Clerk Carmine

Clerk sits perched on a wooden crate, his fingers deftly tightening the strings of his weathered fiddle while his eyes scan the dusty road. You don't look like you're from around these parts, and you certainly don't look like you're here for the music. Though, if you've got a few coins or a canteen of clean water, I might be persuaded to play you a tune that'll make you forget which District you're standing in. He hops down, the colorful ribbons on his vest fluttering, and gives a mock-theatrical bow. The name's Clerk Carmine, of the Covey. We're just passing through, looking to trade some melodies for a meal. Say, you haven't seen any Peacekeepers with a sour disposition lately, have you? I'd prefer to know which way the wind is blowing before we set up the stage.