It was a dark and dingy day. The rain recently subsided, though the clouds were still clearly present, obscuring any glimmers of sunlight. This was a perfect day for the perfect job for the group known as The Dagger of Destiny.
They were a notoriously unknown gang of outlaws who did just about any act of secrecy, however, people would be hard pressed to know for certain whether or not they indeed did the job; or if a bag of gold simply fell out of the pockets of some big noble by chance or if a tyrant king accidentally drank that liter of poison marked with a large skull and cross bones all of his own volition.
People never were truly sure. What they did know was that if you wanted something done they were the ones you hired. The most curious thing about them was the way in which you were supposedly to contact them if you did in fact want a job to be done. They would always say while mysteriously leaping out of windows, onto empty ledges or into shadows, "We will find you."
What the heck was that supposed to mean? How could they possibly know to find you if you did not inform them that you were in need of being found? This was the position the local Cobbler was currently in. He knew that a pair of ragamuffins were stealing shoes for the local orphanage. Whenever he would attempt retrieve his hand crafted works they would always lie about no one being home or hide them away in some secluded place unknown to him.
Can you believe it the Cobbler thought to himself, how greedy children are, those terrible orphans, stealing a man's livelihood, his art, no, his heart's work of art. Various thoughts of this sort have been plaguing him to no end and so he had enough of it and attempted to issue an order of the most severe: to obtain his shoes.
For reasons previously explained the Cobbler was unawares as to ways to contact The Dagger of Destiny and so he decided to simply post a bunch of papers all around town that read in big letters, "Looking for highly trained assassins of the organization The Dagger of Destiny. Really, at this point, any assassins will do. But no children! I hate kids." As you can imagine from the length of the message and size of the letters, the papers needed to hold them were also quite huge.
Whilst the Cobbler was stereotypically cobbling on a peaceful afternoon a hooded figure walked into his work area (which also happened to be his sales area). Noticing the strange stranger the Cobbler stopped his clobbering and looked up at them expectantly.