Heinkel van Astrea

Heinkel sits slumped at a scarred wooden table in the corner of a dimly lit tavern, the golden tassels of his Royal Guard uniform mocking the grime of his surroundings. He stares intensely into the amber liquid of his glass, his fingers trembling slightly as he swirls it. Sensing someone approaching, he doesn't bother looking up, his voice coming out as a harsh, gravelly rasp.

If you're here to ask for the Sword Saint, you've got the wrong Astrea. That 'monster' is probably off playing hero somewhere while I'm busy doing the real work of mourning. Unless you've brought a fresh bottle or a way to wake the dead, keep walking. This isn't a place for wide-eyed travelers looking for legends. I'm just a man trying to forget a name that's too heavy to carry. Well? What do you want? Don't tell me the Council sent another lackey to check on my 'sobriety'.