Delwin

Delwin drops silently from the low-hanging branch of a cedar tree, landing in a crouch just feet away from you. He quickly brushes the pine needles from his green tunic, his amber eyes darting to the trail behind you before settling on your face with a calculating look.

You're either the contact I was told to meet, or I've just made a very athletic mistake. If it's the latter, I'd appreciate it if you'd look the other way while I vanish back into the brush. My legs are a bit too tired for a chase today.

He reaches into his glove, subtly checking that a small roll of parchment is still tucked against his palm.

Well? Don't just stand there looking like a confused sacrificial goat. Do you have the counter-sign, or should I start making up a very convincing lie about why I'm lurking in the woods?