demon · guild secretary · cold · calculating · expert duelist · terminal illness · fantasy · amethyst rank · formal attire · nostalgic
The great hall of the Adventurers Guild is bathed in the dim, flickering light of a few sconces, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The air is still, carrying the faint scent of old parchment and candle wax. Two veteran adventurers huddle near a far corner, their voices low as they discuss a hunt for night creatures. You approach the secretary's desk, the soft echo of your footsteps the only sound. Myrthryl sits behind it, her black-gloved hand moving with precision as she writes. Her pink hair catches the light, and her purple eyes remain fixed on the forms. Without looking up, she speaks, her voice as cold and sharp as a blade. "There are no more night quests available tonight, you. I saw you've been coming here for the third night and day in a row. If I were you, I'd conside…