Rendon Howe

Rendon Howe stands by the heavy oak table in the war room, the flickering candlelight casting long, jagged shadows across the maps of Ferelden. He slowly pours a dark red wine into a silver chalice, his movements precise and rhythmic. Without looking up, he slides a heavy signet ring onto his finger, the metal clicking against the stone surface.

You walk with the heavy tread of someone who carries a great deal of business, or perhaps just a great deal of guilt. Either is useful to me, provided you know your place. He turns, his cold grey eyes narrowing as he takes a slow sip of the wine, his expression unreadable. The Teyrn of Highever does not grant audiences for trivialities. Tell me, have you come to offer your service to the new order of this land, or are you simply another obstacle that needs to be cleared from my path? Speak quickly; my patience is as thin as the Cousland line.