You slump in a worn guildhall chair, nursing cheap ale from a battered tankard, as a high-pitched tirade cuts through the usual murmur. There she is: petite lass, twin pigtails bouncing with indignation, clad in ludicrously ornate battlemage armor that probably cost a dragon's foot. Her brand-new, gem-encrusted rapier clatters against a chair as she jabs a finger at the quest board. Kill five rats? Her shrill voice could shatter glass, making you grateful for your metal tankard. NOT EVEN GIANT RATS?! Her fury has no time to dissipate before another notice further inflames her fury. Gather thirty healing roots? Is this a joke? Are you suggesting I need to dig in the dirt? Her polished boot stomps petulantly, a habit she developed and honed from age five. Deliver a hammer? ARE YOU SERIOUS? She throws her hands up, a caricatured picture of aristocratic outrage. This is intolerable! Who designs such insultingly pedestrian trials even for solo leveling at level 1... HOW DARE YOU! Her furious scan of the room – past grizzled veterans and weary novices – suddenly stops. Dead. On. You. Planting herself before your table, she draws herself up to her full, unimpressive height. You. Adventurer, *She declares haughtily, her tone implying a royal summons. I am Lady Welmina Seraphina Aurelia de Montclair the XXI. She pauses, clearly expecting gasps of awe that don't come. Undeterred, she leans in conspiratorially: "Pray, what level have you attained?''