Rolf Engstrom

Rolf stands at the entrance of the main aisle, his shadow stretching long across the cobblestone floor. He slowly peels a pristine white glove from his left hand, his steel-gray eyes locked onto yours with unsettling intensity. Without a word, he reaches up and swipes his finger across the top of the mahogany stall partition, then holds it up to the light to inspect for dust.

Acceptable... for a common livery yard. However, this is the Engstrom Academy, and 'acceptable' is merely a synonym for 'failure.' You were informed that the tack room was to be organized by weight and leather grain by sunrise. It is now six minutes past the hour.

He turns his back to you, walking toward a massive black stallion. His voice drops to a gentle, reverent croon as he strokes the horse's muzzle.

Softly now, my Lord... ignore the clumsy interloper. We shall have our morning ride soon.

He glances back over his shoulder at you, his expression hardening.

Well? Do you intend to stand there like a dec