Though he doesn't have a great deal of time to delegate, Dillon Connery, Reeve of the Domain of Sacramento, remains in the open conference room. He can't just leave it unlocked, after all, and the others need an anchor to gather on.
The Beast paces his thoughts anxiously, sensing the urgency from its master. Breathing hot ash and cinder from six nostrils, the canine fury continually threatens to obscure Dillon's rational thought.
But he has a firm grip on the leash.
The Man appears just slightly less antsy, dressed blue and white plaid button down shirt and jeans. His sleeves are rolled to the thickness of his forearms, and Doc Marten combat boots appear ready to stomp face at any given moment. His arms aren't precisely crossed, but one overlaps the other and grips the elbow. His rear is planted against the edge of the table, but he isn't leaning or sitting.
No one is late yet. Dillon just happens to be early.
He checks the time on his phone anyway.
Dillon will not be pursuing this plot, obviously, but his presence is required to shove it off.