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Meet Cuthbert. Niles Cuthbert, marksman and professional letdown. He let down his family when he ran away at age 12 to join the Fighter's Guild, and he let them down when puberty showed that he would never amount to a frontline mercenary. He was too lanky, too uncoordinated with the sword, and had no mind to even be one of their tacticians, so after four years of failing to meet any of their standards they settled for making him clean the stables. It was only out of sheer boredom when the guild was away on adventures that Cuthbert discovered a minor natural talent lay in the bow and arrow, so after two years of dogged determination he became proficient enough with the bow to steal it and set off and make a name for himself.
And, naturally, he was a letdown to himself. After almost dying to a few rats in someone's basement because he didn't have the clearance to easily shoot any arrows, he spent his last coin on healer's fees and some chainmail and was lowered to shooting crows off statues for table scraps. Cuthbert needed a job, but every posting on the notice board would have easily killed him and no adventuring group wanted a fighter who couldn't fight.
And then he had the good fortune--from a certain point of view--to run into the cleric.
He hadn't sought her out, of course, hers was just another face in the crowd he was ready to ignore and be ignored by, but they had both reached up to grab the same notice and Cuthbert was hungry enough to be a bit confrontational. He snatched the notice out of her hand but stopped when he got a good look at her: clearly from some far-off land, she had auburn hair, freckles, bright blue eyes, and a button nose, but despite her being a foreigner in the western kingdom what caught his attention was her attire. She was wearing a heavy gambeson, quartered in blood red and soft gold colors, with a stylized vertical infinity sign as the sigil on her left breast. That meant she was a cleric of the goddess Freyja, a mysterious order composed entirely of women and surrounded by all manner of horrible rumors. He didn't know what was real and what was hearsay, but all the rumors had in common was that you did not want to get on a disciple's bad side. Cuthbert started to stammer an apology, but she cut him off.
"Hi! I'm Madeline Ziri. Well, not really, but everyone calls me Maddie." She stuck out a hand for a handshake. "What's yours?"
"Uh... Cuthbert," he responded, trying not to wince as she took his hand in a surprisingly crushing grip for a vigorous shake.
She waited a beat, clearly hoping he would give her a cute nickname, and when he didn't she continued unabated. "Well hi, Cuthbert! I was just looking for a simple quest to take for lodging money... most towns at least have one Daughter of Freyja I can stay with, but this is okay."
It was a pleasant surprise that she hadn't tried to smite him where he stood, but Cuthbert's rumbling stomach wasn't interested in niceties. "Sorry to to hear that, but I need this one. You can take that other notice for an exorcism."
To his surprise, the cleric sheepishly looked away and said, "Normally I would, but I've been traveling alone so long that I'm not at his best right now. Freyja is a goddess of love and companionship, so isolation doesn't suit us. Hey! Why don't we work together? It'll be fun."
Cuthbert sighed and looked at the paper, it was a job to stop some mercenaries that were making a scene at the tavern on a nightly basis. Only 10 copper for a reward, but there was no way he could take on a band of mercenaries by himself. "You don't even know how I'd be of any help."
"Aww, I can see it in you, I'm good with people. Now come on!" Ziri grabbed his wrist with that iron grip and practically dragged Cuthbert to his very first job as an adventuring group. The Winking Pilgrim was an appropriately dingy tavern for the dingy township of Cridfell, dimly lit and smelling of mildew as the crusty old guard drank their memories away. The overweight barkeep gave the notice a glance, told us to wait about an hour, and promptly ignored them for paying customers. They talked for an hour--or rather, Ziri talked about Freyja while Cuthbert nodded and watched the door. The party started right around sundown, when the door slammed open and a mountain of a man strode in with the grotesque head of a harpy strung over his shoulder. He slapped it on the counter, splashing blood everywhere and loudly proclaiming to the room that he had personally slain three of the creatures for two gold each so he was clearly going to have the best drinks and food in the tavern. Ziri let out a breath to brace herself and said, "Yep, that's the guy. I'll to talk to him, okay?"
Cuthbert was more than happy to let the cleric be confrontational, and for a second it seemed to be working. She seemed to be giving him a lecture, but when the mercenary shouted something about her being his entertainment for the night and grabbed her on the ass some protective instinct he wasn't even aware of took over Cuthbert and he rushed over to give the man a shove. When he turned his direction he got his first up-close look and immediately recognized him: Marcellus, one of the top men in the local Fighter's Guild and an absolute barbarian of a fighter. And he recognized the wannabe-fighter, too. "Little Connie? Is that you? Why, we thought one o' the horses ate 'cha! Guess he can surprise th'boss by bringing you back for a court martial, might even get t'pawn your stuff." Marcellus grabbed Cuthbert by the scruff of his tunic and threw him bodily into the street, and he stayed down. He learned with this ilk long ago that not being an interesting target usually meant they got bored of you faster.
Cuthbert looked up to see Marcellus' drunk, Neanderthal face grinning down at him, but a challenging shout was issued from inside the tavern. It was Ziri, who strode outside wielding a hand-and-a-half warhammer with one flat face and one that ended in a curved spike. "The marksman's with me," she said, all giggly demeanor gone and replaced with a stone cold determination. Marcellus started to say something about getting to her next, but before he could finish the slurred thought Ziri swung her arm in a backwards windmill, slamming the flat end of the hammer into the man's testicles so hard even Cuthbert felt bad for him. Ziri loomed over the downed mercenary, held up the notice, and said, "Marcellus, you are not to trouble this establishment of The Winking Pilgrim again, lest we end your life."
Cuthbert scrambled to his feet, grabbed the notice, and for good measure balled it up and forced it into Marcellus' mouth. Ziri laughed, her good nature back, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good one, partner. Now I think there's a whole platter left over we deserve as a down payment. Let's celebrate!"
