The Winding Road: The Ambush

by Frank Gori

Dab tried to stay alert this time.

It had been a rough week of ambushes and assassination attempts just trying to acquire the necessary supplies for their journey. Bellany and Zool called the assassins The Tradesmen. They were great at blending in, striking, and fleeing, causing the caravan damage in their wake.

Dab was learning that the great guilds of Hub were more interconnected then one might otherwise perceive. While the Merchant's Guild itself was supplying the majority of the personnel and physical goods for the journey, Malleck still needed various jobs performed by the Workman's Guild, tools from the Blacksmith Guild, and the Mage's Guild was for the most part necessary for magical supplies to ease the road.

One moment a group of roofers were working on a building across the street, then the next they were shooting at you with poisoned crossbow bolts. Malleck tried sending intermediaries unaffiliated with the caravan, but The Tradesmen always struck anyway. Malleck tried disguising people, again the Tradesmen struck. They targeted anyone going on or helping with the expedition and Dab had yet to spot one before they struck.

Clearly the Merchant's Guild had spies within, but that was hardly Dab’s department. He was guarding this transaction which was the only thing that somewhat worked. Malleck was resolved that if the Tradesmen would not cease the attempts to harm the caravan then they’d pay a blood price for every attempt. Even expecting trouble the bastards were hard to spot.

By the time it was sorted out who needed killing, most Tradesmen ran. They used smoke sticks, flash powder, and caltrops but still Dab usually got a hold of one. The Tradesmen always worked in a group multiples of four, or quads (which apparently was the term even when there was sixteen of them.) Losses didn’t seem to daunt them, despite having traded an equal number of lives from their ranks to the losses they inflicted the kept coming. It was a bloody week roughly two dozen people didn’t see the end of and Dab was getting weary of it.

Mal, Zool, Bellany, and Snook were the only reliable spotters they had. Everyone was on alert, but being alert didn’t seem to be enough. 

Despite his resolve, Dab found himself reflecting on Laz. Laz seemed preoccupied and edgy lately. Perhaps understandable given the circumstances, but there was something akin to the skinny boy that helped him stand up to the street toughs despite clearly being terrified. Laz was the kind of guy that threw his best punches when he was scared to and if Laz was scared there was good reason to be…

An arrow interrupted Dab’s thoughts, “Dammit,” he said aloud in exasperation. The carpenter with the arrow perforating his throat was the obvious target, which Dab found himself charging. This time he took a moment to focus and noticed a customer in the grocer stand not very far behind the carpenter reaching into a canvas bag. The customer was too calm in the face of violence, Dab squared his shoulders and lowered himself further in the run.               

In the last second he pulled wide of the carpenter and pushed with all his bulk and muscle. The shopper had raised a crossbow out of the bag and lined it to someone in the caravan.

“Not this time,” the carpenter flew into the field of fire just as the bolt flew clear of the crossbar. If the carpenter survived Bellany’s shot, he’d likely not survive this one. Dab made eye contact with the crossbow woman just as a stream of Marta’s energy bolts twisted around the obstacles of the grocer stand and slammed into the would be assassin.

Dab followed that up with a throwing axe, before turning around to see who was next. A gardener had an arrow through his eye and some attention was further ahead of the wagon at some fleeing foe making it four.

Dab’s eyes swept back to the caravan, one of Zool’s Blacksmith’s had a bolt in his buckler. That made this attack three of them for none of theirs, perhaps the next Quad would think twice.

The scuff of boot on cobblestone to his left was Dab’s only warning. On instinct he punched out to his right before dropping into a roll to his left. His fist connected and he managed to trip his other attacker into a tangle with the first. They set up in his flanks invisible, likely from a potion or some dust.

Dab managed to get back to his feet before his attackers which afforded him a few seconds to scan the area and get a lay for the battlefield. Aside from the two, the shopkeeper held a wand over the not quite dead crossbowman and she had already apparently used it on the carpenter who was downing a potion and had already retrieved his weapon. The five on one would for a short time wouldn’t be so bad, but a glance over at the supply wagons now shrouded in mist, indicated a caster focused on cutting off reinforcements.

They used magical resources to isolate him and get the advantage of first strike. They counted on that being enough, they counted on taking him down, but they didn’t count on a loose cobblestone ruining their stealth. That was their mistake.

