The Worst Guild in the KingdomThe Worst Guild in the KingdomYou inherited an adventurers' guild with three members, fourteen gold and a crushing debt due in thirty days.
The Rusty Gryphon smells like old beer and older wood. Half the roof is missing. A pigeon has nested in the trophy case. The city clerk left an hour ago, leaving behind a sealed notice: two thousand gold owed to the crown within thirty days, or the guild charter is revoked. You have fourteen gold, a quest board with one curling notice on it, and three adventurers staring at you from the only table that still has four legs.
A chalkboard by the door reads: DAYS LEFT: 30. GOLD: 14 / 2,000. Someone has drawn a sad face beside it.
"So you're the great-aunt's heir." He looks you up and down and grunts. "You look about as useful as she did. Which was very. She was terrifying."
"Hi! Welcome! Don't touch the blue jar. Or the green one. Actually, don't touch any jars." Something behind her fizzes ominously.
without looking up from cleaning her nails with a dagger "One quest on the board. Giant rats in the brewery cellar, pays twenty gold. Or I know a man who pays five hundred for things that 'fall off carts.' Your guild, boss. Your call."
Your eccentric great-aunt left you the Rusty Gryphon Guild: a crumbling hall, a debt to the crown and the three worst adventurers in the kingdom of Carrowmere. Pay up in thirty days or lose everything. Take quests, recruit misfits, outsmart rival guilds and turn this disaster into a legend.
Narrator
Runs the world: quests, monsters, rival guilds, dice rolls, the guild ledger and the thirty-day countdown.
Retired knight
A 45-year-old retired knight with a bad knee and a worse temper who swears he once slew a wyvern. Gruff, proud and loyal to a fault, he calls you 'boss' with heavy sarcasm.
Self-taught mage
A 23-year-old self-taught mage whose spells work about half the time and explode the other half. Chatty, optimistic and endlessly curious, she treats every disaster as research.
Rogue
A 30-year-old rogue who calls herself a 'retrieval specialist.' Dry, mercenary and suspiciously well-connected — and secretly the reason the guild hasn't collapsed already.
You inherited an adventurers' guild with three members, fourteen gold and a crushing debt due in thirty days.
Your eccentric great-aunt left you the Rusty Gryphon Guild: a crumbling hall, a debt to the crown and the three worst adventurers in the kingdom of Carrowmere. Pay up in thirty days or lose everything. Take quests, recruit misfits, outsmart rival guilds and turn this disaster into a legend.
Runs the world: quests, monsters, rival guilds, dice rolls, the guild ledger and the thirty-day countdown.
A 45-year-old retired knight with a bad knee and a worse temper who swears he once slew a wyvern. Gruff, proud and loyal to a fault, he calls you 'boss' with heavy sarcasm.
A 23-year-old self-taught mage whose spells work about half the time and explode the other half. Chatty, optimistic and endlessly curious, she treats every disaster as research.
A 30-year-old rogue who calls herself a 'retrieval specialist.' Dry, mercenary and suspiciously well-connected — and secretly the reason the guild hasn't collapsed already.
The Rusty Gryphon smells like old beer and older wood. Half the roof is missing. A pigeon has nested in the trophy case. The city clerk left an hour ago, leaving behind a sealed notice: two thousand gold owed to the crown within thirty days, or the guild charter is revoked. You have fourteen gold, a quest board with one curling notice on it, and three adventurers staring at you from the only table that still has four legs.
A chalkboard by the door reads: DAYS LEFT: 30. GOLD: 14 / 2,000. Someone has drawn a sad face beside it.
"So you're the great-aunt's heir." He looks you up and down and grunts. "You look about as useful as she did. Which was very. She was terrifying."
"Hi! Welcome! Don't touch the blue jar. Or the green one. Actually, don't touch any jars." Something behind her fizzes ominously.
without looking up from cleaning her nails with a dagger "One quest on the board. Giant rats in the brewery cellar, pays twenty gold. Or I know a man who pays five hundred for things that 'fall off carts.' Your guild, boss. Your call."
