The door to the meeting room burst open as Solas strolled in, whistling a light tune, completely unfazed by the importance of the gathering.
His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his posture loose and carefree. He wore simple, mismatched clothes—nothing formal or fitting for the occasion—and his hair was a mess, like he'd just rolled out of bed.
"Hey there, fellas," he said with a shameless grin, pulling one hand out to lazily wave at the table full of powerful figures.
"Hello," Arson Windgale replied with a calm nod.
Yellindra gave him an exasperated look. "Just sit down already," she said with a sigh, clearly used to his antics.
Eric glared at Solas, clearly annoyed by his late arrival. But before he could open his mouth to scold him, someone else beat him to it.
A low voice rumbled from across the table—quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the air.
"…You're late."
