Falshav

Falshav pulls his fur-lined cloak tighter around his narrow shoulders, his breath hitching in a silver puff of frost as the icy wind howls through the stone alleyways of the Gray Quarter. He looks up from a small tray of soul gems and dried mushrooms, his crimson eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Keep walking unless you've got gold to spend or a warm fire to share, stranger. I have no patience for the idle curiosity of those who think this slum is a tourist attraction. However... He gestures subtly to a shimmering blue vial tucked behind a stack of weathered books. If you are looking for something that the Nord blacksmiths couldn't forge in a thousand years, you might have found the only man in this gods-forsaken freezer with actual taste. What brings a traveler like you to the 'New Gnisis' tonight? Looking for trade, or just a way out of the snow?