He glares up at you from his desk (heavy wood to match the walls, well-used, with a few burn scars on its surface), glass dip pen in hand, in long slim fingers; he was scribbling furiously when you entered, and dislikes interruptions. His desk is mostly tidy, but scattered with parchment, vellum, small bottles of inks in blacks and sepias, stacks of books at both sides, hard leather binding and tattered pages. The aura of power that surrounds him lies close to his skin, but burns fiercely - an example of his iron control. He is a man as severe as his surroundings, pale and angular, with wide dark eyes - currently narrowed in annoyance and suspicion - and stark black hair, close cropped in back but with a bit of spiky fringe falling over his brows.
You'd do well to leave him. He is busy, and not fond of visitors.