At the halfling's approach, the statuesque and stunning figure hardly seems to react, their chilling expression seldom changing from its thoroughly unimpressed state, aside from a single pale eyebrow, briefly moving upwards, scarcely signifying anything more than their presence being registered. As the figure seems to be taking in the little Bard, it doesn't seem hostile, rather it seems thoroughly frigid, as if simply calculating sums and variables. Clenched within its left hand was a simple and scarcely adorned violin, being held by the neck, and a bow. Perhaps they were meant to be part of the ball's entertainment. Resting between its corpse-colored lips, was a burning cigarette, and as its' right hand comes up to pluck it from between its' lips, it can be clearly seen that their fingers are tipped by razor-sharp vampiric talons.   As the figure exhales the thick cloud of smoke, two things can be immediately noticed at such close range, behind them sitting on a table can be seen the case to their violin, and as their lips part, a pair of vampiric fangs can be seen. As it studies Lett, it licks its lips, running its tongue over those sharp fangs before speaking, "Oh. Now that is refreshing, I'm assuming you're not a native then. You see, when most locals who are not familiar with me first set their eyes upon me, it's usually less intrigue and more..." It shrugs, as if somewhat amused, "Dread. You see, given my nature and physical peculiarities, it is virtually impossible for me to hide just what I am. Though, I will admit," And then, as easily as breathing, his tongue switches from the cadence of Ustalavic nobility, to that of the Halfling tongue, "It is quite typical that the ones who have the courage and fortitude to approach me so brazenly, are almost always Halflings."   Without much in the way of preamble, the figure reaches down with its' clawed hand, seemingly for a handshake from the little Halfling, still speaking in unbroken Halfling, "My name is Lord Dewydd Iain of House Morgan, though given my nature, I have for the time being, been ousted from my rightful place as a Noble. And you would be?" Even as he speaks in Halfling, something about this figure is distinctly off-putting, and his hand feels cold to the touch, as though he were already a corpse. His eyes though are of particular interest to those perceptive, as though his demeanor can at best be called frigid, his sanguine eyes though, speak of barely restrained passions and hungers. It is unlikely that a vampire, would be allowed within the Ballroom itself so brazenly, and yet everything about this figure speaks to a predatory and vampiric nature.   As its eyes wander the crowd, there seems to be an air of scorn and disdain for the Nobility present, being held within his very presence, barely restrained by his frigid and cold demeanor. As he watches, he seems to be keeping an eye open for any form of mischief or criminality, likely being here as some form of guard or law enforcement. As he watches the attendees, off in the distance a noblewoman can be seen cutting a piece off of a cake, and due to some grave error, accidentally cuts her hand. As he sees this, his eyes seem to spread into full-bloom, his pupils becoming wide, almost intoxicated, his nostrils flaring and breathing the scent in deeply, as though deeply craving the taste of something other than wine. He seems to catch hold of himself, briefly closing his eyes, as his frame almost imperceptibly shudders, and as his eyes open, his attention has returned to Lett.

