The main throughfare of Bruvell was rather bustling this day.  Most days it was not.  Rural towns were mostly farmers and farmers tended their fields most days.  Today was market day.  Stalls had been erected to sell seeds.  Caravans had opened their wagons to sell pots, pans, axe heads, scythes and all manner of tools necessary for farming.  (This last was to the stern indignation of the local smith who vocally berated the quality of these imports.)  A wainwright was speaking with a customer about purchasing a wagon, discussing details of delivery and a dozen, dozens more were at work haggling and undermining one another.

Raziel danced in the midst of this chaos, bare feet slipping across the packed earth.  Her hips swayed to a music only she could hear.  Scarlet hair flung about her head, concealing her elven ears.  She whirled about and about, the occasional gust of flame surprising those that trod by.  At her feet was a simple plank of wood, propped up against a rock.  The letters, scorched into the wood by flame simply read, "Mercenary for Hire, seeking adventure".