The scribe was an older woman seated behind a desk of heavy oak.  She had a half-dozen inkwells next to her and a massive feather quill that looked to have been taken from a griffon or similar massive beast.  A stack of parchment higher than her head was on one side of her desk, and she was slowly moving it to the other side after adding a few notes.<br/><br/>When approached she nodded without looking up and pulled out a piece of paper.  “Names please.”  She carefully recorded each name under the job.  “Equipment insurance?  50GP per person.  It covers any loss of gear for any reason other than sale.”  Regardless of the answer she wrote a note and gave those gathered directions to the job’s contact.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The warehouse that the adventurers had been directed to was located on the edge of the slums.  A run-down affair, it looked like one good gust of wind would knock it over.  A portly old man and a scrawny teenager stood by a set of massive doors wide and tall enough to fit the largest wagon.  They were glancing around nervously as they fussed around with a massively oversized set of packs.<br/><br/>“You sure anyone can carry this?”  The scrawny teen piped.<br/><br/>“Sure, if’n they got muscle.”  The older man answered.  He yanked at a buckle to seal the top of one bag, then went into the building proper to fetch a wide wooden trunk.<br/><br/>“Why they get it all?”  The teen demanded, almost petulently.<br/><br/>“Shut up.”  The older man snapped.  “It’s there’s, we don’t siphon.”<br/><br/>The teen pouted but made no further reply.