With a deep breath, Eleonora pushed open one of the heavy double doors. As she entered the noise washed over her first.

  The main floor was filled with boisterous laughter, shouted boasts, the scrape of chairs, and the uneven melody of a well-worn piano being abused in the corner by someone who played with more enthusiasm than actual skill. The hall's main floor was a wide open room with poor lighting.

  Visibility was further hindered by the wave of tobacco smoke wafting about. Its thick stone walls were stained dark from years of smoke and poor cleaning.

  Long wooden tables crowded the main floor, most of them already occupied by adventurers nursing their mugs and doing all sorts of sorted activities.

  To one side of the large room stretched a well used bar, its surface scarred by knife marks, burn rings, and at least one embedded dagger that no one seemed inclined to remove. At the far back, half-hidden behind a supporting pillar and a haze of smoke, sat the guild’s reception desk and quest board.

  The air smelled really bad to Eleonora, it almost smelled worse to her than the bandits, with the heavy scent of cheap beer, tobacco, sweat, and old leather clinging to everything in the place.

  The décor was very plebian with bare support beams of roughhewn wood, various plain iron sconces holding candles with vainly and quixotically attempting to light the space.

  And the walls were covered with stuffed monster heads.

  Eleonora did not realize it, but she had stepped straight into the manticore’s nest. Every adventurer in that hall man or woman had been forged by hardship.

  The life of an adventurer was short, violent, and rarely kind. Thus, only a particular breed of person chose the life of an adventure willingly. Most in the imperial heartland came from brutal poverty.

  They were often children of failed farmers, dockhands, miners, refugees, or orphans with no master willing to take them as apprentices. For them, the Adventurers Guild was not a story book romance, it was a ladder out of their desperation.

  Which was often slick with blood and missing rungs. A single successful C-rank quest could earn more than a skilled blacksmith made in months, if the adventurer survived of course. Advancement though the guild's ranks meant better contracts, legal protections, and a chance, however slim at respectability.

  Failure meant possibly becoming crippled, ending up in a shallow grave, or disappearing quietly into the gutter.

  There was very little in between the extremes.

  In many ways, adventurers were like the pirates of the First Empress’s world.

  A necessary, useful, and deeply distrusted group.

  Some were genuinely heroic, people who still believed in protecting villages and slaying monsters for more than coin. But many more were hardened reprobates, only a knife's edge from a single bad decision landing them in the gallows for banditry, smuggling, or worse.

  Violence was their main language and suspicion of their betters their only faith.

  As Elenora walked in, the adventure’s eyes fell on her. One by one at first, then in slow, contagious waves, all of the eyes in the hall were drawn to her as though by some shared, unspoken instinct.

  Conversations faltered mid-sentence.

  Laughter hitched. The piano in the corner went silent.

  Heads turned as the chatter in the hall died. It became so silent you could hear a quill drop.

  Every conversation halted mid-word, every clink of a mug on the solid wooden tables, every muttered curse, half-told boast, or whispered argument vanished into a thick, pressing silence.

  Even the piano in the corner faltered, its last note hanging awkwardly before dying away as dozens of hardened adventurers turned as one towards the newcomer.

  They stared at Eleonora’s unicorn-themed armor, each plate lovingly engraved and polished to a bright sheen.

  It was the sort of craftsmanship that could have funded a high-end B-rank quest all on its own.

  Eleonora's armor looked painfully and offensively out of place among the crowd. The adventurers in the hall wore dented breastplates with pour patches crudely welded on, chainmail darkened by rust, and leather scarred by claws and blades alike.

  Eleonora's armor by contrast gleamed like a festival prop dropped into a mass grave, pristine and untouched by the misery that had shaped everyone else in the room.

  The examination continued as they stared at her sun-bright blonde hair next, noticing how it was neatly bound in a Dame’s braid. And then there was her smile which was open, earnest, and very much unguarded.

  The kind of smile worn only by someone who had never gone hungry, never slept in the mud with a blade clutched to their chest, and never had to weigh the value of a human life against a handful of coins.

