The clerk at the front desk called out from across the room.
“Mr. Go Brach, A package arrived for you.” The young boy watched with anticipation as the gunfighter crossed the room.
“Anything owed for the post?” The surly young man countered.
“N-no, Sir.” The boy seemed to sense his proximity to danger and pushed the package across the counter.
The Gunfighter took the paper wrapped package and tossed a gold coin to the boy.
“Thank you Sir!” He exclaimed with some relief.
The gunfighter stuffed the package under one arm and made for the courtyard and the rooms beyond. Once in his room he threw open the shutter. The afternoon sun entered the room, pushing the gloom back to its place below the bed and wardrobe. Bromm peeled off his calloused gloves, setting them next to the package. Once his eyes adjusted to the light he pulled a short blade from a hidden fold in his cloths. Drawing the knife across the thin wrapping the paper peeled back allowing the contents to peek out. A thick parchment paper sat atop a black coat with silver buttons. The gunfighter unfolded the note holding it in the light from the window.
The note was written in perfect script. Not a smear or blot was visible on the packing slip. Three lines of text stared back at him from the paper.
Armored Coat, Dweomer enhancement category 3 - 9,150 GP.
The second line was written in the same perfect script.
Common Cleaver, Dwoemer enhancement 2,300 GP, Weapon smith enhancement 30 GP.
The last line was written in the same script a the previous two, but even an untrained eye could see that the quill had damaged the delicate fabric of the paper in its passing.
Trade value 12,000 GP Balance 550 GP. Convenience fee 550 GP, balance due 0 GP.
The gunfighter’s lips curled slightly at the edges as he unfolded the coat. Nestled in the coat was a second package. Wrapped in burlap and tied with a string. Once more the small knife flashed to work. In a moment the string was cut and the contents revealed. A hint of clove oil rose from the simple looking cleaver. Near the retooled handle at the base of the blade was a maker’s mark. To the gunfighter’s eye it looked like a wishbone. He pushed the blade back into its sheath at his hip before donning the coat. He crumpled the note and tossed it into a waste basket.
Retrieving his gloves he folded the leather over his fingers fitting them into place lacing his digits until the gloves fit snugly. The gunfighter closed the wooden shutters freeing the shadows from their hiding place. He turned to the door and stepped out into the world.