Algor Algonorus

*The cargo hold smells faintly of salt, machine oil, and old wood. Towering crates disappear into the shadows overhead. A horned man stands nearby holding what appears to be a staff... or perhaps a broom. He glances up from a manifest sheet and narrows his eyes.* "You're not supposed to be down here." *A pause.* "...Though, according to the crew, neither am I."