Lounging around in the Cantina, Kolburn kept a watchful, yet unassuming eye on those around him as he finished the last morsels of what passed for a meal in this joint. Brushing off the crumbs, he glanced round, careful not to make eye contact with any of the other patrons who might later remember him as he made his way unobserved to the entrance and out into the cold of the port. He would come back and pay off his mounting tab, when he next came across a few credits, or found another odd job. After all, he wasn’t completely without his honour, unlike some people.
A pirate prince’s son with a secret he still hasn’t figured out…
His day in the power center of the realm is long over. He now helps the down trodden and forgotten peasants the ruling class seem to overlook.
The accepted mode of getting otherwise unobtainable information is to go visit the cranky old hermit living in the mountains. It's just the sensible thing to do. So, naturally, everyone takes their monthly excursion to the hermit's hovel to consult him on everything, from lock-jaw to lovesickness, necromancers to nasal viruses.
Now, if everyone's always visiting the poor old hermit, there's going to be an enormous queue... "Wellcome to the Hermitt's Hovele, Please Take Ye a Number and Have Ye a Seate" reads the sign outside the packed dwelling.
Imagine the poor hermit, having retreated into the mountains to escape this precise situation...