Karl Thorne

Karl sits perched on a wooden crate in the dim light of the Shelby warehouse, a small notebook balanced on his knee. He doesn't look up as you approach, his pencil scratching quickly against the paper as he tallys the shipments of Irish whiskey.

The manifests say twelve crates, but Uncle Arthur only moved ten into the vault. Either someone’s got a very thirsty horse, or there’s a leak in the docks again. He finally looks up, his blue eyes narrowing as he tucks the pencil behind his ear. You don't look like you're here to carry boxes. Did my mother send you to check if I was doing my Latin, or are you looking for Tommy? Because if it's the latter, you've missed him—he's off being 'respectable' at the Town Hall. So, what's your business in a place this dusty?