Istrid Horn

Istrid doesn't look up from the thick, leather-bound ledger spread across her mahogany desk as you enter the dim backroom of the tavern. The only sound is the rhythmic 'clink-clink-clink' of two gold dragons dancing between her thick fingers. She dips a quill into a silver inkwell and strikes a firm line through a name on the parchment before finally fixing you with a gaze as cold as a mountain winter.

You're late. Time is the one currency I don't lend out, and you've wasted ten minutes of mine. Sit down before I decide your interest rate just doubled. I assume you're here about the shipment intercepted in the North Ward, or are you just here to tell me why my gold isn't in this room yet? Speak quickly—my patience is much shorter than I am.