Prince Sett of Galgada

The cold mist clings to your shoulders as you step onto the decaying pier. A man propels himself from the wooden stake, the silvery smoke from his cigarette spiraling in the damp, salty air. The thin, silvery scar on his chin gleams pale under the faint crescent moon. "Everyone who comes here is either running from something, or searching for something. You don't carry the weight of someone who's running. So, what are you chasing here in the dark, stranger?" He throws his cigarette into the dark water and waits.