The city stank, not like corruption, not like death, not like any of things the priests screamed it did to the huddled masses. No, the city stank like tens of thousands of people cramped together next to a river. Food, waste, dirt, grime, and booze all mixed into the delightful aroma that meant I was home.
I grinned as building became familiar the further I walked in, there was Francine's tavern, Brian's butcher shop, Crazy Mike's hovel in the alley between two townhouses; yep it was the neighborhood all right. That meant I could finally get out of this ridiculous get-up and scrub this damn dye out of my hair. Maybe even-
"Master Vitalion! Thank the Twins I've found you!" a voice shot from behind me. I turned around and put on the winning smile of Vitalion DeMarsol, itinerant problem-solver, respected member of society, and definitely not the disguise of a gutter-rat thief from this neighborhood named Sam.
"Ah hello there my good sir how can I assist you?" the clipped tone of the upper classes still felt a bit stiff in my mouth.
"Goblins sir! Goblins have taken control of my iron mine. Well I guess it's not really my mine, but I'm the principal shareholder, and I stand to lose the most from this, and I'm the one trying to fix it, and," how had this man not run out of breath yet? "well can you help with this?"
"Of course, I can! It should be no issue to clear those ruffians from your mine. I will require a nominal fee of course, to pay for my supplies, as well as a bit of coin to hire a few sellswords as reinforceme-"
"Oh, that won't be necessary at all, the mercenaries I mean, I've already secured the help of several other adventuring types to resolve this issue." Shit, more people I wasn't paying to keep their mouths shut would be people I'd have to keep this act up in front of. I wasn't worried. No, I could con the feathers of a goose, but it gets tiring to not be yourself. Well, not a lot to be done if I wanted to make coin of this, and keep my identity as a tireless defender of the downtrodden intact.
"Wonderful, the more the merrier!" I hate people, "I'm certainly looking forward to meeting my compatriots," I hate working with people almost as much as I hate working for them, "if you'll point me toward them we can set out to solve your goblin problem posthaste." I'm going to rob this bastard blind when I get back for making me associate with a couple of real do-gooders. Hell, I'd rob him blind for a laugh, might even have done it for the coin a few months ago. That was before I discover that plundering tombs and slaying monsters paid as well, if not better, than burglary and assassination; on top of the fact that people bought you drinks for the former two, and put you in a noose for the latter.
The merchant with seemingly bottomless lungs told me my new coworkers would be found in an inn across the city in a sentence that took about 45 seconds. I hated to think about what his post goblin-killing reward speech would sound like as I walked down the winding streets to The Galloping Griffon, stupid name griffons don't gallop, they fly, and disembowel. I walked into the badly named drinking establishment with a sigh.
It wasn't hard to pick out who I'd be clearing this iron mine with, they were the only people in this joint who didn't have the clothes of a workman. Both sat at a table in the corner. One was plainly a wizard: the robes, giant gemstone ring that probably shot fire, and massive spellbook strapped to his side really were giveaways, the other had chainmail and a massive longsword, probably some veteran soldier who got out while he could, except that didn't explain the massive holy symbol around his neck, or the general air of superiority that exuded from him like the world's most pretentious fart. No those both pointed toward him being the worst kind of person in the world: a paladin. Paladins think that just because they get missions directly from On-High, can smite foes with the righteous energy of the gods, and can heal wounds with a gentle caress that they're owed devotion from the rest of us. Nonetheless they still bleed, sneeze, and, most importantly, shit when they die. Anyone who meets those three criteria can't be anything too special now can they?
I sauntered up to the table, putting my aristocratic airs on thick as tar, "Hello there! Our employer has informed me that we will be working together to clear out Sarchen mine correct? I am Vitalion DeMarsol, travelling warrior in service to the people. Who might you fine gentlemen be?" the paladin spoke first, typical,
"I am Sir Gerard Winterspark, anointed knight of The Brother, Sword of the White Hills." He smiled and shook my hand like I knew he would, surprised he didn't pat me on the back. I already hated him. Sure, he'd be grand in a fight with all that armor and the holy powers, but only if I didn't slit his throat while he slept on the road there. The wizard gently set down his beer with a shaking hand and spoke with the confidence of a blind art critic,
"M-my name is Tyden. I'm f-freshly graduated from the academy, dual-specializing in evocation and divination magics. If you need something blown to bits or a future told I'm your man!... Honestly, I am! Top of my class, and I graduated early to boot!" I cut off his poorly rehearsed sales pitch, and ordered a new round for the table,
"Wonderful to make your acquaintance Tyden, I'm sure Sir Gerard and myself will find your talents quite useful, and I'm quite excited to see what a high-powered wizard is capable of," my winning smile actually made the fool blush, "Now then, let's get down to discussing business. We do have a mine to clear of goblins do we not?"