Wherever a guard is stationed in South Cordor, just outside of his line of sight one could find a note tacked into place. Dozens of the aforementioned parchment are tacked to walls, doors, posts, wells, and market stalls - any place one could attach such a piece of paper. Written upon each in jagged, angled script is a brief poem.
Cordor is gray,
Her waters are blue,
Something is wrong -
And you know it's true.
South District's nice!
I can't spot one whore.
My only query
Is where are the poor?
Each coin is gold
That drops in the purse.
But where do they go?
Just ask Bill Hurst.
At the bottom of every note is scribbled a single word in the same knife-like script, almost illegible - a signature.
Grayfox
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