Patrick.

  Patrick managed to round up his eager targets quickly enough once introductions had been made and each had gotten to take a good look at his medallion.

  The rogue admitted that the youths had retively decent heads on their shoulders for wanting to confirm it themselves, but unfortunately for them, they were far more trusting than even they knew themselves to be.

  It was a strange truth that most folks got one good look at a goldie's medallion and, for whatever reason, accepted their bearer's word for whatever it might be, even if their instincts told them otherwise… such btant and blind trust was just about as common as a soldier's fart.

  To attain the rank bronze, one would need to have trained in at least some form of martial art or partaken in arcane studies with the diligence and skill to have both a respectable foundation in their craft and enough experience to excel else they simply wouldn't make the guild cut.

  Heck, the army didn't even let you enlist in their core ranks without having achieved the bare minimum expected of any youths who should be delving into the dungeon to improve themselves.

  It was a right of passage, a prestigious feat that proved to all those around you that you were worth something in this world. A guild medallion signifying that you were of a cut above the common stock that couldn't handle the responsibility afforded with the rank.

  However, dungeons, on the whole, weren't just a convenient way to test one's strength and earn a pce in society; no, they were tricky, filled to the brim with puzzles and traps that pushed the limits of not only one's physicality but their mental aptitude as well, at least, most were.

  Generally speaking, for one to reach the lofty heights of gold, forgetting, of course, the ranks above even that, they had to be rugged, intelligent, talented, reliable, and, above all else, determined.

  As such, those who found themselves 'wearing the gold,' as it was said, were often individuals of unquestionable ability, easily finding themselves within positions of both authority and power without much difficulty.

  Though, were Patrick to pce a firm hand on where he believed the ridiculous concepts had taken root, it would be upon the adventurers guild itself for which he would pce it.

  And while the likes of Taeldras chained dungeon let younglings prepare for lives spent spelunking the depths of genuinely challenging beasts in search of riches, it was not a pce one leveled—excessively.

  Regarding the guild itself, however, consisting mainly of thrill seekers, mercenaries, and opportunists, it was not the individuals who completed the contracts themselves but the entity that they represented that inspired such trust.

  If one was fair with their coin, concise with their request, and patient with their representative, it was ordinarily a safe bet that whatever needed doing would get done, naturally leading to the idea that those in the guild were the good guys in life.

  Patrick couldn't precisely dispute that assumption either, as the guild had and still did improve the lives of those who sought its aid.

  However, as so few individuals who were bestowed with a golden medallion as of te forwent the well-paying work the guild offered for more reputable and stable work provided by the city-states, outliers like himself seemed to have slipped through the cracks.

  Cracks not so indifferent, at least from his perspective, then the tightened crevices of the smiling guards' open hand as, one after another, each member of his new party paid their copper toll to enter the gate of the dungeon.

  The science behind the mystical and mysterious creatures known as 'dungeons' was a hotly debated topic, fielding conversations from the lowest of beggars by firelight to the greatest academic minds of untold generations.

  Accepting any and all challengers, the thus far incomprehensible pce seemed to take its aspirants to a nd beyond their own reality, one where the pre-established ws of governments, magics, and morals could be twisted, questioned, and judged by a higher power that carefully watched from the shadows.

  The dungeons did not care if one was a lord, a baker, or a beggar-king; those who entered its depths were each and everyone humbled, lest they sabotage their own chances of survival within.

  There was no score to keep count of, no qualifier, winners of contestants for the things within a dungeon, were no game. Merely a pce entity eager to eat an individual whole, one that lured its prey in with promises of power and wealth…

  Curiously, despite the dangers one could find within, their dungeon rarely seemed to outright kill its visitors, unlike more feral examples of its kind.

  That, of course, wasn't to say that you couldn't die; it wasn't the dungeon fault if one were to slip and split their head against a rock after all, but the challenges offered were no more than essential, imitations of real threats that felt, looked and even smelt the genuine article but would ultimately pale against calm minds and shrewd tactics.

  Unlike its unforgiving counterparts, which, in Patrick's experience, took every opportunity to sy those that wandered within, Taeldra's dungeon was a retively safe pce for the young to test their mettle in a more controlled environment. That was good, especially for the riff-raff that fancied themselves, young professionals...

  Not unlike the children, he now watched with honest bewilderment as they continuously failed to light a simple fire.

  As it happened, their unlikely group had walked through the hazy gate only to find themselves within a small interior of stone cavern walls that were lit by dim torchlight. Their only way forward was an inky dark corridor that stretched infinitely beyond the soft light that the tunnel's torches provided.

  There was never an accurate way to know just what kind of surprise the yout dungeon had in store for you, mainly because it was constantly changing its interior between delves and remodeling its own pns according to a set sort of blueprints, but that just meant you had to know what was what.

  Patrick couldn't have been sure of exactly who had expined to his disappointing charges what they could expect to come up against, but obviously, the band of youths hadn't expected to struggle quite so much within the first minutes of their arrival.

  After the group had grown bored marveling at the oh-so-interesting cavern, speaking after its potential origins and history as though they were professors at the college, they had inevitably lost their interest amidst all the—nothing that surrounded them.

  Then, they set about going over a strategy on which they could all agree. Admittedly, that part had actually gone surprisingly smoothly as nobody seemed to question Arthur's bid for leadership nor the reasonably sound tactics he supplied.

  Serving as their group vanguard, the steel-cd youth would have his friends py a supportive role in his glorious march towards the challenges that awaited them, using Elinor as his second in the front lines, Connor as their team's opportunistic striker, and Whiskers as their rearguard and ranged support.

  Considering what they had brought with them, Patrick couldn't find any genuine fault with the boy's reasoning, even if their party composition wasn't exactly the norm.

