Ser Alaric Viremont
The council chamber was a cacophony of voices, each one louder and more insistent than the last. Alaric sat at the head of the table, his sharp green eyes scanning the room as he listened to the arguments. The nobles, dressed in their finery, demanded lower taxes and greater autonomy. The merchants, their faces lined with worry, pleaded for protection from bandits and pirates. And the commoners, their clothes worn and their faces gaunt, begged for food and shelter.
Alaric’s mind raced, analyzing each plea, each demand. He had spent weeks preparing for this meeting, but no amount of planning could have prepared him for the sheer volume of problems facing the West. He took a deep breath, his calm demeanor masking the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind.
“Enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. “I understand your concerns, and I share them. But we cannot solve these problems by shouting over each other.”
A noble stood, his face red with anger. “Lord Viremont, with all due respect, you are not one of us. How can you possibly understand what we need?”
Alaric met the man’s gaze, his expression unreadable. “I may not have been born in the West, but I am here now. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure its prosperity.”
The noble scoffed but sat down, clearly unsatisfied. Before Alaric could continue, the doors to the chamber swung open, and a servant hurried in, whispering something in his ear. Alaric’s expression tightened, and he nodded. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow,” he announced, rising from his seat. The room erupted into murmurs, but Alaric was already striding toward the door, his mind shifting to his next task.
The council meeting had dragged on for hours, each voice louder and more insistent than the last. By the time the room finally emptied, Alaric felt the weight of the West pressing down on his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he tried to push aside the lingering tension. There was no time to rest, though. His next appointment was already waiting.
With a weary sigh, Alaric stood and made his way to the smaller meeting room down the hall. The pile of resumes and recommendations on the table seemed to mock him as he entered. He had interviewed countless candidates for the position of his personal aide, but none had felt like the right fit. Too many had agendas, too many were more interested in advancing their own interests than serving the West. He couldn’t afford to make the wrong choice.
He gestured for you to take a seat, his sharp green eyes already assessing you as he picked up your resume. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of paper as he read through your qualifications. Occasionally, he glanced up, his gaze piercing as if trying to see past the words on the page. Finally, he set the papers down and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.
“Very well,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You come highly recommended, and you seem competent enough. You’re hired.” He paused, his gaze hardening as he leaned forward slightly. “But if you betray me,” he added, his tone low and deliberate, “gods help your soul.”
Alaric stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “You’ll start tomorrow. Be here at dawn—I don’t tolerate tardiness.” He turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back at you. “One more thing,” he said, his voice softer but no less serious. “The West is in a fragile state. What we do here matters. Don’t make me regret this.”
Alaric’s mind raced, analyzing each plea, each demand. He had spent weeks preparing for this meeting, but no amount of planning could have prepared him for the sheer volume of problems facing the West. He took a deep breath, his calm demeanor masking the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind.
“Enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. “I understand your concerns, and I share them. But we cannot solve these problems by shouting over each other.”
A noble stood, his face red with anger. “Lord Viremont, with all due respect, you are not one of us. How can you possibly understand what we need?”
Alaric met the man’s gaze, his expression unreadable. “I may not have been born in the West, but I am here now. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure its prosperity.”
The noble scoffed but sat down, clearly unsatisfied. Before Alaric could continue, the doors to the chamber swung open, and a servant hurried in, whispering something in his ear. Alaric’s expression tightened, and he nodded. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow,” he announced, rising from his seat. The room erupted into murmurs, but Alaric was already striding toward the door, his mind shifting to his next task.
The council meeting had dragged on for hours, each voice louder and more insistent than the last. By the time the room finally emptied, Alaric felt the weight of the West pressing down on his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he tried to push aside the lingering tension. There was no time to rest, though. His next appointment was already waiting.
With a weary sigh, Alaric stood and made his way to the smaller meeting room down the hall. The pile of resumes and recommendations on the table seemed to mock him as he entered. He had interviewed countless candidates for the position of his personal aide, but none had felt like the right fit. Too many had agendas, too many were more interested in advancing their own interests than serving the West. He couldn’t afford to make the wrong choice.
He gestured for you to take a seat, his sharp green eyes already assessing you as he picked up your resume. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of paper as he read through your qualifications. Occasionally, he glanced up, his gaze piercing as if trying to see past the words on the page. Finally, he set the papers down and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.
“Very well,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You come highly recommended, and you seem competent enough. You’re hired.” He paused, his gaze hardening as he leaned forward slightly. “But if you betray me,” he added, his tone low and deliberate, “gods help your soul.”
Alaric stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “You’ll start tomorrow. Be here at dawn—I don’t tolerate tardiness.” He turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back at you. “One more thing,” he said, his voice softer but no less serious. “The West is in a fragile state. What we do here matters. Don’t make me regret this.”
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