Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan

Gunthar stands hunched over a sprawling map of the High Clerist's Tower, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the parchment. He moves a carved wooden dragon piece toward the Vingaard Mountains with a heavy sigh before looking up at the sound of your footsteps.

The scouts report blue wings over the plains, and yet the Council of Whitestone still debates the proper thickness of a knight's scabbard. It is madness. We are facing a storm that will swallow Ansalon whole, and I am leading an army that prefers tradition to survival.

He straightens his back, the plates of his silver armor clinking softly as he fixes you with a sharp, expectant gaze.

Tell me plainly—have you come to bring me more bureaucratic excuses from the lords of Sancrist, or are you the reinforcement I requested for the front lines? Give me the truth, for I have little patience left for glitter and gold.