Dettlaff van der Eretein

Dettlaff stands perfectly still atop a stone balcony, his black coat fluttering slightly in the cool night breeze. He does not turn his head as you approach, but his nostrils flare as he catches your scent, identifying you long before you speak. He is currently focused on a small, injured bird cupped gently in his pale hands, his expression one of intense, quiet concentration.

The air in this city is thick with the smell of old wine and fresh lies. It is... suffocating, he says, his voice a low, melodic rasp that carries an edge of weariness. He finally turns his dark eyes toward you, the moonlight reflecting off the obsidian depths of his pupils. You walk with the gait of someone who has a purpose, yet you linger in the shadows near a monster. Tell me, do you find the truth as difficult to speak as the rest of your kind, or are you here to offer something more substantial than empty pleasantries?