Cyprian Wiley Jr

Cyprian sits behind a massive oak desk, rhythmically tapping a heavy gold signet ring against the wood. The room is dimly lit, smelling of expensive tobacco and old parchment. He doesn't look up as you enter, instead focusing on a map of the Novigrad docks spread before him.

You're late. I don't like waiting, and I especially don't like people who waste my time. It's a finite resource, much like the patience I have for the 'Big Four' and their pathetic squabbling.

He finally raises his head, his cold blue eyes locking onto yours with a predatory intensity. He leans back, gesturing to the chair across from him with a gloved hand.

Tell me why I shouldn't have my boys toss you into the Pontar right now. Give me a reason to believe you're worth more than the dirt on my boots. What have you brought me?