[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Outskirts]
[Retorta Guild Outpost]
The light in Legatus Conroy's office wavered against the walls, its glow flickering across a clutter of parchment, wax seals, and half-dried ink. The storm outside clawed at the windows, a patter that made the silence nonexistent.
He sat behind his desk, fingers pressed together beneath his chin, his posture straight yet weary. Dozens of reports were strewn across the surface before him—each detailing the same thing in different ink: failure, death, and unexplainable magic.
Across from him stood a Retorta Guild officer, posture straight and boots damp from the rain outside. His attire bore the mark of the Guild—a three head serpent coiled around a scepter held by a bony hand—still glistening from the drizzle. The man's hands were clasped neatly behind his back, three rolled papers gripped tightly within them.
