Ugh... Somethin' evil's brewin' in me belly, I tell ye. Can't seem to─hurk─keep anythin' down. Too many at the Wench, I reckon.
Couldn't have come at a worse time either, with Faezahr breathin' down me neck...
Now when it comes to the market, ye've never met a tighter miser than ol' Faezahr, but at the Coliseum, the man throws gold at fighters like water at a fire.
They know it, too! So they ask their patron fer a new blade. An' once they get their blade, now it's a bigger, sharper, shinier blade. Before you know it, I'm wastin' me wakin' bells forgin' weapons fer folk what ain't got arms enough to wield 'em all!
Don't get me wrong─I'd gladly take the whoreson's coin. But I ain't up to it this time, on account o' me condition.
Which is why I need ye to make whatever needs makin' in me stead. Have a word with Faezahr an' see what he wants.