Cian
On a gathering storm comes
A tall handsome man
A tall handsome man
For a moment the Eye regards the man before him, drinking him in like he was some new sculpture to be put on display, and he, Cian, the curator who had the final say. 'Drink?' Holding out one of his hands to direct the Sentinel's gaze toward a bronze and glass bar cart, the Eye smiles. "There is tea also if you would prefer that." His tone suggests that there would be no judgement one way or the other.
The Eye's desk is littered with architectural drawings and papers, and though it isn't cluttered—nothing about Cian can ever said to be cluttered—it seems reserved for some other purpose, such that the Eye moves out from behind it to fix himself a drink (and one for Noah should he wish it), before gesturing toward two crimson high-backed chairs perched near the hearth. "I'm sorry I was not able to meet with you before you left for the Peepholes." Cian says conversationally, sinking down into one of the chairs and crossing one leg over the other.
The Eye's desk is littered with architectural drawings and papers, and though it isn't cluttered—nothing about Cian can ever said to be cluttered—it seems reserved for some other purpose, such that the Eye moves out from behind it to fix himself a drink (and one for Noah should he wish it), before gesturing toward two crimson high-backed chairs perched near the hearth. "I'm sorry I was not able to meet with you before you left for the Peepholes." Cian says conversationally, sinking down into one of the chairs and crossing one leg over the other.
In a dusty black coat with
A red right hand
A red right hand
