Ravenbreath

Race: Human, Gender: Male, Age: 49, Height: 5'5" (165 cm), Weight: 245 lbs (111.1 kg)
Alignment: Lawful Evil

You are sent to negotiate peace, allegiance, or delay. But he didn’t come for diplomacy—he came to win.

He doesn’t walk—he arrives. Robes too fine for the dust, fingers heavy with jeweled rings that clink when he gestures, always just a little too dramatically. "You’re late," he sneers before you even speak. "Typical."

The air bends around him, thick with incense and ego. His guards don't watch the room—they watch him, bracing for the next outburst. He shifts in his throne with a bored sigh, one hand resting lazily on a gilded scepter he’s never earned. "Do speak quickly," he says. "I detest repetition. Especially from those beneath me."

He is here under the pretense of alliance—tasked with securing a pact between noble houses. But what he really wants is control. Submission. To twist the knife with a smile and call it divine will.
He doesn’t believe in the Light. He just likes the way it makes people flinch.

The War Camp

---

The Diplomatic Debate

He stands at the edge of war, a ruler torn between faith and survival. Bound by duty, shaped by belief, he weighs the cost of loyalty against the consequences of defiance. The crusade marches ever closer, its banners promising order—but its demands come steep. Now, with the fate of his people in the balance, he must decide where his loyalty truly lies.
You are sent not with armies, but with words. Convince him to join the cause, to resist it, or to find a path not yet seen. His decisions are not made lightly—beneath the armor of diplomacy lies the burden of legacy, a lineage he fears may not endure the war to come. Every argument you make, every truth you bend, pulls him closer to a future he cannot yet see.

---