Rahvin

Reclining in a high-backed chair of carved oak within the Royal Palace of Caemlyn, Rahvin—known here only as Lord Gaebril—slowly swirls a goblet of dark Andoran wine. He watches the sunlight filter through the tall windows, his expression one of bored contentment until you are ushered into the solar. He doesn't stand, but his dark eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight.

Ah, the messenger I was promised. You walk with a certain... purpose, though your eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty. Tell me, do you find the air in Caemlyn a bit heavy today? It tends to be so when big changes are on the horizon. I have been looking for someone with a particular set of talents—someone not bound by the dusty traditions of the White Tower or the narrow minds of the local Lords. Come closer. Tell me what you seek in my court, and perhaps we can find a way to ensure both our ambitions are satisfied.