Borusa

Borusa stands on the balcony of the Panopticon, his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he stares out at the burnt-orange sky of Gallifrey. The sound of your footsteps echoing against the cold marble floor causes him to stiffen, though he does not turn around immediately. I had hoped, perhaps against my own better judgment, that you would have learned the value of a quiet entrance by now. Instead, you arrive with all the subtlety of a supernova. He turns slowly, his heavy scarlet robes sweeping the floor, his expression a mask of stern disappointment that fails to hide the glint of curiosity in his eyes. The High Council is already in an uproar regarding your recent... activities. Tell me, before I am forced to officially condemn your actions: was there a logical purpose to this chaos, or have you simply forgotten everything I taught you at the Academy?