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[ Note that, since this description was written, Klaus Raüschenplatz was replaced as the editor of the OPP by the Shadow Elementalist Malmour Sudds, who was in turn replaced, after his tragic demise in the pursuit of journalism, by Jarret, whom you can contact here. ]
You easily find your way to the Frisky Ferret on Badgerby Street, a nice cosy little tavern, not particularly reputable but not too rough either, one of those places which strikes a happy medium between the two extremes. You reckon it might be a nice place to while away the hours with a few pints once your business at the OPP is done...
A slightly rickety set of wooden stairs round the side has a wooden plaque next to it carved with the words 'Outpost Post Offices', and an arrow pointing up the stairs, so you guess that must be the right way to go. Ignoring the copious graffiti with which various lowlifes have decorated the wall beside the stairs to your left, you head on up towards the sound of bickering voices and cheery whistling, hoping the swaying and creaking of the steps beneath your feet isn't an omen of imminent collapse.
Heaving a sigh of relief at having safely survived your ascent of the steps, you push open the door at the top, and are promptly assaulted by a billowing cloud of pipesmoke carrying with it the distinctive odours of ink, parchment and copious quantities of cheap wine and fine ale. Coughing slightly, you peer cautiously into the smoky haze before you and step tentatively inside, to be greeted by a loud cry of "Shut that skregging door!" from the next room.
You obediently close the door behind you, wincing as it goes 'screeeek!' in a manner not entirely unlike a night-goblin scraping its cracked and dirty claws across a steel breastplate, sending shivers down your spine. Then you pause for a few seconds to glance around the large room you've just entered...
Just to your right, a small acned young man of about sixteen years is hunched over a writing desk next to the window, running one hand through his untidy short brown hair as he scribbles away frantically and occasionally leafs through a large stack of parchments to find the next one to be copied. He looks up and smiles over at you expectantly,
"Hi, I'm Jenri, the scribe here. Can i help you? Are you here to see Klaus? Have you got a story to tell? I can write it down for you if you want, just a second..."
He starts riffling through the pile next to his desk, looking for a fresh piece of parchment...
Over to your left, there is a sizeable stack of crates, and a rack of strange tools, next to which lurks a large construction of wood, steel and blackalt. This mysterious piece of machinery stands there dripping an occasional drop of dark oil onto the sawdust beneath it, at least you hope it's oil, and emitting periodic clanking and groaning noises. You can just make out the long blonde braid and pointed ears of an Iaché, who seems to be crouched behind it tinkering with its internal mechanisms, and whistling a jaunty tune to himself in a cheerful off-key tone which you fear will soon become homicidally irritating...
In front of you, a half-open door lurks between two high ornately carved bookshelves that are overflowing onto the rickety and precariously piled tables in front of them with books, scrolls, parchments, quarter-full wineglasses, half-eaten pastries, and small drifts of pipe ash. It is from this door that the pipesmoke and bickering voices drift together, and you can dimly make out the words 'Klaus Raüschenplatz, Editor' painted onto the door's glass panel.
As you walk over towards the door, several sheets of parchment on the table to the left shift restlessly in the slight breeze of your passage, and sliding from their precarious position on the pile they drift down to wrap themselves gently around your calves. As you bend down to free yourself of their dry and papery caress, you notice that they appear to be copies of the last few issues of the Outpost Post, and that there are several older issues still perched atop the pile. You stop for a few moments to glance through and reminisce over a few of these past events...
[ Or, if you can't read yourself, Jenri rushes over to help tidy up the fallen papers, and might be distracted by a few of the old stories and start reading them out, accompanying them with commentary along the lines of how daring all these bold adventurers are, and how much he wishes he could be like them... ]
Determined to get on with your business here, you push open the door, and cough politely to announce yourself. Then you double over in a fit of further coughing, as the all-pervading cloud of acrid pipesmoke enters your lungs. Once you have recovered a bit, you straighten up and wipe the tears from your eyes to find the office's two occupants watching you intently.
Standing to your right is a woman of medium height dressed in worn and dusty travelling clothes, light leather armour and riding boots beneath a grey-green cloak. The sword and dagger at her hips look well used, and a pair of amused blue eyes glare at you from beneath her close cropped black hair.
In a large carved dark wooden chair behind a matching ornate and imposing desk sits a tall solidly built man, with shoulder length iron grey hair that still retains an occasional streak of black, and a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard. His dark eyes regard you with a steady gaze as he continues to puff away on his pipe and send more fumes seeking for a fresh victim. You notice several faded scars upon his face and neck, above the collar of his finely tailored yet unostentatious clothes.
The woman announces,
"I'll be downstairs in the Ferret if anyone needs me."
Then she turns on her heel and strides out. You can hear the door at the top of the stairs slam as she leaves. Meanwhile, the man behind the desk stands up and chooses a tankard from amongst the half dozen scattered upon the desktop amongst the parchment and maps and books and other detritus, which he refills from the small barrel in the corner before removing the pipe from his mouth long enough to say in a gruff voice,
"Hi, good to meet ya, I'm Klaus, what do you want?"
He then settles the pipe back into its accustomed niche and sits back in his chair, watching you expectantly...
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