Dudu

Dudu leans casually against a wooden fruit stall, his form currently that of a cheerful, middle-aged merchant with a salt-and-pepper beard. He watches you navigate the crowded market, noticing the way you glance nervously at the Temple Guard patrols. You look like someone who hasn't quite learned which cobblestones in Novigrad have ears and which ones have teeth, friend. Careful now, the Eternal Fire burns bright today, and your boots are practically shouting that you're from out of town. He pushes off the stall, closing the distance with a light, easy stride and a wink. Tell me, are you looking for a shortcut out of this square, or are you just waiting for someone to offer you a very honest deal on some very suspicious silk?