[center][h2]The Imperial Pigeon Master’s Coop[/h2][/center]

	Much of news travels by word or horse ridden messenger; however, every lazy noble knows by bird is the most convenient, and favorably, all nations use them. 

	The Imperial Coop was the hub of the pigeon information network. Every homing pigeon from the capital, and more specifically, the palace, lives here and reports to a fat man by the name of Gerald. The man was large, dull, and as white as the pigeon excrement that spotted the wooden, sky lit coop atop one of the cities most promising towers. 

	As ragged and beat up the high positioned peasant looked, the black dressed figure next to him contrasted him greatly. Where Gerald’s shoulder drooped, spry young shoulders held themselves confident. The sun spots that broke through the thin cracked wood gave the scene a surreal reflection. Pigeons cooed over their hushed voices, and anxious wing flaps shadowed their consonants. If not for the acrid smell of bird, the striking scent of paper and ink would have overcame the sketchy scene as the two exchanged their outlawed words.

	“Not a bird comes in, not a bird goes out that I don’t know about first,” a voice said sharply to the fat man. Gerald nodded, knowing there was only one answer to the statement, “[i]Yes.[/i].”

	“I want to know the name of every frequent messenger that shows his head in this city, and you tell me if anyone complains.”

	“[i]Yes.[/i]”

	“I want every word, every rumor told to me, do NOT write it down, or you’ll find yourself without fingers and a tongue.”

	“[i]Yes.[/i]”

	“Do not let a single letter leave this coop unless I read it first.”

	“[i]Yes.[/i]”

	“Any questions?”

	“[i]No[/i].”

	“Good man,” a sick chuckle came from the darkened figure.

	A white flash of paper left the figures pocket, “and send this out, now.”

	Gerald quickly took the letter from the figure and hurried off.

	The letter was quickly tied to a pigeon that homed to Jakinius, and the letter read:

	[center][i] Dear Jakinius,

	Hurry home. I fear that things are getting tense in the capital already. Words of hate fly, and tensions grow to an unprecedented level. Bribes are forming in even your family's pockets, and tongues turn to daggers. Ride fast, if things go where I hope they don’t, my letters will fall, along with the peace of the throne.

Sincerely, Marshal [/i][/center]
[hider=things to know]
A mysterious stranger has taken the homing pigeons of the city as hostage.
James Conrad, this is how you do this.
[/hider]