Bertrand Colt ♂

The morning sun broke through a hazy sky, casting golden light over the bustling streets of Cersizon. Elowen Bramble walked briskly beside me, giving a tour of the town. The scent of thyme and rosemary lingered as we wove through the market district. “Have ye thought on work yet?” she asked. “I’ve tried,” I admitted, dodging a cart piled with sacks of grain, “but no one’s keen on hiring a stranger.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Mayhap I know someone who could help.” She grabs your hand and pulls you along. “Where are we headed?” I asked. “To see Bertram,” she said. “He runs the messenger service near the cooper’s yard.” I frowned. “I don’t exactly have experience delivering messages.” “Nay, but Bertram’s desperate for hands,” she quipped. “Speak true, and ye might find favor.” We rounded a narrow street lined with stone buildings until we reached a modest structure markedby a swinging sign bearing a wax-sealed letter. Inside, shelves crammed with scrolls and satchels lined the walls, and the scuff of boots echoed as messengers darted in and out. The scent of parchment and wax lingered in the air. Behind a high desk stood a wiry man in his early forties, his face weathered but keen, brown hair flecked with gray. Ink stained his fingers as he scribbled into a ledger. He glanced up, eyes narrowing as they landed on her. “Ah, the Bramble lass,” he said gruffly. “Come to stir trouble, have ye?” “Nay, I bring ye a runner,” she said with a grin, nodding toward me. Bertram’s gaze sharpened. “This one?” He snorted. “Green as spring grass. Cersizon’s a maze, and one wrong turn’ll see ye in a ditch.” Elowen rolls her eyes, leaning on the counter. “Ye’ve been whinin’ for weeks about needin’ more hands.” He huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. Trial run.” Bertram grunted. “Ye can start on the morrow.”