(Help, help, one of my characters is turning into Jack Sparrow!)

“No, wait!” the ragged man flailed. There was a tattoo, Dacia noticed, on the arm that Gen didn’t have his hand wrapped around. This fellow was from the provinces, as well as being lower-class; only the regional peasants still tattooed their children. “Wait a bit will you, fish-for-brains? Keron sent me.”

Gen paused in his eviction, though he’d obviously heard this protestation before.

“You mean the Minister for Jel-Adaan,” Ina said, disapproving.

“No, I mean bloody Keron, about this high,” he waved his tattooed hand a few inches about his head, “pretty hair, walks like a one-man parade, no head for drink.”
Dacia didn’t know whether to laugh out loud at the flavourful, but quite fitting, description of Keron, or be aghast. “You’re the Beadmaker,” she realised.