📜 The Curator’s Ledger: Volume I - The Prologue

"A Treatise on the Fine Art of Mercenary Work, Opportunism, and Getting Paid"

Prologue: A Job’s a Job

The Yawning Portal. You do not go there to make wise decisions. You go for strong drink, louder lies, and a seat close enough to watch the brave and the foolish drop themselves into the great pit below.

I have watched more souls vanish into Undermountain than I care to count. Some were courageous. Most were intoxicated. A rare few were both, which honestly improved their chances.

On one such evening, nothing remarkable about it at all, I found myself sizing up a table of misfits. Nothing about them screamed hero. Which was encouraging. Heroes are too clean, too noble, too short-lived.

These ones though… yes. These ones had potential. They just needed a little direction.

Enter Me

People expect someone called The Curator to be tall, glowing faintly, perhaps with an aura of mystery. Instead, they meet me. Middle aged depending on the angle, half-elven depending on the light, dressed in a coat that has survived too many taverns and carrying a ledger heavy with opportunity.

I slipped through the Portal’s chaos with ease. Side-stepped a drunk dwarf, ignored the bard’s off-key hymn about owlbears, and reached the table where my future troublemakers waited.

A Dwarven Forgemaster with hands blackened by soot and poor financial judgment.
A Human Assassin trying far too hard to appear ordinary.
A Halfling Mesmerist who was already three ales ahead of common sense.
An Elven Pirate frowning at an upside down map.
Others too, each of them odd, each of them a liability, each of them perfect.

They did not know me yet, but I was about to rewrite their stories. Or end them. Coin flip odds.

The Pitch

I set the ledger down, cleared my throat, and gave the speech I had perfected through repetition and apathy.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You have been selected for a once in a lifetime opportunity. The chance to etch your names into history.”

They leaned closer, curious and suspicious all at once.

“You are now members of the most prestigious guild Faerûn pretends not to know exists. The Guild Of Brave Scoundrels, Mercenaries, And Criminally Knowledgeable Explorers, Rogues and Specialists. Or, for the sake of brevity, GOBSMACKERS.”

The Halfling nearly drowned in his drink. The Assassin frowned. “We did not apply for this,” he muttered.

“No one applies for greatness,” I replied. “Greatness applies for you.”

“That sounds suspiciously like unpaid labour.”

“Not at all,” I said, sliding a contract across the table. “You will be paid in gold, gems, magical trinkets, favors, and occasionally cursed items you will regret selling under your real name. You will enjoy it.”

The Dwarf squinted at the ink. “And the job?”

“Ah yes. That part.”

The Work of a Lifetime

Contrary to rumours, I do not simply throw warm bodies at deathtraps. I curate talent. I pair problems with solutions. Where nobles see inconvenience, I see profit.

The system is simple. You get curated. You take a contract. You choose your risk. You earn your reward.

Sometimes the work is easy. Escort a merchant. Retrieve a bauble. Track down a necromancer who is raising more dead than the census can handle.

Other times… things get loud. And fiery. And occasionally involve portals belching monsters, fortresses under siege, or dragons whose grudges predate most civilizations.

“You pick the work,” I told them. “You pick the danger. You pick the reward. Fair enough?”

They nodded. Hesitant, but that was enough.

And So It Begins

One by one they signed. Some eager. Some wary. A few already betting who would die first.

I closed the ledger, tucked it under my arm, and delivered the line that sealed their fates.

“Welcome to the Guild. Try not to die. Or if you do, at least do it where the cleanup is simple.”

I slipped away into the noise, already plotting their first test.

Behind me, the Halfling raised a mug. “Right then. Who wants to make some bad decisions?”

The Assassin groaned. “I regret this already.”

The Elven Pirate smirked. “Too late. We are professionals now.”

Somewhere in the distance, a dragon roared. A prelude to the Ember Portal, the Arcane Gate, the battles and betrayals, the bloodied brawls and the moments of triumph that none of them could have foreseen.

Their first job waited in my ledger. Their second was already writing itself.