You walk into a large, two-story log cabin, quietly closing the door behind you. You have noticed that the sign that hung on the door outside said, without a doubt, Fine Feather Friends Delivery Agency, though the exact meaning of the ridiculously long name has escaped you. Through your ponderings, the reason why you had gone inside in the first place became clear.

At the register -- a long, oaken counter with a golden bell perching on top of it -- a fierce-eyed hawk glances at you from over her lunch, a half-eaten trout. Licking her beak clean, she puffs up her tawny feathers and inclines her head so that she can get a better view of you. She clucks her tongue and mutters, "I can see you have no idea where this place is." Shaking her head disapprovingly, she spreads her wings and flits to your side, much to your discomfort. Sweeping her right wing in a broad semicircle, she indicates the whole building. "This is the Fine Feathered Friends Delivery Agency, as you should know from reading the sign." She pauses and glares at you with a jaundiced eye, her pupils dilating. "You have read the sign, haven't you?" When you nod your head vigorously, more from fear than zealous confirmation, she sniffs. "Good." She starts again, indicating the cabin.
"As I was saying, this is the Fine Feathered Friends Delivery Agency. We specialize in delivering your various mails to the inhabitants of Green Isle, and at no charge! But, chah, don't take us for granted. Us birds are fierce ones, you know!"

You gulp at the plural, "birds".

The hawk grins and laughs at your obvious unease. "Ah, but we're friendly enough, as long as you don't take us for granted! Choose your mode of delivery, Sparra, hawk, eagle, you name it, and I hope by my father's egg that we have it!"

She then inclines her head to stare at the ceiling. "Oh, and if you need to contact me, my name is Piean." She flits away.