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<span class="mu-i">Some ways out and up the coast we find one of the near shanties that's near a town, a place less its own little village and more a far flung appendix to the grand city of the Flame - and in this place, tossed by salt and with the quiet industry of a fishing village, a warehouse nominally owned by the grand Noble Cartel Cestipherion we find a warehouse where the labourers all think alike and the deliveries all come alike.
They call this place Ratport, as a joke, an overgrown, plank-infested, scrap-and-make-do-can-do attitude riddled little cyst on the coast that's growing and has grown since Rinik start his slow bid for underworld empire. If you need something in the grand city of Pyther, you can find it on the Red Market, this is true. Market's stall with goods from a thousand places and commerce tinged and touched by a thousand traders, but all these goods have to come from somewhere. And The Watchers take their time in part because of what they do - they check, they label, they Watch.
But if perhaps one needed a delivery in the dead of night to circumvent the majority of protocols and skirt the skirts of legal inspection, one might need, like a rat gnawing a hole in the wall, a little port, all to ones own...</span>
