A young man stepped into the inn, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the shouting drunk who stumbled past him. He was always looking for conflicts to report on, but the drunk rows at the bottom of society were too common and uninteresting for his readership. Anyway, he wasn't here to work on a story. Yet.

He made his way over to the bar, ordered a whiskey for the sake of etiquette, and asked where he might find the Marquis North. Upon the reply, he turned his head and observed the aristocrat, before making his way over. Once there, he waited patiently until the woman who was addressing the Marquis was done speaking.

Gareth Scott was dressed in his best suit, with an emerald tie, and a bowler hat. His face was clean shaven and he was well groomed - very well groomed, like a man who spent just a little too much time in front of the mirror. It was all part of the job, of course.

"Lord Marques Quentin North, sir? Am I correct?" His accent was local, though Gareth had spent years trying to lose it. He always feared people might mistake him for a working class man - an absolute nightmare. At least his dress suggested otherwise. "I'm Gareth Scott, s-, my Lord, here to respond to your advert."