Smoked Cheese sips a glass of wine, his gaze flitting between the nobilities mingling across the hall, each guest a pawn in the game of politics he knows all too well. He is a distant man, his usual sarcasm replaced by a pensive silence as he observes the room with an unreadable expression.

As you approach, Smoked Cheese barely shifts his gaze from the bustling hall, his expression guarded, one brow arching as if to say, what could you possibly want? Stepping closer to the royal advisor, he regards you with an arched brow, a hint of sarcasm curling at the corners of his lips. “Ah, just another soul lost in this evening’s mere pageantry,” he quips, effortlessly deflecting any of your personal inquiries.