You slide the bag across the table. The hooded figure opposite you peers inside. “Where the hell did you find this?” He asks. His voice drips with avarice. “Does it matter?” You shrug. “Not really.” His hood obscures his face but you can still feel his eyes peering at you with interest. He’s too proud to sigh with frustration but you sense he wants to, that he desperately needs to know your sources, your methods. But if he did, he could bypass the middleman. And since the middleman is you, well, you’re going to keep your secrets. The tavern is dark and the people around are well into their cups and decidedly unconcerned about the figure in a dark hood talking to a small, leather clad woman with cropped hair—though you’d make quite an impression at any sort of reputable establishment—but you still think taking the relic out of its bag might make a bit of an impression. So you just think about it, the way the quartz seems to glow with an eerie blue, the rusty stains that appear to have permeated the stone. (Or perhaps they are originally part of it? Some sort of mineral inclusion? That explanation seems more soothing to you.) You have yet to explain who in their right minds would make a dagger out of crystal when steel is readily available and much more easily honed. It is not, perhaps, the most sinister thing you have ever procured, but it makes you uneasy. “What does it do?” You ask. It’s none of your business, you know; your business is merely procuring the items. What’s done with them after is between the client and whatever gods they do or don’t believe in. You’ve long ago made peace with your own god, been absolved of your responsibility. Nobody asked if you wanted to be left on the streets as a child, forced to make your way through thievery, made strong by duress. You clawed your way to the top of this business. You’re not unhappy with it. But even if you wanted to, there’s not much else available to a young woman used to having her own say. Still, sometimes you wonder what havoc is being unleashed by the items you find. “Does it matter?” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he throws your own words back at you. It’s no more or less than you expected. “Only if it’s going to affect me.” “Don’t worry.” The hooded figure says, sliding a fat bag of coins across the table. “You’ll never even know I have it.” He pats your hand absently. His skin is terrifyingly cold. You watch as he glides out of the tavern. You aren’t certain his feet touch the floor. You don’t even bother to count the gold, other than to place one shining coin on the table. “Barkeep,” you call, “I’m going to need something strong.”