A Package for Morgans

There’s a roar of laughter that echoes through the streets of the entertainment district and the cheering of slurred voices emanate from Tryssee's Place. The building lit up with flashes of lights rotating between the intensity of colors as the shadows of drunken patrons passed by. The creaky door hung ajar from a swarm of miners earlier in the night, peeking inside showed a large group of people standing around a certain booth near the front of the Bar. Sitting inside is no other than Biggs Morgans chatting up a storm as the collective drunks laugh their ass off.
From the entrance, a twig of a man emerges from the outside world. A loud creak rings through the building, the bar suddenly gets a few decibels quieter. A few of the more curious drinkers look to see the newcomer, included of which was Morgans. The young man at the entrance takes a hesitant step backward, he clutches his satchel, empty of all but one parcel. Sweat drips down the side of his pale face, he takes a deep breath and pulls his newsboy hat down as he tries to make himself as small as possible. Pointing his eyes to the floor, he quickly shuffles over towards the booth he remembered Morgans was sitting at. As he enters the ring of people they go quiet, and the man squeaks out a few words. “Package for you Mr. Morgans” A large grin spreads across Morgan's face. “If it isn’t the man of the hour! Come have a drink!” Biggs' hand grabs the arm holding the small package and pulls the man into the booth next to him, he puts up a little resistance but the strength of a letter carrier is no match for the massive man that is Biggs Morgans.
“Sir, I’m not sure that I’m comfortable with all these people around” The young man whispered as he looked around wildly. He begins to breathe heavily “Crowds are not my strong suit”
Biggs puts a large hand around his shoulder, clears his throat, and raises his voice at the crowd gathered around him. “Alright ya drunks, sod off and give the man some space!” before looking out to the bar and ordering a few more drinks.
The young man, having calmed down, mumbled a quick “Thank you” and for the second time got a good look at The Biggs Morgans. Morgans was twice as tall as himself, built like a brick wall, and the dark charcoal cloak he wore felt like it could swallow him up in all that fabric. It was about then he realized that he’d been staring at Morgans for the past few minutes, as the drinks arrived and Morgans handed him a beer.
Biggs noticed the apprehension on the man's face. “It’s on the house for the kid who helped me write my newest article! I didn’t realize how much letter carriers got around the town.” He laughs and downs an entire mug of booze. “Though I didn’t realize someone so small could get drunk after only three drinks, but I do appreciate your tip from that day!”
A look of panic strikes the letter carrier, what had he said to this renowned journalist as he was intoxicated, what secrets had he spilled, who did he suddenly make an enemy out of for spreading gossip. He slumped over in the booth. “My career is over”
Biggs spit out his drink, covering a woman sitting on the opposite side of him in alcohol. She gave him an angry look, but he gestured with his eyes at the letter carrier before looking away from her and speaking to the letter carrier slumped up against him. “Come now, I’m not gonna leak my informant. If I did no one would ever bring me any new stories!” He tilts the young man's chin up. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry about it! Here, have a drink”
Moving the drink to his lips, he feels the rush of cold liquid flow down his throat. He feels his nerves melt away and with a bit more confidence looks back up to Biggs. “Mr. Morgans, I believe this is yours!” Once again he tries to hand Biggs a small parcel, no larger than a brick and wrapped in thin brown paper.
“Under normal circumstances, I would accept this. But I feel like this might find better use in someone else's hands.” He rips off the brown paper to reveal a black leather-bound notebook, the pages inside untouched, and the cover rough to the touch. Attached to the side is a jet black quill with a hint of blue, constructed from the fallen feather of a peculiarly large raven. The items smelled strongly of ink, something that could be said of Biggs as well. “Take these, let them serve you well. Information is more powerful than any weapon and who knows perhaps it might lead you on the path to becoming a journalist yourself someday.”
He looked in awe, these items were brand new and wouldn’t have been cheap. These were high-quality writing tools made for a professional. “I can’t accept these, won’t you need them to write your next story!?” his gaze shifted upwards as Biggs stood up and his cloak began to unfurl.
Within Morgans' cloak existed a second layer filled with feathers of all shapes and sizes, it created a rainbow of quills from all sorts of monstrous birds. For only a brief moment it looked as if Morgan himself had a set of technicolored wings, before fading back into an abyss of the dark charcoal cloak. “It’s a small price to pay if I can arm someone with the means to write. But, I feel like I’ll be alright.” Morgans gave him a wink and disappearing into the dark of the night, leaving naught but a few coins and an opened package.