Days pass since the posters were put up, and a jacketed man with a wide brim hat enters the Belching Dragon. He drags a chair over to the stuffed troll in the corner, leaning upon the back of it. He studies the room and its various patrons for a little while. Eventually, calling to the familiar face of the barkeep and raising his voice he proclaims,
"Please, a round for my friends and honored folk of Nashkel. And none of the cheap stuff - you can even bring out the nice mugs - there aren't any Balduran's here, after all."
Hoping the joke hits the right crowd, he smiles, and if well received he gives a nod here and there and waits for the noise to die down, before carrying on, standing up on the chair, and leaning a hand upon the stuffed troll in its corner.
"I tell you, this was an ugly one - they were even uglier, when they breathed." He remarks, examining the troll and then looking over the room.
"But they bled, and they died by the dozens, or the hundreds. They were set loose upon our Nashkel, and our Amn, by Kossuthian cultists and the foul lich that empowered them. They bled and were killed and they were stopped from their foul task, which was razing your towns and villages in the Cloudpeaks here. But it wasn't charity work, that did them in - though our House of the Guardian damn sure did their part and they did it well. It was the foresight of Mayor Ghastkill, that slew these beasts. You see, our Mayor looked to the future road, and he looked to the Whitewood Vanguard to secure it."
He fixes the room with a lopsided smile, "But the future isn't free, and there are other roads, than these. Nor should anyone's hard work or labor be free."
He unfurls a poster, similar in make to the one tacked up days before,
He passes it to the nearest hand that would take it, then passes out a few more in other directions.
"We need you. The Lord's Alliance fights in the north and they fight a damn good fight - against Zhentarim, against Blackrose, against drow, werewolves, orcs, the undead. The Zhentarim blight and they curse the very land good, hard working folk would feed on. The Whitewood Vanguard pays. Give us your strength and your labor and we'll win over the northern roads. Pad your pockets with salvage - if we win it from the enemy camps well that just shows we want it more than they do! To the nine with the Zhentarim and their black hearted tyranny!" He says with a defiant fist raised, then, to any ears still listening.
"A place to lay your head at night, steady wages for work completed, training - ah but do we train. Because we don't act like the other armies or knightly orders - and we fight to win. The unconventional is our bread and butter. We'll show you how its done. Come work with us, and we'll pave the road to a brighter future, on the winds of fate, the sweat of our work, and the blood our blades take from those that would terrorize and have us be subservient."
He hops down from the chair, ending with;
"Enjoy your drinks! Then come see me, Captain Michael Dunn - we'll get you signed up and to work straight away - there's a war to win up north!"