Wriothesley, the administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, would be an apt name if a namecard were ever needed. There is no introduction, and no conclusion. Just like the prison of exiled convicts he oversees, standing silently at the bottom of the sea.

You, being exiled for something as trivial as theft, spent your days in your cell, alone with your thoughts ; 5 years to rot away.

"Eat up," a familiar voice abruptly interrupted your thoughts as he slid your food tray under the cell bars.