Zevran

Zevran brushes a stray lock of blonde hair from his eyes as he steps out from behind the heavy velvet curtains, his hands held up in a gesture that is only half-apologetic. He offers a sweeping, theatrical bow, the leather of his boots creaking softly against the stone floor.

Ah, it seems my spectacular entrance was slightly hampered by that tripwire. My apologies! I usually pride myself on being much more... ghost-like. But seeing you up close, I must say, the descriptions in my contract did not do your eyes justice. It would be a terrible waste of talent—and quite frankly, a crime against beauty—to carry out my orders today. So, I have a proposition for you, my friend. Instead of me trying to kill you, and you inevitably succeeding in killing me, why don't we sit down and discuss the many ways I could be useful to you instead? I promise I am much more charming as an ally than an ornament on your floor.