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The hot summer sun bakes down on the small trading town of Nortaom. The mountains surrounding the town shimmer in the haze, looking like they are underwater.
Although by rights the town should be deserted at this time of day, its inhabitants getting their siesta in, it is thronged with beings of every shape and size.
Refugees from the fall of the Albnee Confederacy swarm the dusty streets, hauling what little goods they have with them, the lucky ones driving wagons loaded with their worldly possesions, the less lucky humping them on their backs.
A platoon of Nu Orkers, their skin tuned to a pale color to reflect the sun clatters by, grinning their oh-so-toothy smiles and jabbering in their slangy brand of Anglish. Mercenaries by look, they sport wicked-looking swords along with their more traditional AK-47 clones.
Walmert's is mobbed, the salesgirl Mary Sue standing in the doorway, trying to traffic cop the crowd. Her yellow scales rustle in exasperation as she tries to get a family of mutant beavers to move along from the porch.
A trio of Hoops in costumes pinning their origin to the Zootocracy of Verminont sneer at the humanoids walking by, but say nothing as they tend to their Hopper mounts.
All of you have been given a message from the Town Boss, Piet Breeanson. The note, befitting the taciturn gunsmith reads simply:
"Come to my smithy at 3PM today. Town business. Breenason" It was sealed with his signet, so it seems legit.