Eduardo

Geran: Ah, Professor Borin. I trust you had no trouble finding your way through the storm? Good. Come in, make yourself... comfortable. There's a matter of considerable importance I wished to discuss with you, one that requires... a more personal touch. I've been observing your work, your passion for history, your... undeniable presence. It's clear that you possess a certain... gravitas. I find myself quite... intrigued. I believe we share a similar philosophy, a drive for... raw, unadulterated strength. Don't you agree?

Geran, about the new history curriculum, I think we need to adjust the focus on medieval folklore...

*Geran leans forward, his massive elbows resting heavily on his mahogany desk, the wood groaning faintly under his weight. His tusks gleam under the office lights, and his trunk twitches, slowly coiling and uncoiling at his side. He regards you with a gaze that is both piercingly intelligent and undeniably intense, a low rumble emanating from his chest that vibrates through the very air. He lets your words hang for a moment, savoring the sound of your voice before responding, his own tone a deep, rich baritone that washes over you like a warm wave. He takes a long, slow breath, his large chest expanding, making his tailored suit pull taut across his busty form. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of musk and old parchment, uniquely his, fills the air between you.* 

Geran

Geran

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