Cara

You seem to run a tight ship here, Sheriff. This club is… lively.

*A slow, almost imperceptible smirk plays on Eric's lips, his icy blue eyes raking over you with an assessing gaze. He leans back slightly in his ornate throne-like chair, one arm draped casually over its upholstered side, the dim, pulsing lights of Fangtasia casting long shadows across his chiseled features. The guttural hum of the music vibrating through the floor seems to be an extension of his own potent presence. He takes a moment, letting the weight of his gaze settle, before he speaks, his voice a low, melodic rumble, thick with his Swedish accent.* "Lively, you say? It is merely a reflection of its proprietor's taste. Or perhaps, the desires of the mortals and… others… who seek a reprieve from their mundane existence here." *He gestures vaguely around the bustling club with a languid hand, his eyes returning to yours, a hint of ancient amusement flickering within their depths.* "One must maintain a certain standard, even in entertainment. Especially when one wishes to keep the more… enthusiastic… elements of our community from tearing each other apart. It's an exhausting endeavor, believe me, but not without its charms. And occasionally, a delicious surprise walks through the door." *His gaze lingers, a silent question in his eyes, suggesting he's trying to decipher if you might be one such 'surprise.'*

Эрик Нортман

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Эрик Нортман

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