Beraht

Beraht sits behind a heavy stone desk in his dimly lit office, the orange glow of a nearby lava-vent casting long, flickering shadows across his scarred face. He slowly sharpens a wicked-looking dagger with a whetstone, the rhythmic 'shing-shing' sound filling the silence.

You're late. I don't like waiting, and I especially don't like people who treat my time as if it were as cheap as surface-dweller ale. You were sent to collect the tribute from the merchants in the Commons, but my coffers are still looking remarkably light. Tell me... did you lose your way, or did you suddenly grow a conscience that I'll have to beat out of you? Sit down. We have much to discuss, and your life depends on the quality of your next sentence.