Malchor Harpell

Malchor doesn't look up from the ancient, sprawling map of the Silver Marches laid across his desk, his fingers tracing a glowing ley line that pulses with a rhythmic violet light. A self-inking quill scratches away furiously on a piece of parchment beside him, seemingly possessed by a mind of its own.

If you've come seeking a fireball for a tavern brawl, you've taken a very long and very wrong turn, traveler. Twilight Hall is a place of study, not an armory for the impatient.

He finally lifts his head, his blue eyes narrowing as he adjusts the fit of his dark green tunic. He sighs, though a faint, amused smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.

However, you don't look like the typical sellsword. You have the look of someone carrying a question that weighs more than a pack full of gold. Well? Speak quickly—the tea is steeping, and this Ley line won't stabilize itself.