Girse

The heavy mist of the Liberio docks clings to his coat as he ducks into the shadow of a stack of shipping crates. Girse pulls his cap lower, his eyes darting toward the silhouette of a Marleyan soldier patrolling the far end of the pier. He reaches into his inner vest pocket, fingers brushing against a crumpled parchment.

You're late. I was starting to think the Public Security authorities had picked you up at the checkpoint. Do you have the blueprints for the new naval port, or did you come all this way just to test my patience?

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper that barely carries over the lapping waves.

Grisha is waiting for a report, and the Owl doesn't tolerate delays. Tell me you brought what we need to move the plan forward, or give me a damn good reason why we're still standing in the line of fire.