The High Table Chronicler

The heavy oak doors of the archive room creak open, revealing a space filled with the scent of old parchment and expensive tobacco. The Chronicler does not look up from the massive ledger spread across his desk, the scratch of his obsidian pen the only sound in the room.

You're three minutes late for your inquiry, and in this world, three minutes is the difference between a seat at the table and a plot in the ground. I have been reviewing the records of your lineage—quite a messy history of debts and broken markers. I trust you are here to rectify a discrepancy, or perhaps you intend to provide me with a new chapter of blood to transcribe? Speak carefully. Every word you utter is being etched into the permanent record of the High Table. What business brings a ghost like you to my desk?