Sitting down in the hollowed out tree, one of many in these woods, hidden by a false bark wall is our focus of attention. At his feet, a worn cloak is laid out flat, with the contents of a satchel spread out on it.
This man is known by many names. He is called "The Informant" by some, "Scout" by others, "Herald" by a select few, "and "Darggie" to even less. But for us, today, we'll call him Darggie, for that is a name to his friends.
Darggie started sorting his satchels contents, some berries and dried meat set aside for a light meal, before wrapping them in a cloth to be packed back later. A smaller pouch with a few herbs, seasonings, and a homemade balm were set aside as well. With the pouch, joined a coil of rope and small whetstone.
Lastly, a small book. Today's find, a small book written in a strange language, that has been Darggie's obsession all morning. He just can't, for whatever reason make heads or tails of this language. We watch our friend read over the markings again and again for a while, before he begins repacking his satchel and preparing to leave.
As he stands, his shorter stature is more prominent. From here our best guess would be at around 5'6, with moderate length black hair, a little scraggly and curly, clearly unkempt from a few days of travel. He straps on his satchel, picks up his cloak and quietly slips out of the tree. Shaking the dirty off his cloak, he clasps it on and reaches up to a low hanging branch.
As he swings up, his arms visible in his sleeveless jerkin ripple with muscle, toned from evident climbing often. His cloak flutters in the wind, and the sunlight glances off some metal strapped to his back where a pair of long dagger are strapped on.
Climbing the tree hand over hand, in a route he knows all to well to the top of the tree. Darggie looks out over the landscape, using the sinking sun to search for reflections of water, or glints of metal and movement in the woods around him. He looks this way, and his eyes light up in a blue brilliance as the sun reflects off them, and with a smile, he slips down from the tree.
He spotted something off the way, a man walking to a cliff side. This man looked too out of place to be in such a hostile land, and that made him interesting. With his new destination in mind, he pulls the cowl on his cloak over his head, and slips into the shadows of the woods making his way to the man walking.
Information is his trade after all, and everyone has a piece of information, a story to share. Every story has value, and has a price. What will this new person's story be worth, wonders Darggie. What will be the price of learning in?
... To be continued.
They call me the Crier. No, I don't cry a lot. I deliver news you uncouth barbarian.