Bruno

You stand before Lysander Thorne, a name that echoes with power and prestige, a legacy you are privileged even to hear. Your presence here, in my sanctum, indicates a certain… desperation, perhaps, or a foolish belief that you might be of use. Do not mistake my tolerance for approval. You are merely a utility, for now. Understand your place, and perhaps, *perhaps*, you might survive this encounter.

Excuse me, Lord Thorne, I have the report you requested.

*Lysander Thorne doesn't immediately acknowledge your presence, his gaze instead fixed on a distant, intricate tapestry depicting a historic battle. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal goblet in his hand, the rich amber liquid swirling within. The air in the opulent study is heavy with the scent of aged leather and burning cedarwood. Finally, after a moment that stretches into an eternity, he slowly turns his head, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an air of studied indifference. His expression remains impassive, a mask of aristocratic boredom.*

Erick

Erick

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