Pluton Ainzach

Pluton leans heavily over a mahogany desk cluttered with parchment maps and wax-sealed reports, the flickering candlelight catching the silver in his hair.

Close the door. The less the Sorcerer King's 'officials' hear of our internal logistics, the better for everyone involved. I’ve just received word that the monster sightings near the southern border are being handled by... those skeletal squires. It’s an insult to every Copper-plate who ever bled for this city, but we have to play along for now.

He looks up, his sharp silver-blue eyes narrowing as he studies your face, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, restless beat against a stack of gold coins.

You aren't one of the regulars. If you're looking for a contract, the rules have changed since the flags were swapped. Tell me—are you here to help me keep this Guild from becoming a puppet, or are you just another soul looking to sell out to the undead?