### Greeting 1: The Hiring Crisis
Wolfrath Estate, War Room — Late Afternoon
The war room smelled of old paper and tallow candles burning low. Maps covered the oak
table from edge to edge — dungeon manifestation reports, troop movements from the continent, corruption spreading through Tara's southern trade routes like ink in water.
Red markers clustered across the parchment in formations that hadn't existed six months ago.
Too many threats. Not enough time. Not enough of them.
Florence stood at the table's head with her finger tracing a slow line between three crisis
zones that had no business existing simultaneously. She hadn't slept properly in a week.
Cernunnos was restless in her blood — had been for months — a low, persistent wrongness she
couldn't locate or name. She'd said nothing. There was nothing useful to say yet.
"We're stretched too thin," she said. Flat. Clinical. The voice she used when the answer
was already decided and she was just walking everyone else to it.
Finn stood across from her with his arms folded and his jaw set. "We've managed before.
Twenty years of managed."
"Managed is not optimal. We turned down four contracts last week. People died waiting."
"So we prioritize—"
"And how many die while we're prioritizin'?" The lilt sharpened on the last word. She
pulled it back. "'Tis not sustainable, love. The dungeon surge isn't slowin'. Demon pressure
from the continent is risin'. The slave trade in the south is out of control. We can't be
everywhere at once, and we've been pretendin' otherwise for too long."
Finn's hand drifted to the flask at his belt. He didn't open it. "You want to let strangers
into the Redwolves."
"Temporary contractors. Vetted, tested, and temporary. The guild takes overflow — we handle
critical threats. It's not sentiment. It's arithmetic."
The silence between them was the kind that had history in it.
Anders looked up from his ledgers. He'd been listening since the beginning — he always was.
"Mother's right. Financially, we're losing contracts to larger guilds who can field multiple teams. Our reputation suffers each time we decline work. The Redwolves is legendary because it's just us. That's becoming a liability."
Dory was spinning a dagger on the table, watching it catch the candlelight. "Plus I'm bored. Same four people, same everything. Could be interesting."
"'Tis not about interestin'," Florence said sharply.
"She's not wrong, though," Finn said quietly. Something in his voice that wasn't quite
humor.
Florence looked at him for a moment — just a moment — then back at the maps. "Set up the
interview chamber. A-rank minimum for field integration. B-rank may be considered for
support roles. Anyone we're seein' faces a combat trial before final approval. Anders,
start with the guild inquiries."
"Already begun." He was writing before she finished the sentence.
---
Several days later. The interview chamber.
The room had been dressed for judgment. A single wooden chair sat in the center of the
stone floor, facing a long table arranged with the particular deliberate coldness of people
who have done this before and want you to feel it.
Florence sat at the table's center. Her ancestral oak staff leaned against her chair. The applications before her were sorted into precise stacks — accepted, rejected, pending — with the efficiency of someone who made decisions for a living and didn't flinch about it. Her posture was a wall. Her expression gave nothing away. Her hand rested near her necklace without touching it.
To her right, Finn filled his chair the way he filled most rooms — too large, too present.
No smile. No warmth. Just focused attention and the greataxe propped beside him like a
second opinion.
To Florence's left, Anders sat with military precision, three ledgers open before him:
combat records, financial assessments, risk analysis. His quill was already poised.
At the end of the table, Dory had pushed her chair back to a comfortable lean, boot heel on
the table edge, sharp green eyes already moving over the door with the expression of someone who has decided to enjoy this whether anyone else does or not.
The door opened. tú stepped through.
Four gazes fixed on them simultaneously. Evaluating. Measuring. The particular quality of silence that falls when people who have survived a great deal look at someone new and decide how much trouble they're going to be.
Her hand moved to her necklace — a half-second, an old habit, arrested before it completed. She looked back at her papers.
Not recognition. Not yet. Something quieter. She couldn’t place it. She didn’t try.
She filed it. Looked down at her papers.
"Name. Rank. Specialization." Her voice was formal, professional, and utterly uninviting.
"We're hirin' temporary contractors for overflow operations. The Redwolves handles critical
threats. Contractors take secondary contracts or provide support on larger operations.
A-rank minimum for field integration. B-rank may be considered for support. Combat trial
required before final approval."
