Chapter 38 — Shadows of the Elite
(Shadeblade POV)
Portscab's skyline was ablaze with twilight hues—orange melting into deep violet—as our small crew approached the towering gates of the Thalvryn Guild. The guild wasn't just a collection of mercenaries; it was a powerhouse, a shadowy elite whose contracts dictated underworld trade routes, security monopolies, and occasionally, who got to eat the last chicken in the city.
Step lightly. Sword ready. Observation sharp. Humor… optional, but in my case, inevitable. I adjusted the boney mask, the crack along my left eye catching the fading sun.
"Skeleton," Selia called from a nearby rooftop, flipping her daggers idly, "don't trip in front of them. It sets a terrible precedent. Tier‑2… dignity optional, yes, but style points matter."
I muttered under the mask, pivoting over a cobblestone. "Style… optional. Survival… mandatory. Chaos… inevitable."
Bran chuckled beside me, slapping the side of his shield. "Optional style? You? I swear, you invent disasters just for fun."
Vaelric Dorn adjusted his crimson cloak, standing straighter than ever. "And yet somehow," he murmured, "he commands respect… through clumsiness." Pride tempered, humility applied. His first steps as a mediator would be tested today.
Lysara, silent and cold, scanned the surrounding alleys, bow at the ready. Mira held the map, whispering precise instructions. Korran leaned casually, observing, a shadow amongst shadows.
---
We entered the guild's main hall. Marble floors gleamed, banners of the Thalvryn emblem swaying in the soft breeze. Guild members, Tier‑3 and above, eyes sharp as daggers, lined the room. Conversations halted; all attention subtly gravitated toward our small party—five humans, one clumsy masked figure, and a noble who had finally begun swallowing pride.
Selia grinned, whispering, "Skeleton, try not to fall over a guildmaster's foot. It sets a bad example."
I adjusted my mask, muttering, "Step lightly. Fundamentals. Humor… tactical."
Bran snorted. "Tactical humor? Is that… a thing?"
Vaelric gave me a sidelong glance, crimson cloak swaying. "Apparently, in Portscab… it's deadly effective."
---
Negotiations began. Mira orchestrated the discussion with surgical precision, linking contracts, establishing terms, and quietly positioning allies. Selia flanked with silent grace. Bran stayed ready, shield raised—not threatening, but clearly prepared to crush anyone foolish enough to test us.
And then I tripped.
Step lightly… pivot… miss the stone… spin… tumble into a chair. A guild scribe yelped, spilling ink across a pristine ledger. Gasps. Laughter. Murmurs. Chaos.
Selia couldn't stop herself. "Brilliant! Skeleton just redefined diplomacy!"
Bran laughed so hard he nearly fell over the table. "Tier‑2 Disaster… and somehow respected!"
Vaelric pinched the bridge of his nose, crimson cloak fluttering. "I… this is diplomacy?"
"Yes," I muttered under the mask, swinging my sword instinctively to steady myself, accidentally knocking over a small decorative vase. "Step lightly. Observation. Fundamentals. Chaos… optional."
---
The discussion continued. Guild leaders—Tier‑3 late to Tier‑4 early—were cautious, intrigued by the unusual party. Shadeblade, the clumsy, masked swordsman, had already created a subtle reputation: dangerous, unpredictable, yet disciplined in fundamentals.
Selia perched on the railing, twirling a dagger. "Skeleton, you've made them unsure whether to attack or applaud. Genius!"
Vaelric quietly began mediating, subtly guiding conversation, referencing agreements, redirecting suspicion away from our crew. "Observe," I muttered. "Fundamentals applied. Step lightly… even in politics."
Bran shook his head. "You call tripping a fundamental… I call it chaos with style."
Korran's calm voice cut through the chatter. "Tier‑2 sword, clumsy execution, disciplined core. Vaelric, apply lessons. Step lightly, strike precisely, negotiate firmly."
Lysara's arrow was never far from her hand, though today it wasn't necessary. Silent approval marked her eyes. Observation, fundamentals, discipline—applied flawlessly.
---
A tense pause. One guildmaster, Tier‑3 Ascendant, raised an eyebrow. "You… are effective despite… your theatrics?"
I adjusted the mask, leaning slightly. "Step lightly. Observe. Sword ready. Humor… tactical."
Selia clapped softly. "Tactical humor! I swear, this skeleton is a living, breathing paradox!"
Bran chuckled. "Effective… terrifying… and completely unpredictable. That's Tier‑2 clumsiness for you."
Vaelric finally spoke up, crimson cloak slightly askew from my accidental elbow nudging him. "They… respond to fundamentals, clarity, and unity. Chaos… can create space for negotiation."
The guildmaster stared, realization dawning. Step lightly, fundamentals intact. Observed, disciplined, unpredictable. Respect—not fear—now mixed with a subtle wariness.
---
Negotiations concluded successfully. Contracts finalized, alliances tentatively secured. Laughter rang out as Selia whispered sarcastic praise, Bran joking about my "diplomatic falling skills," and Vaelric quietly noting lessons learned. Even Korran's unreadable expression softened slightly—a nod of approval enough.
Step lightly. Sword ready. Humor inevitable. Trust and diplomacy achieved.
Shadeblade—Tier‑2, clumsy yet disciplined, sword-only, humorfully effective—had survived elite scrutiny, political tension, and the chaos of his own making. Vaelric applied lessons of humility and strategy. The crew, cohesive and synchronized, had proven their worth.
As night fell, the city lights flickered like distant stars. A feast awaited—the reward for surviving elite negotiation without permanent humiliation. We laughed, shared stories, and I even managed to trip spectacularly while reaching for the last chicken leg. Selia nearly cried from laughter. Bran's roar echoed through the guild hall. Vaelric… smiled faintly. Humility, chaos, and survival woven tightly into the crew's fabric.
Tomorrow, bigger challenges awaited. But tonight, laughter, trust, and chaotic efficiency reigned supreme.