Dab touched his new ring and said the command word that would make his skin stone hard and enhance his already impressive ability to take a beating. In all likelihood they assumed they had the advantage with numbers, the reality was they were outnumbered and attrition favored Dab. Laz would be annoyed he used the charge up already but being captured or killed was probably worse. It also made his priority to take down the casters as the other four would have a hard time damaging him.

Dab ran at the shopkeeper first. Barreling past his assailants allowed them to take swings on him and were he not protected he’d have paid a blood price. As it was the minotaur barely felt the blows. A crossbow bolt bounced off his chest before he closed on the wand wielding shopkeeper who now had a blue disk of energy in front of him.

Dab let go. Let go of the dozens of half remembered beatings in the course of a battered life, let go of the frustrations of a lost career, let go of the anger of being separated from his only childhood friend, let go of being tortured. He let all of that go in a raging flurry.

When the fog cleared a few moments later they found Dab covered in blood on his knees. Five foes lied broken and dead.

The Winding Road: A Compentent Guardsman

by Frank Gori

From the moment Lazeron opened Dab’s door and an alarm filled the building, Malleck had been scrambling. He gave orders while his mind wrestled with the situation. The group needed him to give orders, to keep the illusion of control. Panic was something they could ill afford.

Mal rattled orders instinctually: “Free every prisoner on the floor and gather any weapons and uniforms you can find. Capture any guardsmen that look like officers and kill the grunts.” The prison was the kind of trap you didn’t see coming until it was too late. Extra prisoners were extra bodies. Bodies that could provide the group with more force and bodies that in all honesty were expendable.

Dab was in the lowermost basement of the five in the facility. Access to each basement was secured with an iron-barred, reinforced door with stout braces. The ground floor had a portcullis, and the whole facility had about double the expected guardsmen.

The new guards proved to be a double edged sword to Mal’s plans.  The extra bodies employed by the enemy made getting in without opposition possible. New faces weren’t suspicious, and the honeypot trap set by Bellani the night before procured the team uniforms. Now however, those new faces were going to be trouble on the way out.

The liberated prisoners proved to be both a help and a hindrance in getting out. Several of the prisoners were prominent members of other guilds, or foreign visitors. There came a point where Malleck expected a scandal in every cell.

Malleck found and freed an elderly Orc Blacksmith who had been imprisoned for over a decade, a Kristog bard who had once filled taverns and concert halls in the city, a lizardwoman cleric, and they were even insane enough to have another Mage. Malleck had found at least half a dozen possible sparks for a guild war, which told him something else as he captured level by level: this was too easy.

Even the trap on the third basement which released over a hundred zombies and skeletons in relatively tight quarters wasn’t quite deadly enough. Of the seventy souls he liberated, about two dozen fell to that trap. Without Lazeron’s magic there would have been many more dead, but it was still too easy.

The guardsmen fell back too quickly and orderly. The men must have had orders to merely delay the escape. Aside from the trap the guards only seemed to commit to stopping the prison break at a couple bottleneck choke points. Zool and Bellany made those encounters costly to the guards, the design of the prison made those choke points costly to Mal.

When they reached the portcullis at the top Mal understood.

Perfect spot to set up archers or a magic user, or they could have rigged a deadfall to bury everyone. Instead Mal found a lone guardsmen with  resolved look on his face and his hand on a lever contained in an opened lock box.

“Listen, you don’t need to die today. Just let us out and you’re free to go or you can join us, but I warn you: Try to pull that lever or act against us, and I’m going to order Laz here to immolate you,” Mal stated in a calm voice.

The guard looked at Mal and smiled a half-hearted smile, “I pulled the short straw.”

Mal calculated the situation a little differently in the moment the guard spoke. Based on his posture, the man was holding the lever up. This was a mechanical trap of some sort, already triggered. Killing the guard would set it off.

The guard was also standing inside a circle half inscribed on the floor half up the wall. A simple act of will revealed strong warding magic.

“Whatever that is, I can tell that you will die as well. That doesn’t need to happen. I can prop that lever up,” said Mal, adding a touch of magic to his words. Alas, the guard’s eyes remained clear, and he seemed to shake off Mal’s words.

“I pulled the short straw: Make peace with your favorite god. We’re all going to die soon,” the guard replied.

Mal pressed forward, “I can tell you don’t want to die.”

The guard replied, “Of course I don’t! But I believe in something… I pulled the short straw so I’m going to do it.”

