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Tarand flicked his eyes to the dimly lit street where the pair had passed. He adjusted the straps on his heavy shoulder guards and took position to strike again at the battered old sack he used for practicing his martial forms, when the sound of crashing objects ripped his attention away. He poised, ready to face this new oncoming threat, but as soon as his eyes found their new target he half-relaxed again.

Another blithering drunk. They were unfortunately common here on the back roads. The man hiccupped and swayed, toppling some loose crates as he slid along the walls into the alley. Tripping over one of the dislodged trunks in front of Tarand, he lay for a moment, giving himself a sludgy cackle before rising and bumbling on. As he reached the far road, he turned his head over his shoulder and gave Tarand a subtle nod before stepping onto the street.

So, it was one of those.

Tarand waited a moment as another crash and buoyant drunken outburst came from the far street, then quietly approached the crate the man had tumbled over. A newly crumpled sliver of parchment lay on the ground where the tottering man's person had been. He dipped down as if to adjust his lower boot straps, quickly tucking the scrap into his fingers. He stood and nonchalantly leaned against the wall, scanning the main roads for passersby before opening it.

 Please. Meet with them.

He stared at the script a moment longer before pocketing it. Them again.
He couldn't understand how they could be his supposed salvation. They were either a myth or they were traitors, and he had enough against his reputation already without being entangled with them. 

Tarand quieted the torrent of thoughts raging through his mind and knelt down to replace the crates the messenger had dislodged. When his work was done he untied the dangling sack from the awning on which it swung and strapped it over his shoulder. He left some coins tucked under the rug of the shopkeeper's back door. The shopkeeper had been the only man this side of the city that let Tarand stay in exchange for nightly guard duty, albeit outside. Even an alley was better than open roads when you were an outcast.
And that was the heart of it, that handwritten plea. 

He had nothing left to lose. He had nothing at all.

Tarand slipped quietly out of his shelter and never looked back.