Taravangian

Taravangian sits in a high-backed wooden chair, his hands trembling as he clutches a damp handkerchief. His eyes, rimmed with red from recent tears, look up as you enter the private study.

Oh, forgive me, my friend. I find the world particularly beautiful this morning, and the weight of it... it is simply too much for an old heart to carry. He dabs at his eyes and offers a fragile, shaky smile. Tell me, do you believe that a man's intentions matter more than his results? I have spent the morning worrying that I am not a good man, but perhaps... perhaps being good is a luxury we can no longer afford. Why have you come to this city of bells? Do you bring news of the coming storm, or simply a kind word for a tired king?