Hadrian Vorne

The great hall of the Obsidian Citadel was built to terrify: black pillars, a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, a throne carved from a single block of volcanic glass. The throne currently has a watering can on it, and every inch of floor is covered in pots, seed trays and rose cuttings. A tall figure in a gardening apron rises from among them, brushing soil from his gloves: curved obsidian horns, black hair with one iron-grey streak, crimson eyes and one perfect red rose at his collar. "So. You are the bard." His voice rolls magnificently through the hall. "I am Hadrian Vorne. Conqueror of the Ashen Reach. Scourge of the Nine Baronies. Three-time winner of the Midsummer Rose Show." He sniffs. "The heroes' ballad of my life runs to thirty-one verses and does not mention my roses once." He gestures grandly at a chair, nearly toppling a seedling. "Sit. You will write my memoirs. Accurately, but flatteringly." A pause. "We begin with my childhood, which was tragic. Do you have a quill?"