"MAIL CALL"
Work in a merc company in Ishgarde was hard to come by. Â
"Rutgar!"
War Dogs with a good contract tended to hang onto it with a death grip.
"Calna!"
Those who had reliable work tended to have ties or contacts that vetted them with the houses employing them, or the See itself.Â
"Red Fish!"
Some had favors owed and spent them getting their assignments.  Those tended to be big favours, if they were far enough outside the Ishgardian curve of acceptance.
"Trouble! Â TROUBLE. Get over here I'm not even going to try to say your full name. Â Don't care what it says on the package."
The person who pushed through the crowd was tall and head to toe in standard Ishgardian winter gear and cloak. Â Tall, broad, but with most of that in the shoulders and hips. Â They moved with a silent step and they'd fashioned a snow-blind goggle and mask set out of brass that covered the face and gave their sharp voice a metallic knife edge when they spoke.
"I don't get much with my whole name on it these days Sargent. Â You sure this isn't someone's joke?"
The quartermaster shook their head, pushing a long, heavily wrapped leather case across the mail-room table.Â
"Doubt it. Â The men remember the way you solved the last 'joke'. Â No one wants to repeat what happened to Tonesome."
The masked figure laughed behind their coverings and pulled a knife as they worked at unbinding the package.
"Bullet Tooth Tonesome you mean."
The quartermaster groaned. "Don't remind me. Â That was a bit much. Â Most people don't respond to a prank by beating someone senseless, pulling one of their teeth out, and then hammering a lead slug into the bloody socket."
"You forgot the part where I paid off the medic to heal the thing shut still lodged in his jaw. Â He's got a good nickname now, and everyone else knows better than to play silly buggers with my drinks."
The so-named Trouble shifted the package and reached into it.  A blackened, lacquered thornewood club.  Long as a man's arm and stained red at the head.  Someone had set a  small brass tricket to the striking point of the head.  The quartermaster let out a low whistle.
"Fancy shit there Trouble. Â You order a cane?"
Trouble held the staff up close to the mask and the goggles. Fixated on the brass trinket nailed into the bloodied head of the weapon.
"No. I had a broker in Limsa. Â Kept me up on events back home for a fair sum of coin."
The desk Sargent motioned for the cane and pulled it into his grip when it was offered.
"Who the hells lacquers over bloodstains?"
"Someone who wanted to know who the broker was working for and I'm guessing, given that I have this little gift, that they found out." Trouble had already turned, heading for the door as the quartermaster finished their examination. "If you'll 'scuse me Sarge, I need to pass a warning to some of the border guards. Â Going to be someone they'll want to keep out. Â Gonna need to get my fire-arm just to be sure."Â
The quartermaster was left running his thumb over the brass 'embellishment' set in the bloodstains. Â A polished, intricate cast of a hammer crossed over a rifle.
"Keep that thing safe until I can get back and burn it alright?" shouted Trouble as they stepped out into the cold and the dark of the Ishguard night.
The quartermaster didn't understand what the weaponized gift meant, beyond the promise of violence.
He did know the message was personal.