  However, it was when the privileged teens had attempted to solve the little issue of exactly how they would see with any reliability amidst the gloom, that things had quickly divulged into chaos.

  At the moment, said chaos had been conjured by the simple task of lighting a torch. As it happened, each of the hopeful youths actually remembered to pack one, but sadly, it was only the pudgy boy who had seemingly decided to include a Tinder set in his gear.

  The irony of the others' abject failure to pn with such mind-boggling ineptitude, despite their presumed education, was staggering to behold, but not at all more so than the utter circus that had been born of their frustrated attempts to light what were simple cloth-wrapped sticks.

  The small box of flint and striking steel seemed to make its rounds through the growling, groaning, and insulting brats that were willing to turn on each other as quickly as the object of their vexation, even as they took their due doing their best to bring forth fire.

  It was clear that not one of them knew any magic, which wasn't exactly uncommon, even for noble kids, with Patrick only having a light grasp on the subject himself.

  Magic was something of a rarity and gift these days, which was why there was such a concentration in the city, as few other pces gave one the opportunity to gain it… But, given their upbringing, the rogue had half expected them to at least know a cantrip or two that could… oh, he didn't know, maybe make up for their cking of outdoor experience?

  Obviously, he hadn't mentioned to the kids that they hadn't actually spread any oil across the torches as of yet if they even had any, nor the fact that the multitude of sconces nearby were all well within arms reach.

  Patrick might have offered the youngsters a word or two of advice were they of a more stable and accepting sort, but the honest truth of the matter was that, when within this pce, it was actually guild policy to take a hands-off approach, everything, no matter how insignificant, was just another part of the experience to help mold youths into valuable adults.

  It wasn't his pce to offer the aspirants solutions to their problems or any real aid in general save for in times of emergency; however, it wasn't technically against the rules to offer a bit of indirect advice from time to time without everyone getting uppity that no skills were awarded when things were just handed to them.

  The system wouldn't exactly reprimand him if he were to say, gavant about in their midst whilst sying monsters meant for much less experienced individuals, but the governance within would undoubtedly hold his involvement against his young wards and treat them poorly with allocated experience.

  Monster orbs be damned, there was no fooling the system when it came to who most participated in a kill. That was why it just wasn't worth it for high levels to rape the dungeons of its monsters and sell their cores. They'd be worth jack shit unless someone of an appropriate level got their hands dirty.

  However, everyone had their schedules. So, without so much as a word, while at the same time ensuring he let out a loud enough yawn to garner attention, Patrick retrieved a hand-sized jar from his own supplies, as well as a torch.

  Uncapping the cork stopper, he began spreading the oil across the cloth surface, ensuring to soak the thing with a good half the container's contents without spilling much waste.

  He didn't bother looking at the four sets of eyes that watched him in utter silence, instead busying himself with his work until satisfied that he had done the job correctly.

  The older rogue likewise didn't bother with a firestarter when there was already an easily avaible source of fme nearby! So, he sauntered over with a zy gait to ignite his torch on the flickering examples that sat arrayed on the wall.

  It only took moments for his charges to catch on to what he'd done with Whiskers managing to discover a simir oil in his own pack stored within a repurposed waterskin.

  Nobody thanked Patrick as the group copied his example in kind or even so much as gave him a nod in acknowledgment; however, Aurther did lock his eyes to the rogue's own for a beat.

  Admittedly, where there wasn't exactly what he would have called respect in that gaze, but there did seem to be a form of grudging appreciation all the same. Pride was ever the folly of the stupid.

  Not one of the youths had taken kindly to his refusal to offer them any form of obvious help or direction when they eventually did start out, with the shortest among them even becoming a touch hostile, going so far as to partially draw upon him with a sneer.

  But, then again, he hadn't expected much else to happen, even as he'd calmly expined that his direct involvement in it all would make things wildly tricky for the group to get anything of proper worth.

  Patrick wasn't a butler or nursemaid, as he had chided them, but a silent observer meant only to rush to the rescue should grievous misfortune befall those under his scrutinous eye.

  None of their compints or demands for a refund had phased him either, partially because he wasn't exactly who he said he was and partially because this was far from the first such incident he'd had to deal with in his schemes.

  The common misconception being that a guild-hired guide, no matter what rank, was intended to do all the hard work for you. Which obviously had been just how the kids before him had expected things to go down.

  Of course, they doubtless imagined that they'd take care of all the complex parts vis-a-vis any glorious combat where their very narrow skill could shine. All the while generously leaving all the boring bits, such as everything else that encompassed the ability for one to survive beyond the comforts of a wealthy family's home, to the imagined sve they'd purchased for the week.

  It always brought a chuckle to his cracked lips when he got to watch young lordlings, each so used to getting their way, slowly come to terms with the fact that they would have to do things themselves for once!

  Almost cathartic.

  Sure, he could probably manage to knock the lot of them out now and separate their goodies without much effort, yet Patrick had learned over the years to prize both caution and patience.

  Robbing from lordlings was a risky trade, and one that walked a fine line between creating a vengeful lifelong enemy and merely annoying said young noble without provoking the wrath of their family and friends.

  Stealing their property was already bad enough of a reason for them to expend effort to hunt him down, if only a paltry effort as it usually was, but stealing their property and humiliating them to the point of leaving them with little to nothing to show for their first time was a matter of an entirely different nature.

  Patrick had employed such tactics in the past and received a sufficiently bloody nose for his shameless avarice. The rogue still couldn't show his face, disguised or otherwise, within the perimeter of Pothiclies and took care to avoid any travelers from the city with genuine care, even in his own backyard.

  For the old imperium social elite, money could only bring you so far; honor and pedigree were the only true currency of the realm that mattered.

  Or so they said; as for Patrick, he imagined he'd rather just have the money...