1. Brindle Sparksnare (Gnome Male Psion)
A smug gnome with slicked-back blond hair, sharp little teeth, and a self-important smirk. Brindle insists on “testing his psionic gifts” on strangers by dramatically proclaiming things he knows about them: “You had porridge for breakfast, didn’t you?” When he’s inevitably wrong, he scolds the players for “projecting incorrectly” or “thinking the wrong thoughts.”
2. Sister Calithra Emberveil (Tiefling Monk)
A bald tiefling monk with crimson skin and faintly glowing eyes, who floats cross-legged in the hall, robes billowing gently in the still air. She projects serenity—until anyone talks to her. Then she immediately loses concentration, crashes to the floor with a grunt, and glares furiously before floating back up to try again.
3. Dorrin Coppermantle (Young Dwarf Inventor)
A fiery-bearded dwarf with soot-smudged hands and wild hair, red in the face as he argues with a guild clerk. He loudly insists he’s discovered a brand new spell that should rightfully be named after him. His opponent, a weary clerk, rolls her eyes and snaps back: “It’s just fairy fire, lad. You haven’t invented anything.”
4. The Miralith Twins (Elf Siblings)
Two identical high elves in matching silver-trimmed robes, both with long golden hair tied back in braids. They stand nose-to-nose in the waiting area, bickering furiously while holding up a small homunculus, each claiming sole credit for summoning it. “It is bound to me!” shouts one. “No, me!” the other retorts, as the poor creature looks bewildered.
5. Jassa Cloverpot (Halfling Woman)
A plump halfling woman with curly chestnut hair and ink-stained fingers, waving a parchment citation at a guild official. She is arguing passionately against a fine for using unlicensed magic, insisting that the fire which consumed her neighbor’s yard was an “act of deity, not me!” She cites obscure religious texts and offers muffins to anyone who’ll support her claim.
6. Master Rolen Hargrave (Human Male, 50s)
A weary human man in his mid-fifties, with sunken eyes, deep wrinkles, and stubble that suggests he hasn’t touched a razor in days. His robes hang loosely on his thin frame, and his hands tremble as he clutches a stack of spell notes. Rolen admits he cast a spell to keep himself awake “just for a night or two” to finish his research—but that was three weeks ago, and now he cannot sleep at all. His voice is hoarse and rambling, and he has come to the guild elders, desperate for advice before he collapses entirely—or worse, loses his mind.