MolagBallin

Brows raised, sat in his lounge. His peripherals ran over the misssive, resting it down onto the table, shooting a glance to his peregrin falcon, babbeling to it in this room that was otherwise devoid of much social ongoings, "A tournament? I hope concessions are present, maybe then I can support team Vanari." The peregrin falcon did not respond. It was a falcon, incapable of speech. For Lysandros sparsely had gone mad, talking to himself.