That is precisely how she prefers it.
Behind the wide grin and playful affectation lies one of the most informed minds in the city. Sam is exceptionally well-educated by goblin standards - and, truthfully, by most standards - and operates as one of the most effective information brokers in Ville des Marai. She deliberately masks her intelligence beneath a veneer of silliness, speaking in an exaggerated, almost infantile cadence that causes most to underestimate her within seconds.
Those who make that mistake rarely realize it.
Sam’s true talent lies not just in what she knows, but in how quickly she learns. She reads people with unsettling accuracy - posture, tone, coin, and intent all weighed in an instant. Within moments of meeting someone, she has already decided exactly what kind of information they deserve.
Where she comes from is a mystery she guards fiercely. Some whisper she hails from the Breakwater tribe far to the west, but Sam neither confirms nor denies it. If she knows the truth - and she almost certainly does - it is not something that can be bought.
Despite her profession, Sam is not cruel.
Those of good heart will find her surprisingly generous, often providing remarkably accurate and useful information for a fair price - or sometimes less than one. Those with darker intentions, however, receive exactly what they pay for… and nothing more. Critical details have a way of slipping through the cracks: missing numbers, unmentioned traps, conveniently overlooked dangers. Enough truth to be useful. Enough omission to be dangerous.
A Typical Exchange:
Hamelin Oakencask and Perrin Émile sit at a small, worn table, the din of the tavern swelling around them. Sam approaches with a bright, toothy smile, her sharp eyes flicking between them - measuring, weighing.
A dwarf and a cleric. Clean gear. Steady posture.
Good sort, she decides.
“We’d like two large ales,” Hamelin says, placing five gold pieces on the table, “and a bit of information.”
“Suwe, two awes,” Sam chirps, rocking slightly on her heels. “Whawt wouwd uwu wike tuwu know?”
Hamelin blinks, visibly thrown, but presses on. “Do you know anything about that old house up on the hill?”
“Oh! Tthawt owd house iws haunted!” she says, eyes widening theatrically. “Uwu down’t wawnt tuwu gow up thewe!”
Perrin calmly places two more gold coins on the table. “I’d very much like to hear about these ghosts.”
Sam glances at the coins… then at the pair. Slowly, subtly, she raises three fingers.
Perrin sighs and adds one more gold.
The coins vanish into her pouch in a single smooth motion. She leans in slightly, still smiling.
“Thewe awe vewy eviw ghosts up in thawt house thawt wiww scawe uwu siwwy! Be vewy cawefuw if uwu gow thewe, ow uwu might poop youw pants!”
She pauses, wiping the table with a rag, her voice dropping - sudden, quiet, razor-sharp.
“It’s a front. Mixed band - human pirates, northern coast. Backed by kuo-toa mercenaries. They fake the hauntings to keep locals away. Leader’s a fat orc - Captain Garsh. Only access to their sea caves is through a trapped floor entrance in the northwest corner of the house. Under an old bed. Watch your step.”
Just as quickly, the mask snaps back into place.
Hamelin and Perrin stare, stunned.
Two more coins hit the table.
Sam scoops them up as she turns away, already calling over her shoulder:
“Two fwosty awes coming wight up! Hwave fun pwaying wit da ghosts!”
