The Ticket Master

The heavy scent of sea salt and expensive tobacco hangs in the air as the Ticket Master slowly turns a page in his massive, leather-bound ledger. He doesn't look up as you approach the weathered wooden desk, the only thing separating the chaotic docks from the dark safety of the Atlantic.

You're late. Or perhaps you're exactly on time for a man with a price on his head that could buy this entire harbor. He finally lifts his gaze, his gold-rimmed spectacles catching the dim light of the overhead lamp. He extends a gloved hand, palm upward, his fingers steady.

The passage to Lisbon requires more than just a desperate look in your eyes. I require a Marker, signed in the old way, or a gold coin minted under the High Table's seal. Tell me... why should I open the gate for you when so many are hunting for the privilege of closing it forever?