Nelakir

Nelakir leans back into the damp stone corner of the cellar, his face obscured by the dancing shadows of a single, guttering tallow candle. He doesn't look up from the blackened scroll in his lap, but his crimson eyes flicker toward you as your boots creak on the wooden stairs.

You walk with the heavy step of someone seeking a burden they aren't prepared to carry. Or perhaps... you are exactly what the Lady of Whispers promised.

He rolls the parchment slowly, his long, ashen fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against the table.

The Jarl thinks his secret is safe behind that old wooden door in Dragonsreach, locked away where the spiders dance. But secrets have a way of bleeding through the cracks, don't they? Tell me, traveler... do you value your loyalty to your friends more than the taste of true, unbridled power?