Mal queried, “Then why haven’t you?”

 Another alarm went off and the guard smiled as he replied, “I was waiting for my friends to get out.” He let go of the lever as a purple fire enveloped him. The mechanical noise of shifting gears strained and plates in the floor shifted breaking the circle.

A dagger darted through the air, jamming the lever, but the dagger snapped right out almost immediately. Magical missiles of force energy slammed into the guard to seemingly no effect.

“Run,” Mal shouted as he turned away and followed his own order.

The guard screamed, as his features began to rapidly shift. Bones cracked and flesh was torn, revealing scales the color of polished iron. The man’s body contorted grossly as he gained size and mass. Within a matter of seconds, the man was twisted into a rather large dragon.

Mal had spent those few moments running, as did his immediate companions. Some of his liberated prisoners had not, and were subsequently caught in the first blast of fire. A blast of cold soon followed, and then a hammering sound.

A quick surveying glance told Mal he had lost another seven or so men, but none of the folk he had come in with.

“Laz, tell me you can do something here,” Mal said in a pleading tone.

“I can buy us time,” Laz said, and began casting.

A wall of iron, a wall of stone and a wall of force followed.

Laz made the motions of casting something else, but twice seemed to fall into a violent and confused haze. Mal knew despair when he saw it; Laz had been pushed too far.

Laz bought them time, it was going to have to be enough. They’d have to find another way out.

Roughly forty pairs of eyes were on Mal. The dragon guard’s hammer-shaped tail was smashing away at the portcullis in a steady rhythm.

“I’m open to suggestions…”

The Winding Road: Honeypot

by Frank Gori

Ballany paused in front of a conjured mirror for a moment. She was still adjusting to being a brunette. Men sometimes missed noticing her as a brunette which was never a problem as a blonde. Her normal high quality cosmetics wouldn’t do tonight so she simply applied a very inexpensive khol and some cheap red lipwax.

The shirt Bellany wore was a slightly too small men’s button up strategically buttoned and torn. The belt she wore above her wrinkled and somewhat worn skirt was about two weeks from being retired. If the brutes even bothered to consider things, she’d look the part of a pretty half elf girl out of work who was about to wash out of the Workman’s Guild because she hadn’t paid her dues in nearly a year. That kind of girl turned to tricks commonly enough.

The tavern she picked was close to the jailhouse and had a few rooms for rent upstairs. Today three of the dozen or so human guards came into some lucky money. Malleck proved to be talented at disguise work and shockingly adept at the sleight of hand needed to properly deck stack. A hummingbird would be hard pressed to catch the caravanner’s work!

It was roughly a five minute walk to the tavern from the jailhouse. B- Shift ended about five minutes ago. Meaning one of her three possible targets was extremely likely to walk into the bar soon with a pocket full of easy coin and hopefully a taste for brunettes.

Being half elf always added a little spice to this routine. Some men just wanted to hurt anyone with elf blood even if she was born long after the empire crumbled. For other men it was a turn on, they had a fascination with the idea of melting a heart made of ice, or they got turned on by pointed ears. Whatever it was she could always see a perverted gleam in the eyes of that sort.

Bellany was no stranger to the honeypot routine. Being with Jax earned her no special privileges when it came to using all her assets to complete an assignment. She was an excellent actress and she had a pretty enough face to bolster or tone down. Without any of her arts she was the type of girl next door pretty that men convinced themselves they had a chance with regardless of their looks.

Tonight Ballany’s sob story would put bad men in the mind of how they could take advantage of her and good men in the mind of how they could rescue her. Either way one of her targets would end up in her room and in a compromised position. Men were men inside no matter if they packaged themselves as kind or cruel.

Bellany was intimately aware of dozens of way to incapacitate or kill without arms or magic, not that she was ever without either. Unlike some of her peers, Bellany took no pleasure from taking lives. She enjoyed challenging assignments but not the act of killing in and of itself. Her mentor Pesh took pains to avoid killing the same way twice. He felt each death should be unique and to repeat the same circumstances would be disrespectful to the victim. She knew others that killed with a signature so that each death would add to their reputation.

When Bellany killed she did so in the fastest most effective way available. She chose detachment: a job called for dancing death or it did not. Her victims died quickly, and mostly without pain. Death was business.

