<strong>New York</strong><br/><br/>"That's downright neighborly of you," the young man grins, taking only a single step inside.  "Much obliged, and I'd take you up on it, but I can't stay long.  Just here to drop this off and then I gotta be on my way to the next name on the list."  He pulls a somewhat worn manila envelope out of the satchel and holds it out to you.  It has C.  Esperanza, the Bronx written on it in some archaic style of handwriting, almost as if someone out there still uses a quill.<br/><br/>"Hope you c'n make it.  Might be worth it to get some answers."<br/><br/>Another grin.<br/><br/>"Name's Alex.  Pleased ta meet ya.  Now I'll mosey along an' let ya get back to work.  Oh...there's somethin' wrong in that big ol' park over yonder.  Thought you should know."<br/><br/><strong>Las Vegas</strong><br/><br/>Jenny, the young man finally gives you a slow head-to-toe appraisal, but it feels more as though he's doing it because he thinks he's supposed to rather than because he thinks you're just ornamental.  There's a difference: you've seen the drunken leers often enough to pick up on it.  Instead, he pulls a slightly worn manila envelope out of the satchel at his side.<br/><br/>"Name's Alex.  Alex Breslau.  I'm just passin' through on my rounds.  Here ya go. Hope you c'n make it."  Now he smiles.  It's friendlier.  "Eyes only.  I ain't about to piss him off by readin' his mail.  An' you'd recognize the name if I told you...but you'd get it all wrong.  So I won't."<br/><br/>He turns to look up at the stones and whistles appreciatively.<br/><br/>"Impressive, ain't they?  No idea what they're doin' here, though.  Maybe it's the ley lines?  Anyway.  I gotta get on my way, so if I c'n hand this off I'll get out of yer hair."<br/><br/><strong>Los Angeles</strong><br/><br/>He bows again, not quite so close to the edge of disrespect this time.  Then  he approaches, stopping just out of arm's reach and going to one knee, holding up a scroll with both hands.  It's papyrus, sealed with black wax.<br/><br/>"When he says it is for your eyes only," he intones, enunciating carefully as if trying to keep his accent from getting in the way, "I am not inclined to read the message and thus earn his wrath.  I speak of he who is called No Refuge At The Gate in the elder tongue, whose reputation is much maligned by the ignorant and the fearful."<br/><br/>He pauses, and you see a hint of resignation in his eyes.<br/><br/>"Nyaruthotep sends his regards and an invitation to Your Benevolence.  If it please you, I would dispose my charge and continue on my appointed rounds."<br/><br/><strong>Silverville</strong><br/><br/>He accepts the bottle, sips from it, returns it to you.<br/><br/>"Shade and sweet water to you and your Pack."<br/><br/>He laughs softly, rubs the back of his neck, his manner changing just a little as the litany of greeting finishes.<br/><br/>"Been in the desert recently.  That might be it.  Ain't Egyptian, so far's I know."<br/><br/>Now he does let his eyes wander you for a moment, and there's a flicker of interest after all...proof that he isn't dead, at the very least.  He reaches for his satchel slowly, making no move that might startle your companions, and draws out a large envelope.  Like him, it smells of dust and heat.<br/><br/>"Got permission to do this verbally."  He clears his throat.  "The First and Last Man invites the Mother of Wolves to attend a meeting of mutual interest and importance at the Four Corners in one moon's time.  The Ancient Paths are open once again and if this world is to be defended we should talk.  He implores you remember the old compact and act thereby, for Pack, for Blood, and for Forest."  He pauses, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.  "End of message, I reckon."