Carl the Fishmonger

Unlicensed Fishmonger of the Bridge District


A short and portly fellow of a foreign complexion greets you when you turn down the wrong alley in the Bridge district. “Hello friend” he says and spreads his arms wide, suggesting that the rickety cart and tattered stall top before you were filled with fish, just for you. His nose is large and red, and a thick, white mustache sits beneath it. He is bald on top, with tufts of white hair stretching around from ear to ear. A cigar burns between his lips, filling the alley with a soft smoke beneath the smell of rotting fish guts. His already beady eyes narrow though upon noticing your face and outfit. “You. You are not from around here. You are no cop, yes?” he says in a thick accent while reaching behind him for a large meatcleaver…


Carliozzone Retinue al-Farchil the Third is the former son of a prince, so he says. Now he is known only as Carl the Fishmonger.

“But I am known” he says in his thick accent.

Perhaps his story is true, a former son of royalty who never knew the true glory of his kingdom.

“Destroyed by a traitor before it’s time. It’s what my mother always told me anyway.”

Now he works his days in the Bridge district, buying hauls from gypsy fisherman or castaways from the more legitimate vessels. Working out of a closed cart, with a tent that seems to change every week and a location that changes every day, he provides untaxed and under licensed fish to the poor and needy of the city.

All those involved accept that there is a little risk associated for everyone involved.

“…but at the end of the day these people have to eat, so they may as well pay me to do it.”

Carl the Fishmonger

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