A cheerful wisp of a half elf slips a note to the Pissing Crone’s bartender as she pays her tab. By the time anyone opens it she’s long gone. Written on simple parchment in elegant, looping calligraphy, the letter reads:

My limericks are callous and crude. Their morals distressingly lewd. They’re not worth the reading, by persons of breeding. They’re designed to be vulgar and rude.

As long as you put a roof over my head, I’ll bring a crowd under yours. Throw in some food for my belly and some gold for my pockets and you’ve got yourself a minstrel.

Talia le Tellier