The building was immense. A castle-sized monolith combining Swedish architecture with 1960’s vampire films. And it was teeming with life, with people coming and going, milling about, talking to friends and buying and selling in a permanent market in the building’s grand courtyard.

  There were men and women and others of seemingly infinite races, skulking or striding about, dressed in the common clothes of Whitewater or in robes ranging from patched to grand. Many were in armor, with leather creaking and metal clanking. Magic hummed in the air.

  “The Adventurers’ Guild,” Fridu told me, gesturing to the monstrous building and grand courtyard. A young boy ran past me, stuffing a paper into my hands, darting from person to person like a bee pollinating flowers, leaving a paper with each person in turn. It was an advertisement for a fighter named Black Boots, a man willing to join any adventuring party for a fee of twenty-five gold and a share of all treasures obtained. I was already holding several other slips with advertisements for men and women who would hunt monsters or explore dungeons for similar fees, and still others with requests to eradicate irksome creatures, or in two cases tame them for a baron’s menagerie.

  Men and women were loudly calling out job opportunities, while others strolled forward, offering their services. Whenever a deal was struck, an officer of the Adventurers’ Guild, dressed in bright green livery, would cement the deal by writing it out on paper and ratifying it with a stamp.

  The market had food, of course. All markets have food. But largely the vendors were offering an incredible range of weapons and armor. There were several stalls with magic items. Booths with maps. Tables full of scrolls.

  A bellowing man repeatedly proclaimed the Whitewater Adventurer Finishing School as the best in the kingdom. Artists were illustrating likenesses for silver coins. Hardy men and women were offering their services as pack bearers or cooks or any of an innumerable amount of support services.

  There were crows and other birds, pigeons of course, all of them scouring the cobblestones for bits of dropped food. I saw a crow make off with a coin a young boy had dropped, with the boy’s mother offering sympathy while the father laughed and spoke of life lessons. A costumed band played flutes and drums while a topless woman danced in front of them, kissing the cheeks of anyone who donated coins to the troupe.

  A bull-headed man was offering rides on any of his animals. For three copper you could ride a goat the size of a horse, his jaws caged in an iron muzzle to keep him from nibbling. For three silver you could ride a six-legged bear, saddled in iron. For ten gold pieces you could soar into the air atop a griffin. The beast was the size of a car, and far larger with its wings spread. It smelled like a marijuana hay bale. Its eyes were full of intelligence. I stayed well away, my skin puckering with unease, wary to the creature’s slightest movements. I did wonder what it would be like to climb through the clouds while riding such a creature, though.

  “C’mon,” Fridu said, leading me through the crowds, followed by a small menagerie of cats, dogs, and a long-legged spider as large as any of them.

  “Masterless familiars,” Fridu explained. “They’re drawn to witches. In a way, they’re advertising their wares as much as any of these magicians trying to find nobles to serve, or the fighters offering their blades for coins.”

  “Do you have a familiar?” I asked.

  “I had one,” she answered, in a tone that let me know the topic was closed.

  We soon arrived at the building’s massive front doors. Fridu flashed a badge and we were admitted past the guards. Molly was waiting inside.

  “Appointment in five minutes,” she said, taking my other hand. “Hurry.” Soon, the two women were leading me like a child through the throngs of people waiting in one line or another, for what purpose I couldn’t tell. Some of them carried pelts. Others held arms and armor, antlers, a jar full of eyes. Molly and Fridu often pulled me in opposite directions, fighting like estranged parents for the custody of a child.

  “I can walk all by myself,” I noted.

  “Not really,” Fridu said.

  Molly simply said, “No.”

  Soon, we reached a hallway, and hurried down it to the last doorway, open, with an arch of fitted stones carved with softly glowing sigils.

  “The Evaluation Room,” Fridu told me. “I’ve been eager for this. Should be interesting!” With that, both women released my hands. I was momentarily grateful to be allowed to walk on my own, but then the barbarian and the witch both shoved me in the back with such strength that I stumbled into the room with a distinct lack of grace, nearly sprawling flat on my face.

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  “Hello?” a man said. His voice was ancient, so I was surprised when I looked up to find someone no older than me. He looked like he could’ve been sitting in any of my college classes, although the fitted robes he was wearing might’ve seemed a little odd. Probably not any worse than the dude who always comes to Astronomy in his pajamas, though.

  “Uh,” I said. “I’m Josh Hester. I think I have an appointment?”

  “Oh yes. Indeed.” He stared at me. Expressionless. He was maybe a touch under six feet. Dark curly hair. A distinctly bent nose.

  “I’m not actually sure what the appointment’s for,” I said. “They didn’t tell me.” I gestured back to Molly and Fridu, both of whom were still standing outside the open doorway, peering inside like children not allowed into the adults’ room during a party.

  “Evaluation,” the man said, “is why you’d come to the Evaluation Room, isn’t it?”