It was Jax who decided to go and mix business with pleasure. The thought of what she had to do almost brought a tear to her eye but she shoved that thought deep down to her torn insides where it belonged. If she had any doubts about allowing Jax’s seed to take further root he quashed those doubts by setting her up to get killed. Such thoughts were… unprofessional at the moment.

Two of her three possible marks arrived together with a third guardsmen, a thickly muscled ogre.  It took all of Bellany’s art to sway her hips as inexpertly a she did while she approached the trio. The humans smiled: the ogre didn’t. Her human marks had already ordered strong drinks the ogre just a light beer. Her assessment the ogre was on duty.

At the last moment Bellany changed course and fluttered her eyelashes at a half orc mason instead. From the corner of her eye she saw the two human’s body language shift. Playing hard to get was the right play since the boys apparently had a chaperone. For once the Workman’s Guild was being competent. Sending an extra guard to make sure the off duty guys didn’t lose their heads at a bar was a smart move.

“Well what can I do for you little lady” said the half orc with a gruff voice.

Well aware she was dressed like a cheap harlot, Bellany played at demure. She began to relay her story, knowing full well the humans were listening in.

The price on her belt renewal was of course out of the mason’s pay range as his belt identified him as a mere third year apprentice, and she knew the guards had it. The mason surprised her by politely offering her some coin but did not press the advantage, said he wished he could do more and carried on. Bellany didn’t expect such a reaction. She expected a fight and to the victor she would have gone, the odds being in favor of her targets three to one.

Bellany felt a brief moment of shame, some folk were simply good people. Her work had made her jaded and she’d return the mason’s money later if she could.

When the half orc walked away, another took his place dropping a goodly portion of the money she mentioned. “Let’s go upstairs whore,” even looking for it Bellany almost missed the subtle toss as Malleck sloppily lurched forward and cupped her breast. “Ya got some fine teats, let ME take you upstairs,” he slurred. Her brave brutes rose to their feet at last, the ogre downed the remains of his ale in one long pull.

“Unhand her at once you oaf,” the darker prettier one said as his hands reflexively slipped down to his baton. “Get out of here before we have to teach you a lesson in manners.”

The ogre then rose to his feet presumably to support his brothers-in-arms. Instead he lurched forward a bit and vomited. Were he not in such a revolting disguise Bellany would have been tempted to kiss Malleck in that moment, but as it were he was about to get “bounced” out of the bar.

With the exception that both men escorted her upstairs the rest of the night went predictably. With just two of them mostly in their cups the odds were very much in Bellany’s favor. Two prisoners to tell them the layout and two guardsmen belts, three if Malleck managed to sneak back in and take the ogre who was passed out on the floor. All in all a good night’s haul indeed!

The Winding Road: Caravanner Malleck

by Frank Gori

The Sawhorse Tavern was crowded tonight. The Workmen’sGuild had a meeting, so it wasn't just A-shift stragglers and B-shift regulars; the whole guild was out tonight. The place reeked of sawdust, sweat, and sour beer. More than a few eyes found Malleck, despite his hooded cloak and shadowy corner booth.  This made him uncomfortable. The Chaos Man chose this venue for that very effect, to throw Malleck off balance.

There was a buzz of agitation in the room. The workmen were riled up about something, so it was a dangerous night to be an outsider in one of their establishments. Had Malleck been meeting another, he would have simply veiled himself with magic. The Chaos Man, however, would be offended if he did, and Malleck would rather not wait another three months for a meeting.

A group of young orcish apprentice carpenters belonging to one of the more radical sub-guilds kept sizing Malleck up with quick glances. Sooner or later, one might get drunk, call him Tu’rid, and mockingly challenge him. The Workmen’s Guild made it easy to read a member’s affiliations by a quick glance to the tool belts they all wore. The white leather belts told him they were apprentices, the painted red hammer worn on the left hip loop their profession and sub-guild, but the blue-handled hatchet was a newer insignia tool he didn't recognize.

The story of Malleck’s mixed blood was there to read in his face. His tusks indicated orc blood, but the small size and lack of under-bite revealed that he was not a full blood. His surname, “Smallbite”, was given to half-orcish bastards for this very reason. The elegantly pointed ears and the slightly-canted, severely green eyes both indicated elvish blood, which was always the problem. Kindred races were generally blasé of racial intermingling, except of course for the stigma associated with badbloods. To the ignorant and intolerant, his very face was an insult to the Nameless One, who died of treachery at the hands of his brother Mar’ies - the first elf.  From the Nameless One’s body were born theKindred.

