Tayler (prime)/Insurance Claim

== Letter to the Grandmaster of the Spicers Guild

Frowning at a street lamp as it sputters back to life, Tayler pulls his pocket-watch from his waistcoats pocket and glances down at the time, “Half past two… he should have been here by now.” His fingers lightly brush the surface of his vambraces, shadowy tendrils creeping out from them and crawling up the lamp post to extinguish the newly flickering flame. He leans back against the wall of Dragonsclaw Arms, pulling his hood up to further shade his face. Thirty minutes pass before the sound of a foot stepping in a puddle breaks the silence of the alley, “You’re late, what kept you?”

Red faced from alcohol or exertion, the human that entered the alley walks up and passes over a hastily penned letter to Tayler. “Apologies… the meeting ran later than expected. These are the details of this night's meeting with Amos, and the details of what washed up on the sands.” Tayler tosses him a small bag of coins, and briefly nods to him, turning to leave without another word. The human frowns at his back, tossing the coin pouch in one hand feeling the weight, he starts for a moment, as the dark elf he was just speaking with vanishes into a cloud of shadows. “He does know how to make an exit, I wonder who he is.” He glances at the coin pouch again, “I guess it doesn’t matter… he pays well, drinks on me tonight boys.” He wanders out of the alley.

Turning the key around his neck, Tayler’s vision blurs and shifts as shadows consume him, and he appears inside his bar on Teras isle, his boots lightly thudding across the clay pavers as he walks over to the bar and pours himself a glass of whiskey. A thumping precedes the shadow of a Giantman entering the patio, who gives Tayler a quick nod and says “The usual, boss? Nobody in til’ mornin’?. Tayler gives him a quick nod, "Thanks." as he turns to walk up the stairs, entering his residence.

Locking the door behind him, he sinks into his comfortable couch, dropping the case off of his back and setting it up as a writing table. He grabs his stationery box and sets it on top, quickly setting it up for writing. Setting two sheaves of thick parchment on the sloped lip, he carefully lifts his quill with his right hand and dips it in the pale blue ink of his inkpot, setting the nib to the first parchment, he begins to fill the page in a neat hand, in the dark elven language.

~ Grandmaster,

	I am writing to you from a Landing under siege, I pray this message finds you in better health than many of the locals. My latest shipment of spices has found itself on the bottom of the sea, 
courtesy of the Krolvin armada that currently threatens the Landing, they foolishly tried to run the blockade during the night and failed. I am making an insurance claim, per category D, section 
thirty seven of the foreign operational contract, on the resale value of the lost goods. My winemaking operation now stands in jeopardy unless I can secure another shipment soon, so your quick 
handling of this matter will be greatly appreciated. Bill of Lading to be included, please authenticate my seal, and then see it finds its way to my personal insurance agent, unopened per the 
contract.

~ Nothing ventured, nothing gained, ~ Master Spicer Tayler Ta’Thyriel Faendryl ~

Setting his quill aside, he neatly folds the first parchment, dabbing it with a bit of silvery-hued wax and pressing his personal signet into the wax, creating a neat seal. He grabs his whiskey and takes a nip, setting out the other piece of parchment. He opens up a tiny bag on his belt and pulls out a second pot of ink, and carefully extracts a black alloy stylus from it next, opening the cap of the stylus and topping off the ink level. He sets the stylus aside and grabs the quill with his left hand, making careful strokes to not smudge the paper, imitating a different writing style as he fills the page.

~~ Bill of Lading, Shipment #1374, Olaesta, 5122, Master Spicer Tayler Ta’Thyriel ~~

~ Black Currant, Fresh - 1 Cask
~ Black Currant, Dried - 2 Casks
~ Nutmeg, Ground - 3 Chests
~ Cinnamon, Ground - 3 Chests
~ Cloves, Whole - 1 Chest
~ Cardamom, Whole  - 1 Small Chest
~ Star Anise, Whole- 1 Chest
~ Allspice, Ground - 1 Chest
~ Peppercorns, Ground - 1 Chest

~ Value: 1,375,500 Silvers
~ Insured Value (Finished Goods): 7,850,000 silver

__________________________________________________________________________________

He glances over the parchment, grabbing the original from his cloak and making sure the totals are correct, he carefully studies the signature at the bottom or the original bill, before carefully duplicating it onto the new one, then stops for a moment to admire his work. "That will do…"

His hand moves to the stylus, picking it up gingerly and setting the tip to the new forgery, a deep black ink flows from the tip as he writes around the edge of the paper and inside the margins between and around the written words.

~ Magistrate, I trust my agent has ensured this reaches your hands. Amos has survived, the locations of the Warehouses remain a mystery though he did mention they are located along the coast, near 
cities. The Krolvin have left, seemingly to return to Glaoven and speak with their Council of Crows. I will endeavor to use their absence to explore along the coast and try to find one of these 
warehouses. I do believe Amos will lead us to them in time, but per your instructions I shall endeavor to explore them myself, first. My integration into the Landings social and mercantile circles 
continues, and I will continue to seek out these dangerous new weapons and acquire them, their workings, or see them destroyed. There is nothing new to report on the Mentalist, she was rescued, 
though she is being held out of the public eye by a group of Landing citizens. As always, I serve, Glory to the Patriarch, Glory to our great house. ~

Setting down the stylus, Tayler reads over the words twice more, before he runs his fingers along the side of the stylus, tapping the side of it in a rapid pattern. The nib of the stylus flashes a golden hue, and the black ink slowly changes color, shining with a faint golden light before it fades into invisibility. He nods in approval, his strokes not having left any marks on the parchment, and neatly folds it, sealing it with his personal signet, before tying a black ribbon around it, both lengthwise and height wise, and sealing the ends of the ribbon together with the crest of the spicers guild in a delicate red wax.

He places them both in an envelope, closing it and sealing it with his personal signet, he sets it carefully inside his stationery box, packing it up to be mailed later. He grabs a handful of rolling tobacco from the Humidor set on his table, and rolls it in the original bill of lading, forming a fat cigar which he briefly cuts and lights, inhaling deeply as he unlocks the door and steps out onto his balcony. He sits down on the edge of his hammock, falling back into it as it swings gently towards him, and his vision drifts upwards, lingering on the stars as he starts to plan his next steps.