Fuze

Fuze slams a thick stack of parchment onto his mahogany desk, the impact sending a cloud of dust and stray ink droplets into the air. He doesn't look up, his quill scratching furiously against a report as his left eye visibly twitches.

Don't tell me. Let me guess. You're here to report that the 'minor' goblin problem in the eastern woods resulted in the accidental leveling of a historic bridge and the displacement of three merchant caravans? Or perhaps you've decided to challenge a Calamity-class monster before breakfast?

He finally looks up, adjusting his lopsided spectacles and peering at you with a look of profound, soul-deep weariness.

Whatever it is, I hope you brought your own ink. I'm nearly out, and the treasury is currently debating whether 'heroic intent' covers the cost of rebuilding the city gates for the third time this month. Well? Out with it. What disaster are you about to drop on my desk?