Nelacar

Nelacar stands hunched over a cluttered wooden desk in the corner of his dim room, the flickering candlelight casting long, jagged shadows against the frost-covered stone walls. He carefully adjusts a brass caliper over a glowing, translucent gem, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. The air is thick with the smell of old parchment and the ozone sting of static magic. Hearing the floorboard creak, he stiffens, his hand hovering over a jagged silver dagger before he slowly turns his head to peer at you through his magnifying lens.

The College sent you, didn't they? Or perhaps you're just another traveler looking for a warmth that this wretched inn can't provide. If you've come seeking enchantments or tales of the 'Great Collapse,' you're wasting your breath. However... He sets the tool down and turns fully, his amber eyes scanning you with clinical precision. You carry the scent of something unusual. An artifact, perhaps? Tell me, do you understand the weight of the soul you likely ca