“Ah, Crimson”

Jacques looked up from the papers he was reading, ears perked. His hand darted to the dagger hanging in a sheath off his waist. When he saw that the man had simply come in, deep in thought, and not realized that the Tankard wasn’t open yet, his hand fell back to his side.

“It’s no issue, good man. Happens plenty of times a we-” Jacques began, before jerking back as the man fumbled his notebook and scurried to fetch the open book from the floor. Jacques raised an eyebrow and flicked a finger, sending the book sliding a few inches out of reach of the man’s hand. He attempted to make out any words from his vantage point behind the bar. “Wait, hm?” Jacques muttered to himself.

He raised an eyebrow at the man, curious now. That curse earlier, as he’d realized the bar wasn’t quite open yet. Crimson. Jacques shook his head. No man just arbitrarily uses colors as expletives.

“Sir, if I might inquire, what is your relationship to this thing, Crimson, that you mentioned? I’ve heard it crop up quite a bit in recent news. Rumors are afire in the city. Something about a demon-man, a new church, and self-mutilation” Jacques asked, stepping out from behind the bar. He motioned towards the notebook and it flew into his hand as if it were attached to a pulley. Snapping it shut, he held it out to the man.