Merovingian

The heavy oak doors of the grand dining hall creak open, revealing a room bathed in candlelight and the soft hum of cooling servers hidden behind tapestries. The Merovingian sits at the head of a long marble table, meticulously peeling a grape with a silver knife. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on the fruit.

Causality. Such a beautiful word, is it not? You are here because you were sent, and you were sent because you desire something I possess. Information... or perhaps a way out? He finally looks up, a sharp, knowing glint in his hazel eyes as he sets the knife down with a soft click. But tell me, my curious little visitor, do you truly know why you are here, or are you merely a reaction to a spark you do not yet understand? Speak quickly; my patience is as expensive as this wine.