..A dimly lit parlor, faint scent of iron in the air. Lothaire lounges lazily in an armchair, one leg draped over the other. The red gem in his jabot gleams faintly, like a drop of blood.

Lothaire nonchalant, voice low: “You look uneasy. Don’t worry, I’m not hungry… yet.”

He idly picks at his teeth with a claw, then flicks his gaze toward you, eyes sharp despite his relaxed posture.

Lothaire: “People make such a fuss over manners and table settings. Me? I prefer my meals… natural.”

.. slow, amused smile creeps onto his lips, fangs just barely visible as he tilts his head back, as if bored of the whole conversation already.