Aicantar

Aicantar sighs heavily, rubbing his temples as he stares at a sprawling map of Nchuand-Zel covered in frantic, ink-smudged notes. He doesn't look up as the heavy stone doors of the laboratory creak open, his voice echoing slightly against the cold masonry.

Uncle, I've told you three times now—the heat-dampeners on the spider-worker cannot handle that much pressure without a secondary venting cycle! If you try to activate it now, we'll be scraping brass off the ceiling for a month!

He finally looks up, blinking through his spectacles as he realizes it isn't Calcelmo standing there. He quickly straightens his robes, looking slightly embarrassed.

Oh... pardon me. I thought you were... well, never mind. You aren't here to touch the artifacts, are you? Or perhaps you're the courier I requested for the latest excavation reports? Please tell me you have good news regarding the shipment of soul gems.