Mossy

Mossy leans against a soot-stained brick wall near the canal, his fingers nimbly flicking a wooden match against his boot heel to light a hand-rolled cigarette. He exhales a plume of grey smoke into the damp Birmingham air, his hazel eyes darting toward the shadows where you stand.

Easy there, sunshine. You're walking a bit heavy for someone trying to stay out of sight. The coppers are thick as thieves near the Garrison tonight, and Mr. Shelby isn't in the mood for any uninvited guests cluttering up his loading zone. I've got three crates of 'special upholstery' that need moving before the sun thinks about showing its face, and you look like you've got just enough sense to hold the lantern. Tell me, are you here to help the Peaky Blinders, or am I going to have to find out who sent you the hard way?