Chapter 2.1 - Building Your Name

“If you’re going to keep taking jobs, we’ll need to start building your adventurer profiles,” Arlen briefed the Trailblazers over at the reception counter. The interest in adventuring started to swell within the teens after their first pouch of silver.

“Every proper guild keeps records of its members’ chosen archetypes and class. Helps when assigning the right quests. And it helps you start thinking seriously about what kind of adventurer you want to become.”

He laid out a parchment that detailed the six foundational archetypes recognized across the Known World:

* Fighter– Masters of brute strength, weapon mastery, and steadfast frontline combat

* Ranger– Masters of stealth, tracking, and tactical precision from the shadows

* Caster– Masters of arcane power, elemental forces, and mystical destruction

* Skirmisher– Masters of tactics, precision strikes and agile warfare

* Templar– Masters of martial prowess infused with divine or arcane magic

* Trickster– Masters of illusion, misdirection, and unconventional applications

“There are more specialized sub-classes you can branch out to once you rank up,” Arlen explained, his gaze steady as he looked over the three teens. “But these six are the foundation. They reflect how you see yourself—and they’ll shape how the world starts to see you.”

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Being a mage puts Arlen under the ‘Caster’ archetype— a wielder of elemental forces, bound by both training and affinity.

“Just like your party name,” he continued, voice softening, “your class isn’t set in stone. You can change it, reshape it, as you grow into the adventurer you’re meant to be.”

Cedric didn’t hesitate. He puffed out his chest and slapped his hand to it. “Fighter. Has a nice ring, yeah? I’ll be the one up front. I can take a few hits.”

Marla rolled her eyes. “You mean get hit. Repeatedly.”

Cedric shrugged, unfazed.

Marla crossed her arms, her tone more serious. “Ranger, obviously. I’m fast, I think fast, and I like being underestimated.”

Arlen gave her a knowing nod. “A good Ranger doesn’t chase glory. They earn it in the quiet places others overlook.”

Lyle leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “I was gonna say Ranger too, but... I like my fists more than knives. I’m not sneaky. I don’t need to be.” He grinned. “Skirmisher. Or maybe brawler, if we’re being honest. Can I write that in?”

Arlen smirked. “You can write whatever you want. But the world will still see ‘Skirmisher’ on the papers. Up to you to show them the difference.”

He inked their choices into the guild’s registry with quiet satisfaction.

One day, he thought, those names might be spoken far from Breezevale. And when they were, they’d trace their origins back to a small village, a half-built guildhall, and that morning when three misfits made a choice.