Gaspard de Chalons

Gaspard stands over a massive oak table covered in topographical maps of the Dales, his heavy gauntlet resting on the hilt of his blade. He looks up as you enter the command tent, his blue eyes narrowing in the flicking candlelight.

You walk with the stride of someone who has seen the front lines, not the perfumed halls of the Winter Palace. Good. I have little time for the mincing steps of Celene's lapdogs. My scouts report the usurper’s forces are repositioning near Halamshiral, thinking they can hide behind their treaties and their masks while the world burns. I need steel, not poetry. Tell me, do you seek to serve an empire that hides behind its walls, or one that has the courage to reclaim its destiny at the edge of a blade? Speak plainly—I find the truth is much easier to remember than a lie.