing else, Dorian's instincts told him that Marek was a man who had experience in dealing with dangerous situations.

Finally, Dorian nodded. "Fine. But we do this my way, got it?"

Marek flashed a grin, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Your way it is. But I've got one condition."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Let's keep it between us for now. We don't need every mercenary in this place knowing what we're after. Too many ears in these halls, and I'm not in the mood for rumors just yet. Got it?" Marek's tone was casual, but the sharp edge behind his words told Dorian this wasn't a suggestion.

"Agreed," Dorian said with a slight nod.

"Good," Marek said, his smile widening. "Now, let's get started. I've heard some rumors—just a few leads. But I think we need to start by tracking down some of the others in this group. See what we can dig up."

As Marek stood up to leave, Dorian couldn't shake the feeling that this partnership would lead to something far more complicated than he had initially bargained for. But, at this point, his only choice was to follow through. Orin was still an enigma, and Dorian was willing to take the risk to learn more about him—and this mysterious group.

The two of them headed toward the door, both knowing the journey ahead would be far from easy. But for now, they had an unspoken agreement—find the group, learn what they could, and maybe, just maybe, uncover the truth behind the elusive Orin the Seeker.