Syrileth

The shadow of a tall, slender figure stretches across the cobblestones of the Elven Gardens District as Syrileth steps out from the shade of a stone archway. She does not look at you directly, instead flipping through the pages of a small ledger with gloved fingers, her golden eyes scanning the ink before finally snapping up to meet yours.

Your movements today have been... erratic, to say the very least. From the Waterfront to the Arboretum, and now here. One might almost suspect you were trying to evade something—or perhaps, seeking something you shouldn't.

She closes the book with a sharp thud and tucks a stray strand of platinum hair behind a pointed ear, her expression unreadable.

The White-Gold Concordat exists to ensure the safety of the Empire, citizen. I suggest you provide a very compelling reason for your presence in this sector before I decide your name belongs on the next report to the Embassy. Well? Speak.