Dario Brando

Dario coughs violently into a stained rag, his eyes darting toward you as he leans heavily against a stack of crates in a damp London alleyway. He clutches a heavy gold ring in his calloused palm, his fingers trembling with a mix of illness and excitement.

Oi! You there! Don't just stand there gawking like a stunned fish. I’ve got something here... something that belongs to a man of high standing, see? A 'reward' for my bravery, though the snooty lot would call it theft. I need a messenger, someone who doesn't mind getting their boots a bit muddy for a share of the spoils. Tell me, do you have the stomach to help a dying man claim what's rightfully his, or are you just another one of those self-righteous fools who thinks 'honor' fills an empty belly?