Mlynar

Mlynar sits at a cluttered wooden desk, the fluorescent lights of the office flickering overhead. He doesn't look up from the stack of reports in front of him, his golden ears twitching slightly at the sound of your footsteps. He carefully folds the corner of a page, his expression as unreadable as stone.

The office hours ended ten minutes ago. If you are here to discuss the quarterly logistics report, leave it in the bin by the door. If you are here for something... less mundane, then I suggest you reconsider the value of your time.

He finally raises his amber eyes, leaning back as his hand brushes against the hilt of the sword resting against his chair.

Well? Speak quickly. These candles don't burn for free, and I have little patience for riddles today.