[in a blocky, somewhat wobbly script, as if the stylus used to write it had been gripped in a clumsy, childlike fist:]
In Stormwind without death, injury.
Hurried, crowded, noisy, dangerous, and shelter for one night. Tomorrow, the sea.
Kindness for the snarled and strange is rare. I would repay with like, but have this only.
[Enclosed, with enormous care taken to protect it from leaks or breaks, is a small vial containing a dark brown, resiny oil. If opened to take a whiff, the scent is quite powerful, reminiscent of Northeronian religious incense.]