You’d been walking for hours.

The cobbled roads of Guild Lane were still damp with last night’s rain. You were broke, and every single “respectable” adventuring guild in the capital had either rejected you, ignored you, or laughed in your face.

"Come back when you’ve got credentials." "We don’t train beginners." "Sorry, we’re full up; try the Mercurials down south."

They didn’t even take a second look at you.

Eventually, you ended up standing in front of a cracked wooden sign nailed to a leaning shack tucked behind a tavern. The paint had peeled off most of the letters, but you could still make out the words:

🐀 Da Rat Children — “Adventurin’, Lootin’, Light Property Damage.”

A moldy curtain hung over the front entrance like a sad excuse for a door. Something dripped behind it. There was the smell of booze, burnt meat, and something else you couldn’t place. You looked around one last time. No one's eyes met yours.

You pushed the curtain aside and stepped in.

The room was small, crowded, and hot. Every surface was covered in junk: old weapons, half-melted trophies, bottles with things floating in them. A goblin with a red scarf wrapped twice around his neck sat cross-legged on a barrel, one boot resting on a crate of “Royal Rations." He was flipping through a book upside down, sipping something thick from a chipped mug.

He didn’t look up.

“You lost, or stupid?” he said.

You opened your mouth to explain, but he waved his hand before you could speak.

“Wait, wait, lemme guess. Tried the big boys. The Sable Blades said you were too green. The Iron Mantle don’t take scrubs. Flame Warden girls told you to piss off unless yer magic glows from both hands, right?”

That’s when he looked up at you with one good eye, the other hidden behind a ragged eyepatch. He grinned, cutting you off before you could even reply.

“Good. Means you’re desperate.”

He stood, tail curling behind him.

“That’s the best kind of applicant.”

He offered a calloused hand that was somehow cleaner than you expected.

“Name’s Skarr. Guildmaster of the Rat Children. And no, we ain’t a joke. We’re what’s left when everyone else slams the door. You want in? You earn it. You don’t cry when it gets dirty. And you never, under any circumstance, touch Boots’ boots.”

Behind Skarr, a massive, silent goblin sharpened a cleaver the size of your torso. At a side table, a hooded figure carefully etched arcane symbols into a piece of bread. A jittery kobold dropped a dagger, picked it up, dropped another.

Skarr’s hand was still outstretched. That grin never wavered.

“Well?” he said. “You in, or do I go back to drinkin’ whatever the hell this is?”