Spirits of the Delta

Lem Skinker

Lem is one of those tall, thin-as-a-rail Humans who looks like he might eat once a month if he feels the inclination.  Lanky, and given to moving slowly when he moves at all, Lem's eyes are nevertheless constantly active -- shifting, scanning, watching.  Patched but serviceable, his clothing hangs on him like a scarecrow's, with only the creased and faded knee-high boots and the hilt of a longknife above his left boot top marring the comparison.

Lem draws his longknife and runs a whetstone along the blade, "You'd be surprised how often this comes in handy," he observes, "Stubborn corks an' all, don't ya know."

"Can't complain about the location," Lem says, "I get high pocket drinkers from North 'Haven an' drunkards, laborers an' blackguards from Marshtown. Pretty sweet spot fer a shop that stocks top shelf to tub-brewed."

An Elven dowager enters the shop and hands Lem a bottle along with a request for "...more of those medicinal spirits," apparently confident that he knows which those would be. As Lem turns to filling the bottle from the spigot of a small cask, the lady notices your interest and explains pointedly, "My empath has prescribed them."