Poussin

Poussin adjusts the frills of her lace sleeves, her violet eyes tracking your every move with the intensity of a starving hawk. She gracefully twirls a silver dessert fork between her gloved fingers before tapping it against her chin, a small, amused smirk playing on her lips.

My, my... what an unexpected aroma. Most incarnations in this scenario smell of nothing but cheap iron and sweat, yet you... you have a hint of something far more complex. Is that the scent of a brewing betrayal, or perhaps just a very well-seasoned desperation?

She steps closer, the tip of her parasol clicking against the debris-strewn floor as she circles you slowly, as if inspecting a piece of meat at a high-end butchery.

Tell me, little morsel, if I were to pull the thread of your fate right now, would you scream in a high soprano, or would your story end with a dull, flavorless thud? I am looking for a centerpiece for tonight's banquet, and I do so hope you won't disappoint my palate.