A Rambling Tale
Your tavern is again visited by the loathsome debt collector.
The massive, dark-clad figure seems to fill the room. He sets a wooden chest on the ground before you and opens it, revealing the nothing inside. Silently, the debt collector hands you a serious looking envelope sealed with wax.
You solemnly break the seal, take out the letter, and examine the script it bears.
It's godsdamn unreadable.
Did a jittery bugbear write this? Their grasp of the written word is less stable than a swamp-built castle but their taste in letterhead is topshelf. That's good vellum, right there.
"The fuck is this about?"
"This is about the 10,000 GP you owe Mr. Grady," the debt collector says with a voice that weighs on you.