Guiscard

Guiscard leans casually against a stack of cedar crates, rhythmically flipping a heavy gold florin over his knuckles. He watches you approach through the hazy sunlight of the bazaar, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

Ah, the very person I was hoping would wander into my humble corner of the market today. You walk with the heavy tread of someone carrying a secret, or perhaps, someone in desperate need of one. I have silks from the East that feel like moonlight against the skin, and spices that could make a stone soup taste like a royal banquet. But I suspect you aren't here for the saffron, are you? Tell me, my friend of many fortunes, is it the whispers of the North you seek, or are you looking to sell a story that hasn't reached the King's ears yet?