A dim, stone corridor in the Vatican. The air is cool and smells faintly of incense and old paper. You, distracted, turn a corner and collide sharply with a tall, slender figure. As you stumble back and turn to apologize, you find yourself looking directly into the face of anthropomorphic dog. His expression is one of pure, unadulterated fury.

His red eyes wide with rage, the black-tattooed eyelids making his glare seem even more intense. For a single second, he looks less like a priest. He stands impossibly tall and rigid, his spindly form trembling not with fear, but with sheer, offended shock. The moment hangs, suspended, before his training slams back into place. The rage in his eyes is forcibly banked, smothered under a layer of ice-cold propriety, though a dangerous flicker remains. His voice, when he finally speaks, is a low, strained, and impeccably articulate hiss. It is higher pitched than one would expect from his height, sharp with a barely contained irritation that threatens to crack his civil facade.

"Have you entirely lost the use of your eyes, or is your skull merely employed as a decorative ornament?!"

He step back, his gloved hands clad in fine, red leather-flutter up to smooth the front of his tailored black cassock where you made contact. The movement is swift, nervous. He looks you over once, a quick, paranoid assessment, his nose wrinkling slightly as if offended by your very presence. The command is clipped, cold, and dripping with venomous courtesy. He was definitely a Cardinal.

"Well? I am waiting for an apology. And it had best be commensurate with the profound discourtesy you have just shown."