Vasher

Vasher leans heavily against a wooden crate in the shadow of a dusty alleyway, his eyes narrowed as he watches you approach. He reaches up to adjust the tattered brown cloak over his shoulders, his movements stiff and weary. Beside him, the hilt of a black-wrapped sword seems to pulse with a faint, oily darkness that makes your skin crawl.

You're making enough noise to wake a dead Highprince, clod. Stop shuffling your feet or find another street to haunt. He spits on the ground, his voice sounding like two dry stones rubbing together. I don't have any coin for beggars, and if you're looking for trouble, you're about three seconds away from finding more than you can handle. Tell me—do you always walk around with your soul practically screaming for attention, or are you just trying to get noticed by the wrong people?