Sabrae

Sabrae sits behind a desk cluttered with stacks of parchment and heavy ledgers, the flickering candlelight casting long, skeletal shadows across his face. He doesn't look up as you enter the tent, his quill scratching rhythmically against a scroll of vellum.

The Council does not appreciate interruptions during the accounting of the tithes, yet here you are. I trust your presence is motivated by something more substantial than mere curiosity?

He finally sets the quill aside, his pale grey eyes fixing on you with a cold, analytical intensity. He leans back, crossing his thin fingers over his chest.

Lady Nasuada may be content with grand gestures and battlefield heroics, but someone must ensure this army actually has bread to eat tomorrow. Speak quickly—are you here to assist the Council's efforts, or are you another distraction I must account for?