The Regimental Journal of Major Alphonse Remington-Smythe III
29th of Sun's Dawn, Year 147 of the 17th Era
Bally plagues still making the rounds, unfortunately. Old Winsborough ended up cancelling his brunch appointment with me due to a brief brush with the Malingerers Cholera, so I was at a bit of a loose end today – was rather worried I'd be trapped inside with the hamster all the blighted day. Young Gilbert came through, fortunately, found us some courier work to keep our company occupied. Idle hands, and all that. If I can't keep theses youngsters active, who knows what kind of trouble they'll get themselves into.
Job was simple enough. Some bigwig publisher by the name of Fandar wanted us to deliver a letter for him. Young Flynn's eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling when he heard the fee though – 10 Gold just for delivering a letter. The publisher seemed nice enough, at any rate – well-dressed young elf with an impeccably kept desk. As my old Commander always said, you can tell a lot about a man by how he keeps his desk. It seems his usual couriers had fallen ill, and he needed us to deliver a letter to a writer friend of his in their place. He paid up-front as well, so we took possession of the letter and headed along the specified route.
The delivery route was predictably dull, unfortunately. Nearly got cut off by some priestly procession, and had to take a shortcut through a group of belligerent midgets hurling curses at each other, but everything went smoothly with Flynn's intervention. More's the pity there – I'd been hoping for a good scrap to keep the blood pumping. At least Flynn's a capable negotiator – no doubt he'll soon blossom as a soldier under my expert tuition.
The writer was a half-elf by the name of Cavan Luskio. A big name by all accounts, some kind of professional tourist or some such rot. A load of poppycock – give me a good arms manual to curl up with instead any day. He was a twitchy so-and-so for a writer too – kept telling us about how he'd “seen too much”. I politely offered to find him a healer to sort out his brain issues, but the chap seemed to take offence at that for some reason. Seemed quite taken with Flynn though, once the young lad confessed to being a fan. Told him he'd supposeably found a “gate containing a door” out in the phlogiston. As if that was supposed to impress us – where else would you find a door except for in a doorway?
He gave us a recipt for the message, at least, and we decided
to leave before he started frothing at the mouth. We had intended to pick up another
job before heading back – a friend of mine from the tea shop said there was a
Giff regiment in port waiting for a delivery of arms and similar. Before we
could pick up the goods though, we were accosted in the street by someone
claiming to be a priest of Ptah. Gave young Gilbert a letter saying it was from
a young maiden, but it turned out to be an invitation to a clandestine meeeting
of some kind. Deeply suspicious – if young Flynn turns out to be a spy of some
kind, I shall be most dissapointed in him. In any case, I suppose we should at
least make an appearance of some kind. The letter said we'd be paid just for
hearing them out, and someone has to keep Spark's bally hamster fed.
This is Major Remington-Smythe III, signing off. If some blighter shoots me during this meeting, could whomever finds this log please ensure it reaches the proper authorities.