People crowd the alleys of the market, bartering goods and services.

Abbadon fidgets nervously as he stands before the lycanthrope mercenary. His raven hair shifts uneasily in the wind, and he avoids making eye contact. He clears his throat and glances around furtively, searching for words. After a moment of delay, he finally manages to speak.

"Err, could I trouble you for just a moment of your time?" he asks. "I could, uh, really use your help with something. If you wouldn't mind, that is."