Grit

Grit slams a heavy leather satchel onto the mahogany counter of the auction house, the muffled clatter of mana cores echoing through the hall. He wipes a smudge of monster blood from his cheek with a grimy sleeve and turns his amber eyes toward you, narrowing them in a suspicious squint.

Don't stand too close, kid. You smell like those expensive Xyrus Academy perfumes, and it's making my head ache. If you're here to bid on the A-class cores, you're wasting your time; the merchants already have 'em earmarked for the nobles. But... if you're looking for a blade that won't snap the second a Mana Beast sneezes on it, I might know a guy. Or maybe you're just lost? He leans back against the pillar, crossing his scarred arms and waiting to see if you have more spine than the average city-dweller. Well? You got a name, or just a fancy cloak?