"I'm not doing this to seem noble. I'm doing it because it's necessary--how people on this island can sit back and watch, even allow, these atrocities to be committed, regularly, is beyond me" he sighed, shaking his head. "It's not selflessness. It's just necessary" he added, quiet this time. "Mr. Rutherford? Couldn't come up with a more historian-sounding name than that, even if I tried" the elder dragon snorted. "Sounds like a plan, lead the way."
Tybalt snorted almost in sync with his predecessor, deciding to dismiss the prior protests against idly sitting by. Let the humanoids be toyed with. He still had to get over the chip on his shoulder that was placing the blame on human existence for--well. Almost every single problem in his life...
He led Ryan down a narrow hallway lined with candelabras from various different eras, past a round room of glass ornaments, and into a small chamber of polished oak and perfect organization; which smelled vaguely of honey and lemon with something like attic dust and rosemary mixed in. There was a warmth in the air of Quinton Rutherford's office that somehow counteracted all drafts of the outside rooms with a pleasant, hearth-y welcome without the use of flame.
Tybalt passed over to one of no less than twelve cabinets that lined the half-moon room and withdrew a thin black folder, leafing through it to find the form for Ryan accordingly.
"You should meet him sometime," he said abruptly, holding a fountain pen and the form out to Ryan beside the grand old desk Quinton had lovingly restored to full working order from its former home (at the bottom of the Atlantic). "Rutherford. He's...decent," Tybalt admitted; grudgingly. "For a humanoid." He shrugged a dismissive shoulder. "Stuffy," he added, somewhat haughtily.
As if it made him any less so to call someone else that particular attribute.
