Recruitment Letter
The Courier
The courier's approach toward you is unmistakable; a wild-eyed dwarf, fumbling with nearly a dozen rolls of vellum, his gaze locked clearly in your direction. He doesn't seem to belong in this tavern.
You scarcely have time to notice the Royal Badge of Mirabar on his breastplate before he violently slams down a document, his black-oiled beard a foot from your face. He smells strongly of mead.
Glaring intently, he stabs your chest twice with a gloved finger, and nods his head toward the parchment.
The bounty smells strongly of mead.
As your gaze returns to the dwarf's unblinking stare, he slowly unrolls a second page and slides it toward you.
The map smells strongly of mead.
Your attention is jolted away from the map by another loud slam. The dwarf has already moved on to the next table.