  “I’m… pretty new at this.” I was looking around to the room, which had a high, vaulted ceiling. The stone floor was carved with intricate designs, like the summoning circles I’ve seen depicted in stories about demons called to mortal soil.

  “Of course you’re new to this,” the man said. He reached out and plucked one of my hairs.

  “Ow! Shit! The hell?” I hissed. He was staring at my hair, holding it with fingers I now noticed were longer than normal. They each had an extra joint. The man’s eyes grew larger. He stared closer, making a clucking noise with his tongue.

  “A sample,” the man explained. “Part of the tests. Now, spit in my hand, please.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My hand. Spit in it.” He held out his hand, palm up, slightly cupped.

  “On a first date?” I said.

  “What?” He was puzzled.

  “Nothing,” I said, looking to the hand and looking back to my friends, the witch and the barbarian, both of whom were gesturing for me to get on with it.

  So I spit in the guy’s hand.

  Instead of being outraged, he nodded as if I’d done the right thing. Carrying my spit in his hand, he strolled over to a desk with a massive glass globe suspended above. The desk was covered with scrolls and trinkets, several plates of half-eaten food, a parakeet that was bounding about with great purpose while making chattering noises, and several anatomical models of men, women, dwarves, elves, and some sort of lizard person. Rummaging through the historical layers of his desk, the man found what looked to be a solitary golden chopstick, which he then used to stir the spittle in his palm.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. It seemed like I had a right to know.

  “Evaluating your stats,” he said.

  “Oh. I can help you with that.” I concentrated and brought up my status report.

  Josh Hester

  Class: Open  Level: 2  Health points: 24

  Race: Human  Alignment: Neutral Good

  Strength: 12 Intelligence: 11 Dexterity: 12

  Charisma: 12 Constitution: 13

  Languages: English Special Abilities: Stat Divination,

  Poison Resistance (30% chance no damage: half damage otherwise)

  Heal Light Wounds (1d4+5: 3x day)

  Special Attack: Precision 3x day: attack ignores

  opponent’s armor class

  Known Spells: Lightning Bolt (2x day), Fireball (1x day)

  Magic Items: Trip Ring, +1 Cloak, Blameless Dagger

  “What’s this?” the man blurted out.

  “Oh. I can make my stats appear. It’s an ability. Stat Divination.”

  “How interesting.” His brow furrowed as he stared at me, more disturbed than interested. He looked deep in my eyes, coming closer, then abruptly walked away and stared at my stats floating in the air. The parakeet chattered from his desk.

  Then the man licked my spit from his palm and rolled it around in his mouth.

  “What?” I gasped. “No. Ahh, man. Yuck. Don’t do that.”

  “You’re not quite right, Josh Hester,” he said.

  “You just licked my spit from your hand. You’re the one who’s not quite right. That’s like, something I’d only see behind the paywalls on certain websites.”

  “I’m not sure what walls you’re talking about, but I assure you, I’m qualified at what I do, but what I’m doing right now is being confused. You’re not a fighter. You’re not a magic-user. You’re not a thief. You’re not really anything. And yet, you are all of them.”

  “Look, if you’re asking me to explain it, I can’t. I have less than zero percent knowledge of what’s been going on in my life, lately.”

  “Hmm. Well, while I’m not sure of what you are, what I can say is that you’re qualified to join the Guild. My job isn’t to solve you, it’s only to weed out the pretenders, and . . . you’re not one.” He ruffled through layers on his desk and uncovered a pile of certificates. After scribbling his name on it, he picked up his parakeet, dipped its feet in an inkwell, and pressed the bird’s feet to the bottom of my certificate.

  “Yours,” he said, handing me the paper. It stated that I was a fully recognized member of the Adventurer’s Guild, listed as a “Recruit” level associate, eligible for entry-level missions and also discounts at several supply stores, a range of choice restaurants, and taverns of somewhat lesser choice.

  “At this point,” the man said, “I usually recite a litany of things you should remember, rules and regulations, the next steps for you to take, and so on, but I notice you’re with Fridu and Molly, and Fridu will make sure you know what’s going on and Molly will likely make sure you break all the rules and regulations anyway, so there seems to be little use. May I make a request?” He had a hand on my shoulder, ushering me to the door. His parakeet fluttered to the floor near my feet and bopped along with us, leaving a trail of tiny ink footprints.

  “I… suppose?” I said.

  “Come back and visit me. Often. I’m rarely intrigued. Hundreds of men and women and others have passed through my door, but you are unique. My name is Thomas. My parakeet is named Squabble. Come see us again.”

  “Sure.”

  “Fine. Good. Oh, one last thing. Since you seem to be associating with Molly and Fridu, that likely means you’ll be forming an adventuring party with a man named Gerik. A word of advice. Do not go down into dungeons with him alone.”

  “Oh, I already did that,” I said.

  “Hmm,” Thomas said. His mouth formed a line of displeasure. The parakeet, on the floor at my feet, squawked.

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