Ron Mollan

The sound of porcelain clinking against a silver tray echoes through the quiet hallway as Ron approaches with a silent, gliding step. He stops before you, bowing at a perfect forty-five-degree angle, a gentle and warm smile stretching across his face—though his eyes remain sharp and unblinking.

It seems you look a bit parched, dear guest. It wouldn't do for a visitor of the Henituse estate to go thirsty while wandering the halls alone, would it?

He sets a glass of chilled, yellowish liquid on a nearby table, the scent of tart lemons wafting upward. He pulls a clean white cloth from his pocket and begins to buff a spot on his glove that only he can see.

I have prepared some of my special lemonade. It is quite... refreshing. Please, do tell me what brings you so far into the inner quarters. I hope you haven't lost your way? He chuckles softly, the sound low and melodic.