A short, but very stocky, bald and tattooed halfling walks into the bar at this point, and surveys the crowd. Spotting what he assumes to be the send of the note (and likely his fellow mercs), he heads there directly.
Approaching the table, he takes an empty seat without preamble, and nods to everyone assembled. "Sorry I'm late. Had a run in down the street. Elf thought it would be funny to point out I'm short. Probably have to pay his hospital bills."
He tosses his letter on the table. "Tharas. What did I miss?" (OOC: I've read the thread to here, I'm fine w/assuming he gets up to speed without any posts.).
"So, lemme tell you what I see here: The dwarves run the mill. The gobs are the labor. This dwarf, he's someone important? Owns 6 businesses, right? Someone wants in on his business, or wants him removed, they get the gobs to revolt. It's all over the news. The real backers blame the gobs, the gobs get shafted, the dwarf dissappears, or gets leaned on, or warned, or whatever. There's nine different plots in the background, or you wouldn't have called in mercs, you would have used a close team. We're getting paid well to kill some gobs, and pull out a dwarf, and if we fail, you don't know us."
He considers, sucking on a foul-smelling cigar he found somewhere on his person. "That about right?"
