A busy tavern overflowed with night crawling patrons who laughed and swayed in their chairs as ale was passed out and songs were sung of the Gods. A mix of smells floated about in the smokey rooms - scents that foreigners and shop keepers held in their clothes after a hard days work. Bar wenches lay draped in the laps of lonely men while innocuous brawling mingled with cheers and jokes.
Amongst the movement of the tavern sat an especially intoxicated Harl Growsner - one of the many messengers who spent their life traveling the Endrykas trade routes to deliver letters and parcels to all corners of Cyphrus. With a slurred drawl he coerced a wench to come back to his tent, who wriggled in his grasp and leaned away from him to escape the smell of decay that radiated from his pasty mouth. After losing the battle he slumped back in his chair and patted his gut to fish out a burp that had been snaking its way up his esophagus. As he rose from his chair an empty ale mug whizzed in his direction and struck him on the side of his head. With little coordination he tumbled over a table and spilled the drinks of the patrons sitting there, who responded by strong arming him out of the tavern.
Eventually he arrived at his small camp site, his horse nibbled away in a grain pouch and jerked its head at the sound of the messenger collapsing into his tent. Supplies in his way were strewn about and the large sack with letters to be delivered lay open and scattered on the right side of the tent. An egg shaped bump swelled above his ear as he quickly fell into a slumber, not even bothering to fasten the tent flap ties.