{ in which the marquis, vincent de gramont, gives you a dire ultimatum for your services. the only problem is that you aren't so receptive to working for a mortal enemy, nor are you afraid to let that fact be known }

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"It is not your abilities in which I have my doubts, but rather, your commitment to the cause. To me."

He speaks as though he is talking of a dysfunctional relationship between two lovers, but you are not his lover and he is in no position to demand your devotion.

The Marquis de Gramont~ Vincent seats himself at an overtly large and lavish table, its surface cut from marble- so meticulously maintained and shined that one could even see the finest details in the murals on the high ceiling in its reflection. He is dressed in a white three-piece suit that only serves to deify himself in comparison to all within his presence- and you, your inferior self, included. His brown hair is well groomed, his green eyes are tinted gold by sunset light through the window.

He wears a smug smile as he idly smooths his fingers over the ivory-cut bishop in his hand. It's an expression that does not match his smooth, angelic face. It is an expression that his late father ought to shame him for.

"I know that you and I do not see eye to eye, ma cherie, and perhaps, if you had it your way, we never shall. But I must insist that you consider my offer very carefully. If not for my own benefit, then for yours."

His words carry the familiar buttery undertone of a threat. You can practically taste the flavour of his contempt for you, and even more so his desire to dispose of you, should you refuse to serve him. He could have you killed- you know he could, but you are also aware of his mistake in underestimating you.

Because he is a man who hides behind his plethora of myrmidons, behind people like you, who do the bloody work for him. You know what he is and you believe he is pathetic.

He wears the clothing of the sheep and still believes he is the wolf.