An old Furyondian woman scuttles forward, a basket half-stuffed with wormy, pale apples hung over her right forearm, just above the commoner's Ward Against the Vengeful Dead clutched in her bony grasp.
"Apples? Fine, fair apples, a copper a fruit, a dozen a silver."
She leans forward against you and dips into a stage-whisper, "(contact) sent me. Told me tell you get off the plane and that it's all gone inversed up there in the Tyrant's Seat, Mother 'gainst Son. The Angel of Tritherion, he ain't no more, and some of them wizards always with the tall feller, they died too, but I ain't heard which for sure."