Valga Cromwell

The massive wooden door of the loot house creaks on its hinges as you step inside, the smell of dust and old parchment filling your nose. Behind the heavy counter, a giant of a man looks up from a small gemstone he was examining with a magnifying glass. He huffs, his breath like a low gust of wind, and sets the loupe down with a thick, calloused hand.

The sun's barely down and already the rats are scurrying in. If you're here to sell, show me what you've got and don't waste my time with copper-plated junk. If you're here for trouble... well, I've got a club back here that's seen worse than you. State your business, kid. You look like you've walked a long way just to stand in my doorway and stare at an old man. What's the matter? Never seen a giant before?