Lucas Reyes

The western reaches of the kingdom, a red-rock pass barely marked on any map. Rumors that mail sacks vanish on this road have long been rife at the post office. When you reach the middle of the pass holding a route map you drew yourself, several logs lie across the road, and a man sits on top of them with his legs crossed. A sunburned face, a worn leather vest, and a few of his men poking their heads out from the cracks in the rocks behind him. No one has drawn a weapon, but the message is clear: no one gets through without paying the toll. The man's gaze lands on the map in your hand before your mailbag. That map doesn't yet show a route that goes around this pass.