  To the men and women in the room she was the worst kind of noble, an ignorant fop who did not know their place was as far away from the hard-working undeserving poor as possible.

  Thus, their expressions shifted as the realization settled in, as to the nature of the pretty little creature that had wandered in.

  Some faces twisted into sneers, lips curling with contempt.

  Others cracked into smirks, amused and predatory, already anticipating a possible joke at Eleonora's expense. A few hardened into outright resentful glares.

  Eleonora stood there blinking pleasantly, unaware of the silent judgment weighing her from every angle.

  She had quite literally walked into the manticores nest dressed like a storybook knight.

  And though she didn’t yet realize it, every seasoned adventurer in the room had already decided the same thing and that was that Eleonora didn't belong there

  Totally oblivious to the way conversations had begun to slow around her, Eleonora bounced toward the nearest counter, armor chiming cheerfully with every step.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Behind it sat a squat, thick necked dwarf whose beard was braided into tight, utilitarian plaits, each one capped with dull iron rings.

  His nose was crooked from having been broken in multiple fist fights.

  Meanwhile, the dwarfs' brows were permanently knotted together as though the world itself had personally offended him.

  He was polishing a mug with a rag so old it had achieved something approaching sentience.

  Before Eleonora approached, he set the mug down with a deliberate thud and reached for the tap, drawing another ceramic mug full to the brim with cheap beer. His movements slow, practiced, and heavy with the bored irritation of a man already anticipating trouble.

  Eleonora was practically vibrating with joy, as she arrived at the counter.

  “Hi!” Eleonora said with excited enthusiasm. “So, like… I wanna sign up for the Adventurers Guild! I also like...”, however she stopped mid-sentence because the dwarf didn’t even look up. Uh... Excuse me si... she attempted again to get the dwarf's attention only for the dwarf to angrily interrupt her.

  “Oi,” he growled at last, voice like gravel dragged over rusted steel. “Are ye stupid, ya silk-swaddled, inbred blueblood?” He said finally lifting his eyes which were small, sharp, and utterly joyless.

  “This is a bar. Where honest folk drink.

  If ye’re lookin’ for quills and paper-pushers, turn yer pretty little head around and walk to the back of the hall.

  Though someone oughts tell ye to piss off right proper since ye dont belong you stuck up cunt. SAVVY!!!”.

  He said firmly and very angrily as his words cracked across the room like a whip.

  Eleonora recoiled as if she had been physically struck.

  Her cheeks shifted from a soft, embarrassed pink to a vivid red, and finally to a deep, mortified crimson that spread across her face and neck. Her usual bright, confident smile collapsed into something fragile, uncertain, and almost childlike.

  Words and laughter that would have barely registered to most adventures hit her like a hammer.

  The dwarf’s blunt vitriol overwhelmed her normally unshakeable and inexhaustible exuberance.

  Though she was by no means a completely sheltered girl she was still the daughter of a duke and as such unaccustomed to hearing such direct cruelty spoken aloud, without pretense or restraint.

  Even the manor servants, who could deliver biting gossip with impunity, would have bought the dwarf a round of drinks just to celebrate the audacity of his words and having said what they could not but wanted to say to Eleonora.

  Now, confronted with the full force of that vitriol, Eleonora felt small, exposed, and painfully aware that every eye in the hall was on her.

  Under that pressure her confidence shattered like fragile glass.

  “I...I’m so.. sorry,” she stammered, hands twisting nervously as she became anxious and her eyes threatened a deluge of water.

  “Mr. Gnome...:” she continued before stopping as the dwarf gave her a death glare.

  The guild hall inhaled as one.

  Chairs creaked.

  Someone nearly choked on their drink.

  “Oh no,” someone whispered.

  “Oh, that’s bad.” others muttered.

  Yet the entire guild hall was now watching the events unfold with bated breath as if they were at the theater.

  The dwarf went very still, and his fingers tightened around the mug he was filling.

