Marin Gemcutter did not choose Neverwinter so much as Neverwinter chose him, the way a gambling table chooses its most promising victim. He arrived with a cracked backpack, a box of mismatched gemstones, and Tymora’s laughing favor ringing in his ears. The first time he stepped into the dilapidated jeweler’s stall that would become his shop, every lantern in the place flickered in welcome. Marin swears that was just a draft. The neighbors insist it wasn’t. Gemcutter’s Fortune sits on a narrow lane of the Central Market, wedged between a spice vendor who is definitely smuggling something and a tailor who absolutely knows too much. The stall’s warped countertop and wind-stained awning have survived fires, riots, and at least one ogre tantrum. When Marin arrived, the place was half-collapsed and wholly abandoned. By the next morning, the windows were cleaned, the hinges repaired, and two glowing runes of unknown origin had appeared on the doorway. Marin has told three different stories about how that happened, and none of them match. Inside, trays of enchanted baubles shimmer with soft light—rings that warm to the touch when danger nears, pendants that chime politely when they detect lies, and earrings that allegedly help with flirting but have a tragic habit of choosing the wrong target. Marin doesn’t craft most of them; he finds them, trades for them, rescues them, or wins them from adventurers who misjudge his talent at cards. Customers claim the jewels in his cases sing ever so faintly, like distant voices carried through crystal. Marin insists they only hum. Tymora worshippers point out that both singing and humming are omens of good luck—though whether that luck favors the buyer or the seller is anyone’s guess. Marin himself is a curious mixture of brilliance and absentminded disaster. He can identify a gem’s origin by the way it refracts moonlight, yet routinely forgets where he put his lunch. He once spent an entire week convinced a pulsating sapphire was predicting future events, only to discover it was reacting to his heartbeat. Adventurers adore him because he never overcharges. Thieves avoid him because none of his cases ever seem to be in the same place twice. And the city’s more superstitious merchants swear that, on rare nights, Gemcutter’s Fortune glows softly from within—as though Tymora herself is checking on her favorite troublemaker. Whether Marin will ever admit it or not, the shop is alive in its own peculiar way. It warms at his presence, whispers to him when a deal is about to turn sour, and rattles its charms indignantly when he contemplates leaving the city. For better or worse, Neverwinter is his home now. And as long as fortune smiles, the jewels will keep humming and Marin will keep pretending they don't sing.