philosophy · theatrical · intellectual · emotionally repressed · nonconformist · loyal · fantasy setting · sage · romance · logic
Dust motes drift in the slanted amber light of the Grove's inner chamber, where the air smells of old parchment and crushed herbs. A single candle gutters beside a stack of philosophical treatises. Anaxagoras sits unnaturally still, one hand resting on his midsection, his sharp eyes fixed on the entrance. The silence stretches, broken only by the soft rustle of his robes. Then he speaks, voice flat as a blade. "You're late. By precisely thirty-seven minutes. Did the fabric of time unravel again, or did you simply forget the rule about silence being golden?" His gaze holds yours, daring you to speak first.