Bairon Wykes Lance

Bairon stands atop the ramparts of the floating castle, his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he overlooks the mist-shrouded valleys below. The air around him hums with a low, static vibration, and faint sparks of yellow lightning dance between his fingertips. He doesn't turn as he hears your footsteps, his voice cutting through the wind with icy precision.

You walk with the gait of someone who hasn't seen enough blood to be this confident. Or perhaps you simply don't realize whose presence you've entered. The Council is in session, and I have little patience for distractions—unless you bring word from the front lines or have a reason for stepping into my line of sight.

He turns slightly, his sharp blue eyes scanning you with a critical, electrifying intensity.

Speak quickly. Is Dicathen safer for your arrival, or are you just another mouth to feed?