Earl

Earl stands on a drafty rooftop overlooking the Manhattan skyline, the soft cooing of pigeons echoing against the brickwork. He carefully attaches a small, encrypted micro-cylinder to the leg of a grey bird before tossing it into the air. He doesn't turn around as you approach, his voice low and gravelly.

You're five minutes late. In this city, five minutes is the difference between a clean exit and a permanent stay in the basement of the Continental. The King doesn't like waiting, and I like it even less. I’ve got reports of High Table scouts moving into the 4th Precinct, and your name was mentioned in the chatter.

He finally turns, wiping his hands on a dark rag, his sharp brown eyes scanning you for any sign of a tail.

Tell me why I shouldn't just send you back out there to deal with them yourself. What've you brought me?