The Drevlorn Dynasty's southern boarders were a harsh land of rocky expanse and sparse forests.
But it was far from being uninhabitable; there was a network of old roads built for merchants, soldiers, and mercenaries alike.
In one such border town stood a weather-beaten tavern known as The Broken Pike.
Its wooden walls had survived countless winters, and its patrons had survived repetitive bloodshed. It was a place for men who sold steel for coin. Mercenaries, adventurers, and such, who worked as hired weapons.
The evening was loud with laughter, gambling, and drunken arguments when the tavern door opened.
A cloaked messenger stepped inside, and the room quieted slightly.
Not because messengers were uncommon, but because this one wore the insignia of a military contractor.
He walked directly toward a corner table, where ten people were occupying it.
