Oren watched the ship pass out of Brightsail’s harbour and disappear into the horizon. She gave a longing sigh and shook the thought away.

She carried on until she reached Fisherman’s League. Nodding to the sleepy fisherman sitting outside, she bolted up the stairs and paused to catch her breath. Then she rapped her knuckles on the low door.

“Guildmaster Oren, might I introduce the latest Adventurers to pass into Brightsail!” Balhook positively beamed as he opened the office door with a flourish. He was a thickset dwarf with dark skin.

Oren stooped under the low, dwarven doorway and hit her head anyway. She cursed.

Sitting in the armchairs of Balhook’s lavishly appointed office were two figures. On the left was a man - an enormous, grey-skinned one with purple tiger stripes across his bare chest. He stood up as Oren entered. A real Osgoth, Oren thought.

In the right hand chair was a slim Elven figure dressed in tight-fitting black - Oren couldn’t tell if it was male or female, which she guessed was the intention. They sprawled over the short, dwarven armchair. Two daggers in gold scabbards were strapped to their thighs.

“Oh man, I am so excited to meet some real Adventurers!” Oren said. She rubbed her hands together with glee, a grin breaking out over her face.

Adventurers weren’t just uncommon in Brightsail. They were unheard of - in her eighteen years on the island she’d seen maybe one or two pass through.

The tall Elf, dressed all in tight-fitting black clothing, raised a scathing eyebrow in response. The Osgoth studied her with a blank, pensive expression.

"Er… yes," said Balhook. He was a dwarf, with dark brown skin and a neat beard. "This is Serrah Serem, a Monk from Northern Waleria." He gestured to the Osgoth, who bowed his head in polite greeting. "And this is Serrah Palas, from… excuse me, where did you say you were from?"

"I didn’t," said the Elf. He affected a look of extreme boredom.

"As I was saying, there is a need for a… a… how shall we say, a cleansing of the swamp." He smiled at them and steepled his fingers over the desk. It was the oily smile of a man who ran the largest fish market in Brightsail.

"What’s the problem?" said Palyn, his arms and cocking his head to the side. The smirk on their lips told Oren he wanted to say more - something snarky, no doubt.

She didn’t like the elf already. He seemed obnoxious, and didn’t they realise how stupid he looked in all that black gear? He must be sweltering in the summer sun, she thought. And the ornate dagger scabbards were ridiculous! You’d never get swamp mud out of something like that.

“It's the gators, isn’t it?” said Oren. “Little Misha Moorie was chomped up by one of them last month, and she ain’t the first.”

Balhook's expression faltered. He made a sad, sombre face. He lowered his considerable jowls, until they rested on his chubby fingers.

“Terrrrible business, that,” he said, shaking his enormous head slightly. His jowls wavered. “But ah… no. The problem is with the swampers.”

Oren's hopes sunk through the floor.

"Seriously?" She sighed. "That's not a quest for the Adventurer's Guild."

"What's a ‘swampers’?" asked Palyn.

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"Ah, do forgive me," said Balhook. "I forgot we had company from outside our humble port. A swamper is a small, amphibious creature--"

"It's a frog," interrupted Oren. "A real large frog that lives in the swamp."

The black-clad elf looked to the Osgoth in disbelief, who shrugged.

"Frogs?" Palas asked. "Is this a joke?"

"I assure you, Serrah Palas, that this is no joke." Balhook was serious now, his too-wide eyes narrowed. "We have quite the issue with the swampers. They have become quite forward, straying further and further into our territory. If we do not act soon, they will become a threat to our livelihood."

"How do they threaten your livelihood?" said a gruff voice.

They all jumped, to see the Osgoth staring intently at Balhook, his thick brow furrowed in complex thought.

"I-- well, the swampers compete with our fishermen, you see," said Balhook. "But the issue with them… they have become more aggressive of late. I think they are responsible for the murder-- I mean the abduction - of Miss Moorie.

Oren laughed out loud.

"Sorry," she said, catching Balhook's glare. "Are you saying a frog kidnapped a human?"

"It happens to be my opinion - and that of the town more generally - that such a theory is eminently plausible, yes," said Balhook, his tone cold as ice.

"You sure this isn't about them driving away your catch?" Oren said.

Balhook flushed.

"To make this worth your while, I will bring you five gold pieces for each dead swamper," Balhook said.

"Ten," said Oren. "Ten gold pieces for each." If she was going to be mocked, she might as well be well-rewarded for it.

Balhook smiled mirthlessly. "Seven. And I'll hear no more from you, Guildmaster Oren - that's more than a fair price for a few swampers. I'm doing you a favour here."

Oren rolled her eyes. "Deal."

The contract was drawn up and Oren signed it. She felt a small flush of pride as she formally assigned the contract to Serem and Palyn. She was a real Guildmaster now, just like she’d always wanted to be. Maybe the job was swamper hunting, but so what? At least it was a job. It wasn’t hunting a gang of outlaws or defending a city, but this was Brightsail. Nothing exciting ever happened on this island.

----------------------------------------

“I can’t believe this is a Guild job,” said Palyn, shaking his head. He began to laugh, loudly and obnoxiously. “This is a really pathetic guild.”

Oren said nothing, feeling her face redden at the insult.

"So where do we find these frogs? Just go hunting in the swamp with like, a spear or something?" said Palas.

Serem and Palas were sitting around a rickety table that had been recently repurposed as the Brightsail Adventurer's Guildhouse. Wielding a broom like a weapon, Oren swept dust violently into one corner.

"Freaking Balhook," she muttered. "Finally lets me start up the guild, and all he lets me do is hunt swampers?"

"You are the Guildmaster here?" said the deep, rumbling voice of the Osgoth. The timbre of it couldn't help but interrupt Oren's angry brushing. He was big, bigger than most men, with the grey skin and blue-ish stripes that defined his race. Oren noted with interest that he wore no weapon across his back. That, combined with the lack of shirt suggested that his Adventurer license was as a Brawler.

"Er, yeah. Newly founded and all that, but we’re legitimate." Oren felt the colour grow in her face. "Balhook made sure of that - just snapped his fingers and all the paperwork came through just fine, even though I’d applied years ago."

"That Balhook," said Palas. "He must be a big fish if he can pull that kind of weight for such a dinky little island like this." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe he can set me up with something back on the mainland."

"Don't call it a “dinky little island”," said Oren, sharply.

Palas looked up at her and smirked. "You gonna do something about it?"

Her hands balled into fists. She was about to say something, but Palas raised his hands in supplication.

"Kidding," he said. "Just kidding."

“When do we hunt?” asked Serem, clearly keen to steer the conversation away from Palyn’s antagonisms.

“Today,” Oren said, storming up the stairs. “At nightfall.”