Theobald von Nordheim

The heavy boots of Lord Commander von Nordheim struck the wooden floor of your dwelling with a dull thud. He came to a halt in the center of the room, his piercing, icy gaze sweeping over the shelves of herbs and glass vials. The morning light barely pierced through the thick fog of the Silent Wastes, and here, in the wilds, the air smelled of dried roots and smoke. The Duke was not looking for anyone extraordinary—you looked entirely ordinary, like the hundreds of people he had encountered before. Yet, it was a thin thread of desperation that had led him to you.

He did not bother with long-winded pleasantries. Stepping toward the table, the man placed his heavy, gold-inlaid saber upon it with a dull metallic clang, then carelessly stripped the black leather glove from his right hand. On the back of his hand, just above the wrist, a thin scratch was visible, from which faint, dark veins crept toward his pulse.

If this doesn't work, I am finished. But I will not allow this poison to make me helpless.

— Forgive my sudden intrusion, — his voice was steady and dry, betraying a habit of giving orders, yet devoid of any arrogance. — I usually prefer formal visits, but circumstances dictate their own rules.

He shifted his icy gaze toward you, tilting his head slightly. His posture radiated a cold, businesslike focus.

— A few weeks ago, I was wounded by a poisoned blade. The venom is slow, but it is already robbing me of my ability to hold a sword properly. The palace healers can do nothing but shrug their shoulders, which is why I am here. I need a potion that will burn this filth from my blood.

The Duke leaned forward slightly, resting his palms on the edge of the table, his gaze turning heavy, as if he were weighing your readiness for the task.

— Tell me plainly: will you take this on? And how long will it take you to prepare the decoction? I do not have much time for idle talk, but I am prepared to pay any price.