If you intend to profit from your time in Nightholme, sooner or later you’ll have to make a deal. When that moment comes, Brineheart will be waiting.
Contracts and tonics, Nocturn and Bindling parts. Every civilized necessity for the discerning Grimrunner looking to survive the night. Brineheart keeps your work steady and your inventory stocked, all at competitive rates. And should they seem a touch too interested in what comes back from the field… well, discretion is such a useful quality in business. And they do pay well for it.
Naturally, Brineheart is not the only door open to you. For more esoteric appetites, the Whisper Well, should you feel inclined to ask the Void a favor. Just be certain you’re prepared when collection comes due. And for those who prefer their commerce bloody and raw, the Butcher is always waiting. He adores a worthy sacrifice. Especially when it hurts.
We recommend stopping by all three. One should never settle for survival when profit is on the table.
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There’s a brass tray inlaid in the counter so goods can be exchanged without contact. Cold and sensible. The Brineheart way.
Tithe goes in and vanishes before you catch where. A second later, the tray slides back with whatever you came for. Tonic and scrolls, witchsalts and coffin pins. Most importantly, contracts. End of the day, everything’s paid for in blood.
The place looks like they fused a morgue with a counting house. Damp, swollen ledgers lined up like crooked teeth. Specimens stewing in their own juices. Old monitors sweating condensation, glowing green with death tallies and unpaid bonds. Smells like formaldehyde and rotten herbs, and the low-tide kind of brine. Call it company branding.
Behind the counter, the Factor tracks my hands while I feed the tray. He’s already reaching for a vial with his pair of crooked tongs, plucking it up before I ask. Uncanny bastard. Can’t tell where he ends and the shop begins.
“You know,” he says, like he’s winking. “You’re our favorite customer.”
He says that to everyone.
But dealing with him is the cost of doing business. Brineheart’s reliable. That counts for something in this field.
Before I can take my order and leave, he stoops under the counter and comes back with a ledger as fat as a family Bible.
“A new bond,” he says, “for your esteemed consideration.”
The sheet he lays in the tray is too soft to be paper and faintly veined. You never sign it so much as leave a scar.
“We’ve had whispers.” He taps the contract with one long nail. “Something old stirring in the city, unearthed after ages in the dark. Brineheart would simply love to enter it properly into our books. Ship-shape.”
Yeah, what else is new? Still, I read the bond. Bad quarter. Acquisition with a body count. Kinda job that gets your organs carved out.
He catches the dubious twist of my mouth. “Oh, don’t make that face. You Grimrunners have such rigid principles…” The papery skin puckers beneath his eyes. Grinning, maybe. “Right up until the numbers improve.”
He walks his blackened fingertips down the page like spider legs. I follow them to the box marked PAYMENT. Let out a low whistle. Start considering which organs I could live without.
The Factor brings the stamp down before the ink settles into the lines of my name. Signed and sealed. The Brineheart way.
“Another run, another ledger,” he mutters, turning back to his books. “How reliable.”
I stuff the contract in my coat and head for the door. His voice follows me out, thin and cheerful.
“Brineheart assumes no liability should your remains prove… unrecoverable.”
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Stay vigilant, Grimrunners,
— Studio Ellipsis Team