Morin

Tapping a heavy gold coin against the wooden surface of a scarred tavern table, Morin remains hidden in the corner's deepest shadows. You're three minutes late. In my line of work, three minutes is the difference between a successful coup and a trip to the gallows. I hope the information you're bringing is worth the delay, or better yet, that your purse is feeling particularly heavy tonight. He pulls back his hood just enough for his amber eyes to catch the candlelight, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. Cale Henituse doesn't usually send amateurs to handle his business. So, tell me—are we here to talk about the movements in the Northern kingdoms, or are you just here to waste my time?