Sunlight hit Delvin's face like a slap as they emerged onto Main Street. The morning bustle of merchants and laborers flowed around them—a woman balancing baskets of saffron on a yoke, a blacksmith's apprentice hauling a crate of horseshoes, a pair of guardsmen dragging their heels after night watch. The knight shoved Delvin forward hard enough to make him stumble. "Guildhall's north gate district. Sundown." His fingers lingered on his dagger hilt. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss definitions of 'city limits' in the interrogation cells."
Delvin snapped up straight and said, "Nope! I'm being a good bard and heading straight to the guild halls, thank you kindly, knight, bye, bye!" He hurried off in the direction of the north gate, muttering about knights with sticks up their asses. Delvin held the damaged lute case under his arm as he made his way to the guild hall.
After walking for twenty minutes, his boots kicking up dust from the cobblestones, Delvin finally reached the guild hall—an imposing structure of dark oak and iron reinforcements with its symbol embossed on a plaque above the doors. A line of adventurers, mercenaries, and hopefuls stretched out the door, their armor clinking as they shifted impatiently. Delvin groaned, rubbing his temple where the welt still throbbed. "Fantastic," he muttered. "Just what I need—more waiting." He leaned against the wall, tuning out the grumbles of the queue ahead. Twenty minutes later, his patience worn thinner than his lute strings, he finally reached the reception desk.
The woman behind it didn't look up as he approached, her quill scratching furiously across parchment. The fingers of the gloves she wore were ink-stained, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid that disappeared beneath the high collar of her guild tunic. Delvin drummed his fingers on the counter. "I'm here to see Receptionist Veyne," he announced, flashing what he hoped was a charming smile. "Got a... debt to settle."
The woman looked up with a raised eyebrow. Her gaze flicked to the battered lute case under his arm—the snapped strings visible through its cracked lid—then back to his bruised face. "Oh," she said dryly. "You're *that* bard. The one who destroyed the Warm Hearth Inn."
Delvin spluttered, ale-damp sleeves flapping. "I did *not* destroy it—I was defending myself!" His voice cracked on the last word as a droplet of something foul (ale? blood?) dripped from his hair onto the ledger before her. She wrinkled her nose and slid it aside.
The receptionist—whose brass nameplate read *"Lira"*—merely plucked a smooth black stone from her desk and murmured into it. The rock pulsed once,. "Approach the kiosk," she said, pointing to a frosted glass panel beside her that Delvin swore hadn't been there moments before. Veins of silver light spiderwebbed across its surface, forming words: *Veyne - Arcane Mediation.*
Delvin's boots scuffed against the guildhall's unnaturally polished floor as he stepped toward the panel. The glass fogged, then cleared to reveal a face—if you could call it that. Veyne features swam beneath the surface like reflections in a disturbed pond, his mouth forming words that vibrated through the kiosk's frame: *"Ah. The tavern-flaming troubadour."* The glass rippled as he chuckled.
"I," Delvin began, then coughed when Veyne's image sharpened abruptly—his eyes suddenly appearing inches from the glass, pupils vertically slitted like a cat's. *"You're fortunate,"* the receptionist continued, voice lowering into something that made Delvin's fillings ache. *"Had your melody carried explicit charm magic, you'd be picking rock shards from your fingernails in the Blackvein quarries by now."*
Behind Delvin, Lira cleared her throat pointedly. A scroll unfurled itself midair beside him, its glowing ink detailing damages in meticulous cursive. The quill hovering over it tapped impatiently against *"1 gold 23 silver, 8 copper"*—the total flashing crimson. Veyne's reflection stretched unnaturally across the glass surface, his elongated fingers counting off violations: *"Unauthorized arcane amplification. Public endangerment via sonic manipulation. Destruction of property reparations to the victims of your magic And—"* His grin split his face too wide, revealing teeth filed to points. *"—disturbing my lunch hour."*
Delvin's fingers twitched toward where his coin pouch normally was—then remembered it currently lined some guard's pockets. "Sixty-seven silver," he protested, jabbing at the scroll. "The merc's own report said—"
The glass frosted over with a *hiss*. When it cleared, Veyne's face had multiplied—dozens of his reflections now crammed into the panel, all speaking in eerie unison: *"Sixty-seven silver... plus guildhall overtime rates... plus administrative surcharges..."* One swirling hand gestured to a footnote in glowing green script that hadn't been there before: *"Subsection 38-C: Any disturbance causing senior staff to miss scheduled repast incurs a meal replacement fee (1 gold standard)."*
Delvin's stomach dropped into his boots. Suddenly Delvin remembered the knights words *prey he's in a Better mood than I am?* Veyne's twitching ears were now clearly visible through the glass—tawny fur tufted with black tips like a lynx's. The bastard was *enjoying* this.
"Fine," Delvin croaked, licking parched lips. "What do I sign?"
Veyne's feline ears drooped visibly behind the glass. *"Aw. You're not ranting about injustice? Not even a token 'the system's rigged'?"* His multitude of reflections pouted in disappointment, whiskers twitching. *"Shame. I had bets riding on your outburst duration."* A claw-tipped finger tapped the glass, making it ripple outward like a pond struck by a stone. *"Just fill out Form 12-D—subsection 'Magical Malfeasance'—and initial where it says 'I solemnly swear not to burst civilians' eardrums again.'"*
Delvin stared at the quill floating before him, its nib dripping what looked suspiciously like blood. "For the love of—I DIDN'T BURST ANYONE'S—" He caught himself mid-shout as Lira cleared her throat again, louder this time. The mercenaries queued behind him had gone ominously quiet, their armor creaking as they leaned in. Delvin exhaled through his nose. "Fine," he gritted out, snatching the quill, his stomach twisted in knots as he signed.