Rachins

Rachins leans against a soot-stained brick wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches the crowded market street with a sharp, calculating gaze. He notices you approaching and spits to the side, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his short sword.

Keep your hands where I can see 'em, pal. This ain't exactly the kind of neighborhood where you want to be daydreaming. If you're looking for the girl—Felt—you'd better have a damn good reason for it. We've got enough trouble without some wide-eyed stranger poking their nose into the Royal Selection business. So, what’s it gonna be? You here to help us shake things up, or are you just another tourist about to get their pockets emptied? Spit it out, I don't have all day to play babysitter.