  Though an untrained eye might mistake them for close kin, dwarves and gnomes have spent centuries upon centuries insisting often at the top of their lungs and with weapons drawn that nothing could be further from the truth.

  Both races are short and broad of build.

  However, the similarities end there in the minds of either people. Gnomes have leaner frames and only elder gnomes have beards.

  Dwarves, by contrast, consider their beards sacred, a living testament to their lineage and honor.

  The hatred between the two is very ancient and predates the rise of the Empire. With both sides claiming it's entirely the other’s fault.

  Whatever the truth is, confusing either race for the other has led to much spilled blood.

  Even in the modern age, with imperial law frowning heavily upon such things, a careless mis identification can still start a fight. Thus, to call a dwarf a gnome is not just a faux pas, it is a challenge and a provocation.

  The dwarf rose from his stool, joints popping audibly. “What,” he said softly, each word trembling with restrained violence, “did ye just call me?” Eleonora backed away, panic blooming across her face.

  “I...I didn’t mean it like that! I just...people say gnomes are like small and...oh no...” she stammered becoming more scared.

  “GNOOOOOME?!” the dwarf screamed, his voice cracking the air like a hammer on an anvil.

  The mug he had been filling was still clenched in his fist, ale sloshing violently over its rim as his arm drew back.

  With a furious bellow and a strength born of a long hard life, the dwarf hurled the ceramic mug full of beer across the counter toward Eleonora’s stunned face.

  Beer exploded across Eleonora’s face in a violent spray of bitter foam and shattered ceramic, the impact knocking the breath from her chest causing her to let out a startled gasp.

  Warm beer soaked instantly into her golden hair, plastering loose curls to her cheeks and temples, dragging down her braid until it clung, very sticky and heavy against her neck.

  It spilled all over her armor in humiliating rivulets that traced the engraved unicorns as if deliberately highlighting them, turning something beautiful into a cruel joke.

  The sharp tang flooded her nose and mouth, sour and overwhelming, making her gag as it burned its way down her throat.

  Beer splashed into her eyes, stinging fiercely, blurring the room into a watery haze of color and movement until tears spilled freely, from both pain and the shame she was now feeling.

  Tiny shards of cheap ceramic nicked her skin, nothing deep or dangerous, but each cut flared sharply as the alcohol seeped in. A constellation of small, cruel stinging hurts scattered across her cheeks and brow.

  For a heartbeat, the hall was silent.

  Then it erupted with laughter, which roared like a storm breaking. Adventurers doubled over, slapped tables, howled and jeered. Someone whistled. A mage applauded slowly, cruelly.

  One adventure an orc wiped tears from his eyes and was laughing so hard he began wheezing.

  “Look at her!” someone shouted.

  “The Princess got baptized!”.

  While another cackled “she smells and looks more like a tavern wrench now!”.

  All throughout the tavern they began mocking Eleonora.

  Heaping more insults into the girls' wounded dignity.

  The dwarf leaned over the counter, pointing a thick finger at her.

  “Get out,” he snarled.

  “Take yer shiny toy armor and yer soft hands and crawl back to whatever castle spat ye out”.

  He continued screaming at Eleonora as she stood frozen, beer dripping from her hair, tears blurring her vision.

  Her armor suddenly felt ridiculous. Heavy, loud and wrong. Then she began sobbing before turning and running for the door.

  The laughter and ribald mockery chased her like thrown stones, voices rising behind her in cruel waves as she stumbled and ran blindly toward the door.

  As she left, she heard shouted obscenities she didn’t even understand.

  As the noise pressed in on her from all sides, it became loud and suffocating, until her chest began tightening and her breaths began to come too fast, too shallow.

  Air rasped uselessly in her throat as panic clawed up her spine.

  She shoved the door open with shaking hands and burst out into the street, gulping desperately for breath, tears streaming freely down her face as the sounds of the adventures guild’s vicious mockery slammed shut behind her.

  Worse yet Eleonora was no longer sure if she should be a knight anymore.