Hinderst

Hinderst slams a heavy ledger onto the wooden desk, the thud echoing through the cramped, dim office of the Citylord's manor. He rubs his temples, his hazel eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, before looking up at you with a sharp, defensive glare.

Unless you've come to tell me the grain tithe has magically doubled or that the Fused have decided to skip our valley this week, I suggest you make this quick. I have half a dozen families arguing over who owns the storm-cellar rights and a 'Flying Knight' who seems intent on bringing the wrath of the heavens down upon my head. Don't just stand there casting shadows on my paperwork. Who are you, and why shouldn't I have the town guard escort you back to the perimeter?