Thief with a heart of gold. Solid gold. And they'll let you have it for five hundred silver, as long as you don't ask any questions about where it came from.
The idea of an Adventurer's Guild strikes many as ridiculous. General-purpose troublemaker and amateur sellsword is not a trade of carefully-seasoned artisanal skill and apprenticeship, after all. Those people miss, of course, the actual purpose.
"This is a human heart made of solid gold," the adventurer says, carefully easing the heavy bag off her shoulder onto the shop's high counter. "And this is my Guild paperwork," she holds up a folded square of waxed paper with ribbons trailing from inside it. It looks genuine, as far as anyone could tell from only seeing the folded exterior. "I'm not trying to fence something I lifted. It came from a forgotten sorceror-king's evil resurrection complex under the desert out west. I'll let you look at my papers, but only — only if you'll agree to give me five hundred silver for it and not put this on the books as a Guild sale."
"I have questions," the goldsmith says.
"You get to cheat me blind on this thing's value for just five hundred silver and no questions."
"I have one or two if you want to get that far."
She sags against the counter. "There's a paladin," she says.
"Nearly enough to answer them," he agrees. "Keep going."
"Aiya, man, we just staggered out of the desert, we're broke, the job was a wash, all we've got to show for it is this. We're camped out in a tent on the common to save bankrupting ourselves on an inn, and she — she's in a bad way, for all she's been pretending all the way back she's fine. Sickness on the lungs. She needs a doctor. But the moment she saw this stupid fucking thing she got this look—" the adventurer breaks off, closes her eyes. "Not even a religious one. Even fucking worse, even more fucking reverent. She don't talk about it, but there's a sweetheart somewhere, and she sees this and I can tell, I can tell she's written out a fairytale ending on the back of this thing."
"Which you've stolen while she's asleep?" The set of his mouth civilly suggests the sneer of decent people, witnessing the rootless dregs of adventuring folk.
"It's not — we have a rule about sharing the profits. We're fair to each other. It's not—" and she presses the back of her sleeve to her eyes for long seconds, blots them a few times, steadies her voice. "Fine, yeah, I stole it, man, and it'll break her heart. You know what's not a fairytale ending? Dying of pneumonia in a fucking tent in one of richest trading cities in the world, a few hundred paces from a healer. If you mark this as a Guild treasure, she'll find you, she'll find it, she'll — the second she can crawl out of bed, she'll sell the clothes off her back, her sword, the food from her mouth, her hair, her teeth, whatever this forsaken fucking place will take from her, to get it back. So she needs to never find it. Five hundred silver, for a doctor and a roof over her head while she heals."
"Nothing for you?"
"She needs to never find me, either, after this," the adventurer says bitterly. "I've sailed before, I can find work on a trade ship. Or caravan guard. I can be gone by morning."
He stands for a few seconds, then silently gestures for the Guild writ in her hand, takes it and scrutinises it closely, then re-folds it and hands it back. He snaps his fingers twice, and a fat, olive-skinned elf wearing only boots and a ceremonial codpiece waddles in from the back room, holding a brass-bound wooden box at chest height, oiled arms flexing.
The goldsmith rapidly, efficiently counts out stacks of silver coins, wraps the gold heart in a cloth, and ignores the elf as he returns to the back with both box and bundle. "Gods watch you," he says politely, as the adventurer sweeps the silver into her emptied knapsack.
"Don't take it personal," she says, hefting it to her shoulder, "but right now, man, I hope rats eat you."
