Post by Script Wrecked on May 15, 2023 1:37:36 GMT -5
A nondescript dwarf (not wearing combat leathers, and definitely not wearing a bronze open-faced helmet) with a sweaty bandanna tied about his head and matching work worn clothes, floats (figuratively, not literally) about the Valkur's Roar docks.
He listens for any news about the Pyke, a vessel due about this time. Some say it has been lost at sea, while others suspect its captain may merely have taken a detour for a little extra, "nudge-nudge", "wink-wink", "say-no-more", business. Of course, delays are always to be expected when you-know-who, she-who-must-not-be-named lest you attract her attention next time you are out on the vast... open... endless... waters, exercises her capricious will.
He may even get roped into loading or unloading vessels when the dock workers are short handed. He has no charisma or charm with which to ply his way into such groups, just the ordinary demeanour of bloke waiting on one of the ship's crew that owes him coin.
Should he be invited along, he dares visit the seedy dives where sailors and dock hands alike drink harsh spirits that would be better used pickling meat or stripping varnish. He's not afraid to lose coin to any shyster's game of dice or cups or cards if it brings him into the fold of such men that may let slip what they know. And if any fighting should break out, he can probably hold his own, but is not above taking a fall to show his ordinariness.
In the exchange of any stories, he has his own tale to tell, of the loss of the Zenith. Never told in the first person though, always, "Oy heard that...", or "Me mate told me...", and full of exaggerations, half-truths and lies.