As you walk along the city streets in legendary Din’arin, the fabled city of the Divine, you might, might come across an old, wooden building, creaking and bending to the point it seems a single gust of wind might blow it over. It might seem out of place in the grand city, chock-full of floating temples and august palaces, such an aged, tired building... and it is.

More than a few inspectors have claimed its old, wooden structure and its propensity to favor one side (the west) over another as a public health threat, and yet, the old, creaking thing still stands as high as it did the day some builder slapped the last board on with two and a half nails along with as little effort as possible, then tossed his helmet to the side, quit his job, and went home.

That helmet’s still there. In the bushes, if you looked and were quick about it, you might see the faded, stained yellow of a long-forgotten hard hat--which is, interestingly, still ratified by the ISA. You figure they’ll ever change that? But I digress.

Stop before the building. Take in its old, dirty windows, its long-faded sign, its misshapen, flaking portrait of a woman--or a beautiful portrait of an ogre, if you think of it that way--painted by some long-ago patron to the guild.

Yes, it’s a guild. Actually, it’s The Guild. The first, the original, the Adventurers Guild, now reserved for only legendary veterans, famous explorers, and storied travelers.

Its nickname is, oh so humorously, the Hall of Fame. Yes, yes, laugh it up. Go on. I’ll wait. I didn’t come up with it.

It’s not that bad? Ha!

...

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Well, I suppose everybody has their own opinions. You seem to have the wrong one, but we’re not discussing that.

Alright. Walk up the steps, marveling at the half-dead shrubbery around the guild. Nobody in the adventurers business has a green thumb--except maybe the elves and the druids. Tree-huggers, those guys. But they don’t really bother me. None of them ever show up at the guild, anyway.

Push open the doors--rather well made, really well balanced--and hear them squeak for want of oil. Trust me--it’s not because nobody cares for them. We try to keep ‘em just oiled enough to be squeaky as well as easy to turn. It makes it easier to stare weirdly at all the cloaked strangers.

Breathe in the savory scent of roasting meat, the strong smell of ale, the homely smell of freshly baked bread, right out of the oven. Heavenly. They’re usually made by Martha, the bartender’s wife. Yes, Mad Martha. That one. Turns out she’s a great cook.

Turn your head to look across the room. There, sitting at the high bar, setting the low bar, are the regulars.

There’s Evelyn the Scarlet. Yeah... it’s really not hard to tell which one she is. Just follow the trail of red. Or just look for her hair. You can't miss either of those.

There’s Lin Daohan, the Wanderer. That silent one in the corner there. The one with the big sword. Yeah, that’s him. He’s from the east.

There’s Liu Luoyang, the... actually, nevermind. I’ve got no idea what she is. She’s from the east... I think.

There’s Unbaktafure--yeah, it’s a weird name. He’s from up north, the nomad tribes. Crazy stuff they do up there--weather dances, cold spells, dark rituals to raise dread lords. Ya know, the works. Must be all the ice--does something to the mind, if you ask me.

There's Rasthen al... something. Al-something. That's his last name. No, it's not actually "al-something." I hear he's a retired assassin? Sure as hell doesn't look like one. But I suppose only the worst assassins look like assassins. 

There’s a couple more... but those are all the ones I can recognize right now.

Look, I haven’t been in a while, alright?

My memory’s been going a little fuzzy ever since that one incident on the Excelsior. Damn forget-fish eel-thing god.

What do you mean I never told you about that one?