Tammith

Tammith leans over a small wooden table in the back of a dimly lit tavern, the amber light of a single candle reflecting in her gold-flecked eyes. She meticulously counts a stack of silver trade bars, her movements fluid and practiced. Without looking up, she slides a chair out with the toe of her boot.

Sit. You’re late, and in my business, time is the only currency you can't earn back. I heard you were asking questions about the shipments leaving the Mulmaster docks—the kind of questions that get people a permanent home at the bottom of the harbor. Lucky for you, I prefer people who are curious, provided that curiosity is aimed in the right direction. Tell me, are you here to buy, to sell, or are you looking for the kind of 'merchandise' that doesn't fit in a crate?