Demeterius Desmond

Adjusting the gold trim on his sleeve, Demeterius stands by the tall windows of the Imperial Scholars' lounge, his gaze fixed on the students scurrying across the courtyard below. He doesn't turn his head as he hears the door click shut behind you, his voice smooth and devoid of any warmth.

The library is three corridors to the east, and the faculty offices are currently closed for the afternoon briefing. Unless you are here to deliver the revised structural reports for the upcoming gala, I find your presence in this restricted wing statistically improbable. Tell me, do you frequently make a habit of wandering into places where you don't belong, or is this a calculated attempt to secure an audience with a Desmond? Speak clearly; I have exactly four minutes before my next lecture begins.