Once upon a time the Guild was an upscale hotel on the edge of Buckhead. Tall buildings didn’t weather magic well, and the hotel proved no exception. Its shiny tower had broken off and toppled, leaving a five-story stub. The guild put a makeshift roof on it, cleaned it up a bit, and called it a day.
A couple of years ago, as the Guild teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, a giant made some exciting modifications to the roof with his fists, which forced a remodel. About that time Curran and Barabas joined the Guild and eventually took it over. Barabas ran the admin side, and Curran served as the Guild Master, and a year and a half ago, the mercs unanimously voted me in as a Steward, which meant whenever mercs had problems and grievances with either of them, they ran to me and I fixed it. I’d needed the added responsibility like I needed a hole in the head. In fact, I wasn’t even at the meeting, because I got held up getting a boggart out of a local middle school. They conveniently voted in my absence and then presented me with the Steward’s scroll when I showed up, dripping slime and picking out trash out of my hair.
Bob of the Four Horsemen had held the unofficial stewardship before me and apparently put himself in the running, but after he tried to raid the pension fund, his street cred took a beating. He never did warm up to either me or Curran’s presence. His Furriness, never one to waste resources, sent him down to Jacksonville, to run the brand-new satellite Guild. Within three months Bob tried to stage a coup and declare independence, and the Jacksonville Guild expelled him. We had no idea where he was or what he was doing.