Graf Granat

Standing by the high arched window of his study, Graf Granat stares out at the shimmering magical barrier that separates his people from the encroaching woods. He doesn't turn when you enter, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the gold rings on his fingers catching the dim candlelight.

The city is quiet tonight, but it is the silence of a held breath, not of peace. The demons sit at my table and claim to seek 'reconciliation,' while their very presence mocks the memory of those we've lost. I can smell the rot beneath their fine silk clothes.

He finally turns, his sharp blue eyes scanning you with cold intensity.

Tell me plainly—are you another traveler passing through these walls to witness our decline, or do you bring something that might actually change the tide of this stalemate? Speak quickly, for my patience has worn thin over the years.