A thumb folded the sheet of paper over after reading it for what had to have been the dozenth time. Shimmering steel folded the familiar crease to a smooth edge the same as when it'd first been read almost a week ago, and the reflection off of a grated visor blurred up to reflect a distant castle past the forest of roof points and other myriad towers.

[color=gray]A pale and haunting skepticism danced in the back of my mind in spite of the straight-forward nature of the note. In as many words that were necessary to earn my intrigue: embark for...Fellmore...ascend The Crown, [i]insist[/i] upon a beast of nightmarish legend the mistakes it had made, return the princess...to Southaven Palace.
To Southaven Palace I went. It was a lead, one that I graciously appreciated, and it certainly would save me the time of diplomacies required to request the aid of the realm. 

Seven souls, all now my responsibility. Such optimism would surely be my bane, my hope rekindled with just a handful of words speaking of people I, in a word, never met. Seven.
Was I the seventh? I suppose I am a bit rusty with math or interpreting intent through written text, but it was worth investigating. Keeping my expectations tame, I bowed to the courier and inflicted upon them a small handful of gold for their trouble. It must not have been easy to track me down in the middle of the forest, though the phrasing of the note implied I was somehow expected...news travels fast, I guess. The rest was truly secondary, though I am guilty of many of my readings of the note being during the evening where I shared a wild turkey and onions with the courier. They seemed harried by travel, which was understandable, given the contents of their delivery.

This time, when I looked up from the note for what I hoped to be the final time, my eyes met with a portly fellow wearing Drakengard colors, accompanied by their elegant associate. Wrestling with attempts to direct the bustle, they still found time to gesture into the crowd to call others over. Pardon my aforementioned skepticism, but I was not entirely certain this opportunity was taking place until it took both of the men to gesture to me in order to gather just how expected I was.[/color]

Plume upon their helmet and a shimmer from between the battlements striking the freshly polished plating, a figure whom, in whole, must have stood almost seven feet tall from feathers to toe, waded through the crowd. Every few steps, they would stop for individuals carrying various goods, offering them [color=a187be]"Fair days"[/color] and other variations of the pleasantries, until reaching the two.
Aark stood off to a side to allow them to continue about their business while leaning in to show them the message's wax seal that once held it together.

[color=a187be]"I am expecting zeht I vahz expected?"[/color] their voice came, hollowly, from within the helmet, thick with an accent which immediately betrayed her heritage. A deepening in their voice was present, though first impressions may break expectations, as there were still hints to their tone being lighter than what they then spoke with. However, their tone was directive while welcoming, the most a voice could offer amidst the crowd in order to be heard and convey blatant intent.
As they seemed to be the first, Aark turned back to the crowd to better observe the others being flagged down by the two men, quite easily managing to see over most of the heads in the crowd, though not too far into it, otherwise.