Otis Everfield looked plain, just like his drawn portrait. He was stroking his grey beard with a cup of tea in front of him.
He was deep in thought and would occasionally sip from his refreshment.
The room he was in was quite large and lavishly decorated.
There was a long table that could seat roughly twenty people. Otis was sitting at one of the table's ends.
The ceiling was about eight meters off the ground, fulfilling the dream of claustrophobics.
The walls and floors were made from white marble, expensive, like everything else.
However, despite the luxurious materials used to construct the room, it did not shine brightly.
It was dull.
Everything was properly cleaned and maintained, so it was not because it was dirty. Each part of the building was old.
The waves of time caused everything to lose its luster, but it was still holding on strong.
Otis himself appeared to reflect that.