This dive could be trouble for Malleck, which is why he brought a Sunder. The Blacksmiths Guild hired out mercenary bodyguards, called Sunders, to the Merchants' Guild all the time. Malleck always hired the same one: a lizard man named Zool. Malleck had never seen Zool’s wares as a smith, but the man was a virtuoso with his strange array of scimitar, spiked buckler (which he strapped to his sword arm), hand crossbow, and what Malleck suspected was a dash of magic. Zool was giving the orcs a look that killed their curiosity, for the moment.

The Chaos Man was over an hour late again, making Mal wonder when he would arrive. What game the Chaos Man would play this time was the next question? No matter what face he wore (if indeed the Chaos Man was just one individual) there was always a game of some sort during their meetings. When he first wore the face of a horridly scarred minotaur, the game was questions: he would ignore each statement that wasn't a question, and only answer questions with another question. It was a terribly irritating way to negotiate, but the Caravanner didn't earn his position in the guild by lacking the ability to adapt. On the second meeting, the Chaos Man was a Dwarf with mismatched eyes who wished to play an elaborate version of stones that required drinking. Though the Chaos Man never appeared to be the same person, he always remembered prior conversations and business, always played games, and was always late.

Theories in Mal's files back at the guild varied widely. Some said he was one man who wore a thousand faces.  Others insisted that the Chaos Man was actually just a title, a position that was in a near constant state of flux. Whoever he was, he always maintained the deadly sort of confidence that comes from the power to kill. As long as Malleck could get the deal he came to make, he didn't care who he was dealing with.

Despite the passage of centuries, there were outlying villages close to the frozen heart of the North that still maintained loyalty to the Empire. Reputedly one, Tribute, had ore so fine and pure that the Blacksmiths Guild would pay triple per shipment. If the Caravanner could establish a route, he’d likely be elevated; such discoveries and dealings made careers within the Merchants' Guild. Most importantly, Liara would be proud of him.

Liara rarely showed emotion, but Malleck believed she held a mother’s love for the adopted orphans she took into the guild. Behind her whispered orders and small tight smiles was a woman that cared deeply for once discarded-children. She herself was discarded, in a way. She adopted from the orphanages frequently, and many of her orphans rose high in the guild. While more cynical minds might think she adopted and raised orphans to ensure the guild's upper ranks were filled with the fiercely loyal, others said she saw something special in each adoptee. Malleck chose to regard Liara as his true mother, as opposed to the woman that left him on the steps of an orphanage without so much as a note. To Malleck the guild was family, and family was everything.

To make his family proud, Malleck needed the deal to go through. Liara would not risk a caravan north unless Malleck could secure additional security from the Mages' Guild. Trading with the loyalist mining town was a risk, but the potential reward was high.  The journey was perilous, particularly if the frozen elves decided to attack. Fire magic could serve as a deterrent, but...

The ring of a crossbow bolt striking the rapidly drawn blade of Zool less than half a foot from his face reminded Malleck of Liara’s 12th rule: “Never disregard the present situation.” Someone screamed “Shenanigans,” and the whole bar erupted into chaos. Except, of course, for the group of five orcs who were calmly approaching with naked steel.

Workmen's Guild: An Overview

by John Belliston

Of all the Great Guilds, the Workmen’s is the youngest and the most untested. From the outside there seems to be no order, reason, or law within it. People speak in hushed whispers about how there is no way that they can possibly continue. By all evidence they should tear themselves apart. Forty separate and radically different lesser guilds all bear representation in the Grand Assembly of the Workmen. Power struggles between guilds looking to rule should bring an endless bloody struggle and after all this time there should be a clear and obvious Tyrant.

But there isn’t.

No one guild rules and no single individual controls the actions of the Workmen. The Guild openly talks of the tyranny in the other Great Guilds with deep disgust and unveiled superiority. Each stands as a proud Workman, free of Tyrants and with a voice in the movement of the entire City.

Though how the votes are decided is different for each of the forty guilds, every one of the lesser guilds has a representative with a single vote. Guild business is settled in the Grand Assembly, or as it is more commonly called, “The Rabble”. Almost all decisions are a simple majority but anyone leaving before all issues are settled forfeits their vote.

