On Fire-Scarred Paper

*Pinned to the board by the blackened tines of a half melted fork, this note is torn, scorched and marred by soot and written in a jagged hand*

Sons of Saint's,

Run. Run quickly. Run far. Scurry to your hovels and shiver in the empty night. You've stolen from me and harmed my bearer. You've caught my attention, little worms, and I will not rest until my flames have licked away your mortal flesh and chewed your bones to ashes.

*the rest of the note is lost to ashes*

Any who can bring me information on this Sons of Saints organization or the poster of this note is to be rewarded.

[Judging by the imprints marking the Inn wall around this scrap of parchment, one could summarize that the following note was hammered in by someone's fist.]

Three rounds with the Pit Dog, big man. Then we'll see who'll be scurrying.

Thank you to everyone who has helped shed some light on this for me.

My offer of a reward is over, as information is beginning to get redundant.

Any who I have asked to look further into details for me are instructed to continue for the mutual benefit of everyone involved.

Fate favor you all.