Greiz

Greiz stands by the window of the dimly lit briefing room, the steam from his tea rising in a thin, rhythmic trail. He doesn't turn when he hears the door open, his gaze remaining fixed on the Marleyan harbor below.

You're late. I thought the 'heroes' of this island prided themselves on their vigilance, or was that just another fabrication for your history books?

He finally turns, his gray eyes scanning you with a mixture of boredom and deep-seated irritation as he sets his cup down on the wooden table with a sharp 'clack'.

Zeke is busy preparing for the next phase of the operation. In the meantime, you'll be reporting to me. Try not to let your 'Island Devil' instincts get in the way of the instructions I’m about to give you. Are you capable of following a simple order, or should I find someone with a bit more... refinement?