The Rabble is equal parts governing body and unending fistfight. Permanent mutilation, disfigurement, and death are grounds for loss of vote for your representative guild and personal fines. However until that point, violence, threats, and intimidation are considered a healthy part of the democratic process.

There are only three designations within the Guild: Member, Foreman, and Grand Foreman.

• Members are the Workmen in good standing. They’ve paid their guild dues and proudly wear their guild brooch. They may or may not go much to the Workmen’s Guildhalls and often will live and work in other parts of the city. They will only seek out their lesser guild’s leadership when they have something worth saying.

• Foremen are the lesser guilds representatives in the Grand Assembly. Each of the forty have a different means of selecting Foremen. However the constantly shifting nature of the Grand Assembly means that no stratagem is ideal for very long.

• The Grand Foreman has every appearance of being the leader and controlling influence within the Guild, but the actual power attributed to the position is minimal and is more a manifestation of their responsibilities. The Grand Foreman can break a tie, silence the Rabble, and stop fights. They are also responsible for keeping the Assembly free of subversive magical influence. Outside of the Grand Assembly the Grand Foreman is generally given token respect or is simply ignored by the guild at large. This leave them in the strange position of receiving more respect and recognition for being the “leader” from people outside the Guild.

The Grand Foreman’s job could not be easily done without the Illustrious Gavel of the Assembly, an intelligent and powerful magical hammer. It is used to silence an area exactly the size of the Assembly Hall, can knock out almost any member of the Guild in a single strike, and can disrupt all but the most powerful magical effects. Though it is a fully intelligent item it holds a firm impartiality and will only voice its opinion on matters so divided that even the Grand Foreman cannot decide on how to break a tie. It resides in the Assembly Hall and if pulled out by any but the Elected Grand Foreman will constantly scream and alert any to the theft.

In the name of protecting and keeping their authority over themselves and their professions the Workmen created the Brute Squads, and the Shenanigans.

In order to remain a member in good standing each member must spend a year and a day on the Brute Squad each decade. This branch of the Guild exists to track down non-members acting in Guild professions and make sure that they become Guild members or are working with Guild authorization. The methods used vary wildly depending on the individuals working on the Squad, but they make it almost impossible to work in a Guild profession without Guild sanction.

A Shenanigan is the greatest defense and single weapon the Workmen have against the other Guilds and outside forces in large. On each guild badge there is a small jewel. If the jewel ever glows, the Workmen stop whatever they are doing and start as much chaos as possible in the streets. Due to the widespread nature of guild members this can be a quick and devastating event.

Unlike the other five Great Guilds, the Workmen’s relationship with the other Guilds is in fact what defines it. Before the advent of the Workmen’s each of the lesser guilds were left to fend for themselves, scratching out their existence on their own. Many were consistently manipulated and controlled by the other Great Guilds. They were points of barter in the games of the other four and had no real respect.

Even after they first bound together for security there was little in the way of respect. It was the Merchant Guild’s Liara Rosetongue, called the “Beautiful Tyrant” or the “Kind Oppressor”, who finally pushed them too far. Her poaching of the best of the workers and artisans without regard for Guild sovereignty finally resulted in the single worst citywide riot since the founding of the City. This event is now recorded as the First Shenanigan. In the years since, the relationship has cooled but paranoia regarding their authority still taints any chance at a meaningful relationship between the two organizations.

The Mage's Guild is the closest to having an internal power structure like the Workmen’s and so there is a sometimes tense understanding between the two groups. Many of the most dedicated and self-sufficient of members take positions within Mage’s Guild territory. The two groups have a mutual fear of the other which has transformed into a tentative respect on both sides. The Workmen fear the unstable Mage's power, and the Mage's fear the lengths the Workmen will go to keep themselves free of manipulation.

As far as the Workmen are concerned the Music Guild is a place to go to be entertained. They have no deeper thoughts or relationship with them.

The Blacksmiths and Workmen have a simple relationship of mutual understanding. Many of the things either seeks to do cannot be accomplished without the aid of the other. They work together with little incident not out of respect so much as necessity.

The Workmen are fiercely protective of their freedoms and self-reliance, more so than other individuals in the city or perhaps even the world. This coupled with the chaotic nature of their organization makes it hard to see why they hold together, but the answer is simple. The Workmen’s Guild holds together not because of a sense of unity, but out of necessity. They function not because they can, but because they must.