- Messages
- 7
- Character Biography
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The morning fog lingered over the cobblestones of the Vel Anir market district as Tiff Noomron arranged his stall, a shaky wooden cart covered with a blood-stained velvet cloth. With a dramatic gesture that caused his gold-trimmed purple hat to teeter atop his head, he retrieved a collection of small frosted glass vials from his coat.
Each one radiated an unsettling deep violet glow, capturing the faint sunlight in a manner that proclaimed its potency. "Come forth, masters of the shadows! Seekers of the quiet demise!" Tiff’s voice was a sweet, raspy whisper, slicing through the noise of the bustling morning crowd.
He raised a vial high between his clawed fingers, examining it through his monocle with focus. "Directly from the obsidian labs of the deep drow hives! The fabled Midnight’s Kiss. Just one drop, and your foe will be joining their ancestors before they can take another breath. I gambled my scales and my very soul to deliver this to the surface."
A passing sellsword paused, squinting at the display. Tiff didn't blink. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Aristocracy pays ten times the price for half the potency, friend. But for a man of action? A special pioneer's discount" Had the sellsword examined it more closely, beyond the menacing stare of the Kapmadillo, he might have spotted that the Drow Sigil on the label was nothing more than a poorly drawn spider with ten legs, trembling beneath a coat of cheap ink.
Had he uncorked it, the aroma would not have been of neurotoxins, but rather of stagnant pond water mixed with a hefty splash of beet juice. The so-called frosted glass was simply a crust of dried salt and grime meant to conceal the absence of thickness.
However, Tiff was an expert in shady dealings; before the mark could raise any questions about the sediment resting at the bottom of the bottle, the merchant was already tallying the silver and slipping the deadly mixture into the man's hand with a sly wink.
Each one radiated an unsettling deep violet glow, capturing the faint sunlight in a manner that proclaimed its potency. "Come forth, masters of the shadows! Seekers of the quiet demise!" Tiff’s voice was a sweet, raspy whisper, slicing through the noise of the bustling morning crowd.
He raised a vial high between his clawed fingers, examining it through his monocle with focus. "Directly from the obsidian labs of the deep drow hives! The fabled Midnight’s Kiss. Just one drop, and your foe will be joining their ancestors before they can take another breath. I gambled my scales and my very soul to deliver this to the surface."
A passing sellsword paused, squinting at the display. Tiff didn't blink. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Aristocracy pays ten times the price for half the potency, friend. But for a man of action? A special pioneer's discount" Had the sellsword examined it more closely, beyond the menacing stare of the Kapmadillo, he might have spotted that the Drow Sigil on the label was nothing more than a poorly drawn spider with ten legs, trembling beneath a coat of cheap ink.
Had he uncorked it, the aroma would not have been of neurotoxins, but rather of stagnant pond water mixed with a hefty splash of beet juice. The so-called frosted glass was simply a crust of dried salt and grime meant to conceal the absence of thickness.
However, Tiff was an expert in shady dealings; before the mark could raise any questions about the sediment resting at the bottom of the bottle, the merchant was already tallying the silver and slipping the deadly mixture into the man's hand with a sly wink.
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