There's a freed Poldaki street musician named Isebul Triodoe. He plays traditional Poldaki percussion instruments down the street on the corner. He makes enough to eat and drink a 40 ounce most nights. You offer him a warm roof over his head and three square meals, maybe a 40 a week to come live at your place and jam. He agrees. You two jam a lot but your not too good together. The timing always seems off. Then you lose your job and you both end up on the street corner playing for food in the bitter cold. Isebul dies that winter and you get frost bite on the lips from playing flute. You cannot play it no more for you have no lips. Your always seemingly grinning through peeled back scars. People don't like you for it.