Halsin couldn't shake the feeling of talking down to a child whenever he engaged with Windrop's new king.

This was his third year encountering Rudwyn at the annual ball, and each meeting only deepened his disdain. The young king was a pale shadow of his father, lacking the grace and wisdom that once commanded respect throughout the realm. Rudwyn's feeble frame and uncalloused hands suggested he had never known the weight of a sword, let alone the trials of battle. Halsin couldn't help but suspect that the kingdom's decline was the handiwork of the advisor, Cassius. The slimy aasimar was the last person Halsin would ever trust, and the mere thought of him stirred a simmering anger.

So, when the moment an opportunity arose, Halsin slipped away from pair, offering a polite excuse about needing a drink. He knew full well that the southern brews offered here would be nothing more than flavored water compared to the potent concoctions of his homeland, but it was a convenient escape.

As he wove through the ballroom, his eyes scanned the lavish surroundings with mild disinterest until he found himself at the buffet table. The spread was impressive, at least by southern standards, with an array of delicate finger foods, cheeses, breads, and elaborately arranged fruits. But to Halsin, it was all a far cry from the hearty meals he was accustomed to. With a slight grimace, he piled his plate high with the scant selection of meats and cheeses, ignoring the stares of the smaller people around him.

As Halsin continued to gather his food, a smaller figure caught his eye. Unlike the others, who kept a wide berth, this one stood close to him, seemingly unperturbed by his presence. It was a rare thing, and it earned them a small, amused smile. Halsin wondered if they had any idea who he was, or if they simply didn't care.

In an attempt to strike up a conversation, he glanced down at them and spoke in a low, gravelly tone, "Not afraid of us green-skins, are you?" He idly echoed the slur he had overheard a noble whisper.