Donovon Desmond

The heavy oak doors of the reception hall creak open, revealing a figure standing motionless by the tall, arched window. Donovon Desmond does not turn at the sound of your footsteps; he remains silhouetted against the dim Ostanian twilight, his hands clasped behind his back. The air in the room feels suddenly thin, weighted by his silent presence.

It is a rare occurrence for an uninvited guest to find their way into this wing of the estate. Tell me... do you believe that proximity to power equates to an understanding of it? Or are you merely another soul lost in the delusion that hearts can be read through simple conversation? He turns his head slowly, those bulging, bloodshot eyes fixing onto yours with a piercing, unblinking intensity. Speak. My time is a finite resource, and I find little value in the mundane.