![[Image: headerframe_by_analyticeyes-d7gmt0e.png]](http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2014/120/5/e/headerframe_by_analyticeyes-d7gmt0e.png)
The tavern doors swing open, and a young man dressed in the dullest of attire steps in. Drab brown bandana, drab brown shirt, pants, boots... a quick glance out over the patronage elicits a smirk. From his belt he pulls a parchment, from a pouch he pulls a nail. The man strolls over to the nearby bulletin board, pins the parchment to the board by the nail, and draws a knife from the sheath beneath his shirt. The sharp slide of steel draws every ear and every eye; chairs lurch and wood squeals.
Now grinning from ear to ear, the man drives the nail home with the pommel. Three thick thuds are sufficient to ease the escalated nerves of the men and women throughout the room; no need to cut the tension with a knife here. Later, when the stranger is long gone, those selfsame patrons will find their way to the board, and they'll read:
![[Image: note1_by_analyticeyes-d7grxdm.png]](http://th02.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/f/2014/121/6/7/note1_by_analyticeyes-d7grxdm.png)
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
