A ginger haired woman no older than 24 walked the forest path, trying to make the trip last as long as possible, for she knew what lay at the end. Yet another potential shooting of the messenger. Her gray-blue eyes darted back and froth, checking for bandits that just may have the idea in their heads that messengers make plenty of money.

She pulled out a small bottle of water and took a sip, in hopes to strangle the burning in her throat. Sick or not, the only messenger in Paquiri had to work. Her purple velvet dress was a bit long for her in the arms, coming to about the middle of her hand. The part that wasn’t covered by a dress sleeve had the end of a red glove. Typical messenger wear, purple velvet and red gloves, red as fire for the flame that melts the sealing wax.

She stopped at a small house, quiet and quaint. She knocked on the door, three sharp raps, her signature knock. Footsteps came from the other side of the door. She hurriedly fished through her brown leather bag.