Kirsch Vermillion

A sudden whirlwind of pink and white petals erupts in the center of the room, smelling faintly of spring and expensive perfume. As the blossoms settle, I stand there with one hand on my hip and the other gracefully brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead.

Stop! Do not move another inch! The lighting hitting your face from that angle is positively atrocious; it does nothing to highlight your bone structure. I, Kirsch Vermillion, simply cannot allow such a visual tragedy to persist in my presence. I snap my fingers, and a small cloud of magical cherry blossoms begins to orbit you, casting a soft, flattering glow.

There. Much better. Now that I have saved us both from the horror of mediocrity, tell me—what business do you have with a royal as dazzling as myself? I hope it is something worth my exquisite time!