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Message: <blockquote data-quote="OneCrappy DM" data-source="post: 9818979" data-attributes="member: 7033788">Luke CindersThe barman squinted at you when you asked for red wine, eyes sliding over you slow and practiced, weighing boots, cloak, and stance. In the Hive, that look wasn’t rude—it was survival. He was counting the odds you’d try to stiff him or start trouble once the cup was poured. "The real stuff. I’ll pay the jink if it is untainted." you said. That settled it. He turned his back and reached high, fingers brushing past cracked mugs and bone handled knives until he pulled free an ancient green bottle resting upside down in its cradle. The glass was choked with dust thick enough to mark decades.  He set it down with care. “Twenty jinx,” he grunted. ((20 GP))You ask the Prime at the bar if he's new to sigil, and he took that as his cue. He leaned your way, eyes bright with the kind of hope only a clueless berk still carried. Started droning on about a place he called Faerûn. Claimed he’d been a small time merchant, took a simple run to Waterdeep, and somehow ended up here instead. His hands shook when he lifted his drink. Asking what all this Berk talk and cutter business was about, he's grown quite confused. The door banged open before you could answer. Another patron came swaggering in, loud with borrowed confidence, slapping jink on the bar and shouting about spending it while he had it. The Hive loved that sort people who didn’t know how fast fortune turned. Voices rose, chairs scraped, and for a moment the whole place leaned toward chaos.That’s when you shifted focus over to the dwarf. He sat apart with eyes never still. As the noise swelled, his quill moved faster. He was writing names, descriptions, habits each patron reduced to marks in a thick ledger bound in worn leather. The commotion earned a few extra lines, maybe a symbol or two. Not bookkeeping. Chant keeping. Dark or otherwise. Some sort of private tally of who mattered and who didn’t. He looked alone, but no cutter like that ever truly was. In the Hive, anyone keeping that much chant usually had an attaché tucked away watching a door, listening from the rafters, or waiting just outside the Cage’s ever hungry streets.[ATTACH=full]424792[/ATTACH]</blockquote>

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