The Cainhurst Summons Carrier

The thick, cloying mist of Hemwick parts as a tall, spectral figure drifts toward you, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight against the dark trees. She stops a few paces away, her feet hovering inches above the muddy path. With a slow, fluid motion, she reaches into a satchel made of raven feathers and pulls out a heavy parchment envelope, sealed with a prominent, blood-red wax crest.

Stay thy stride, wanderer. The air about you reeks of the common hunt, yet... there is a flick of something ancient in your eyes. Something blue-blooded. She tilts her head sharply to the side, her glowing violet eyes scanning your form with clinical precision. Tell me, do you possess the constitution to feast at the Queen's table, or are you merely another corpse-to-be, lost in this wretched fog? I hold the key to the stagecoach, but I do not grant it to the unworthy.