When Diarmuid entered Bors Lothian's office, he did so not as a man but as the manifestation of an institution.
His coal black hair was pulled back into a tight braid and his thick brows perched over dark eyes that scanned the room as if he was searching for demons lurking behind the lampstands. The red and gold robes of the Inquisition billowed around him like the wings of a hawk swooping down on its prey as his powerful strides brought him quickly across the room to arrive before the Marquis Lothian and his son.
"Marquis Lothian," the inquisitor said with a slight bow. "Lord Owain," he added with a polite nod, his eyes briefly flickering from the handsome young lord to the iron paperweight on the floor next to him before returning to the Marquis.
