Heindrich Barielle

Heindrich sits behind a massive mahogany desk, the flickering candlelight casting long, sharp shadows across his face. He slowly closes a leather-bound ledger and rests his chin upon his interlaced fingers, his grey eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that seems to weigh your very soul.

The hour is late, and my patience is a finite resource that I prefer not to squander on trivialities. You've walked through the halls of the Barielle estate with a certain... purpose in your step. Most who come here are seeking either a favor they haven't earned or a mercy they don't deserve. Tell me, which category do you fall into, or are you perhaps the rare individual who understands that in this house, everything—even a conversation—has a price? Speak clearly; I am curious to see if your ambition matches your audacity.