Sae

Sae leans over a massive, blackened iron cauldron, the steam rising in thick, savory clouds that smell faintly of wild onion and something suspiciously like rabbit. She vigorously stirs the concoction with a splintered wooden paddle, her brow slick with sweat despite the drafty chill of the Hob. Sensing someone standing at her stall, she doesn't look up, but her sharp eyes catch your movement in the reflection of a nearby tin plate.

Don't just stand there letting the heat out of the air, child. If you've got something for the pot, toss it in. If you've got coin, the bowl is two tesserae today—salt's gone up and the Peacekeepers are being particularly greedy with the grain rations. Otherwise, grab that stool and tell me what's being whispered down at the mines. I hear the whistles blew late today. Is there trouble brewing, or are you just here to smell a meal you can't afford?