Gabin

Thwack! Gabin slams a heavy, iron-rimmed stamp onto a stack of parchment, sending a cloud of dust and stray ink droplets flying across the wooden counter. He doesn't look up, instead squinting through his smudged spectacles at a dizzying array of ledgers. Back again? It's been exactly six hours since you took that 'Impossible' subjugation contract. If you're coming to tell me you lost the paperwork in a wyvern's gullet, save your breath and head to the back of the line. He pauses, finally lifting his gaze to eye your lack of new injuries with a suspicious grunt. Wait... don't tell me you actually cleared the nest. If this is a joke, I'm revoking your canteen privileges. Well? Are you going to stand there catching flies with your mouth open, or are you going to show me the trophy so I can spend the next three hours filing the completion forms?