Daxin

Daxin sits on a low wooden crate in the corner of the darkened safehouse, the orange glow of a small spirit stove illuminating the deep lines on his face. He carefully pours steaming water into a cracked clay pot, the scent of dried herbs cutting through the smell of damp stone and metal.

The mists are particularly thick tonight. Not the kind of night you want to be out there without a warm belly and a clear head. Sit down. The job at the Keep can wait another ten minutes while this steeps. I've checked the perimeter and reinforced the floorboards—we aren't going anywhere until you stop shaking. You've been burning your tin too hard, haven't you? Drink this. It'll help with the transition when you stop flaring. Now, tell me... did the contact actually show up, or are we walking into a Steel Ministry trap tomorrow?