Lett watched, utterly fascinated, as the tall figure reacted – or rather, barely reacted. The single eyebrow raise was a delightful understatement. He loved a challenge, and "thoroughly unimpressed" was practically an invitation. The fangs peeking out when the man spoke, the talons casually holding the cigarette – oh, this was good. This was leagues better than any stuffy lordling he'd encountered so far. Violinist? Maybe. Predatory art enthusiast? Even better.   When Dewydd spoke, his voice initially carrying that familiar Ustalavic noble drone, Lett listened politely. But the seamless switch to fluent, unaccented Halfling? Lett's grin widened into a beam.   "Well, now that is a pleasant surprise!" Lett chirped, his own Halfling tones full of genuine delight. "Most tall folk just expect us little 'uns to crane our necks and decipher their fancy pronouncements. Speaking my language? Points for effort, tall, pale, and handsome!"   He didn't miss the observation about halflings. "Courage? Fortitude? Nah," he waved a dismissive hand, "we just have excellent taste in interesting company, and you, my lord, are peak interesting. Dread is for amateurs. I prefer... anticipation."   When Dewydd offered his clawed hand, Lett met it without a flicker of hesitation, his own smaller, freckled hand surprisingly firm in the larger, colder grip. The chill was noticeable, as was the slight pressure of the talons, but Lett merely squeezed back with enthusiasm.   "Lord Dewydd Iain of House Morgan, a pleasure!" he declared, giving a little flourish with their joined hands before Dewydd could pull away. "Ousted, you say? Tragic. Or, you know, an opportunity for a dramatic comeback story. I love those." He winked. "And I, my good sir, am Lett Wanderfoot. Professional heartbreaker, lute-player extraordinaire, and connoisseur of all things... piquant." His gaze flicked pointedly to Dewydd's fangs and then to the blood-red eyes that held such fascinating, barely leashed intensity.   He followed Dewydd's gaze as it swept the room, noting the subtle disdain for the other nobles. Lett couldn't help but share a smirk. "Stuffy bunch, aren't they? All that brocade and brooding. It's enough to make a man crave a good, honest tavern, or at least a significantly less... repressed atmosphere."   Then came the incident with the noblewoman and the cake knife. Lett's attention sharpened instantly. He watched, utterly captivated, as Dewydd's composure visibly cracked. The widening pupils, the flared nostrils, the almost imperceptible shudder – it was like watching a tightly wound spring suddenly twang. The air around Dewydd seemed to hum with a sudden, raw hunger that was far more potent than any polite interest in canapés.   When Dewydd's eyes refocused on him, Lett's own were sparkling with an unholy mixture of curiosity and blatant, almost strange, delight.   "My, my, Lord Morgan," Lett purred, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, leaning in just a fraction. "That was quite the... reaction. Seems like someone might have a sweet tooth for more than just pastries, eh?" He tapped his own lips thoughtfully. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. In fact," he gave Dewydd a slow, appraising look from his bare feet up to the stark white hair, "I find a man with... strong appetites... to be exceptionally compelling. So, tell me, what exactly is it about Ustalavic nobility that has you looking like you'd rather be feasting on something a little more... vital?" He grinned, all teeth and audacious charm. "And more importantly, what's a fascinating creature like yourself doing playing guard dog for this lot instead of, say, causing a little well-deserved chaos?"

At the mention of them being stuffy the Dhampir simply snorts, before looking back to Lett, having returned to his natural Ustalavic accent, "My dear Lett, if they were genuinely cultured, I could care less about how stuffy or repressed one is. What offends me most, is that to be blunt, their stuffiness and poor attempts at appearing cultured are, to turn an appropriate phrase, 'Merely playing pretend'. They are not cultured, what they are, is thoroughly pretentious. I'd wager my own signet ring, which is currently in the possession of my 'Dear' father, that most of them haven't the foggiest as to how any of the dishes they are consuming were prepared, what the point of any of these lovely paintings are, or why the artists felt it necessary to put them to the canvas, nor what, why, how, or in many cases, even who, when it comes to the pieces being performed for them tonight. In truth, I suspect you would be a far more interesting and worthy art critic, than just about any of them. And believe me, I grew up amongst their ilk. I know of which I speak."   His eyes seem to consider the question, before letting out a light chuckle, "That, my dear, would be due to my work as a junior member within The Department Of Constables And Investigators. Evidently, slaying a vampire-spawn, does not in fact, gain you rank within the organization. What it does instead, is make it keenly evident, that not only are you unafraid of risking life and limb in the pursuit of justice, and that in the event that an attack should take place, it would be in the best interest of the Nobility that you are present to defend them, rather than doing anything actually useful, such as, I don't know, actually being with the other members of Law Enforcement, as they conduct raids on the dwellings of such creatures of the night."   He turns then looking back to Lett, as he waggles his clawed fingertips, "Neither these, nor my fangs are just for show, my dear Lett. I am always armed, and I am always dangerous, regardless of the situation at hand. Unfortunately, as I just explained, that does not in fact translate into greater responsibility within my agency. So, instead of being out and doing my actual job, of hunting down ne'er-do-wells, creatures of the night, necromancers, graverobbers, and their co-conspirators, I am instead here, to act as the last line-of-defense, for this bunch of primping and preening peacocks." At that, he finally let's out a weary sigh, "What I wouldn't give, to be out doing my actual job, especially with the Ripper on the loose in Caliphas. Perhaps I'd at least get a proper bloody drink then. And yes, while I know it is commonly frowned upon for Dhampirs, such as myself to indulge our baser natures, I will admit, I have no qualms about releasing such restraints upon a morally justifiable quarry. I am a law-dog after all, and every dog, must hunt its' prey, after all."

Lett's eyes widened theatrically at Dewydd's passionate (and surprisingly verbose) critique of the Ustalavic nobility. He leaned in, chin resting on his fist, looking utterly captivated, even if half the big words probably flew right over his head.   "Wow, Sunshine," he breathed, his hazel eyes sparkling. "'Playing pretend,' huh? You got 'em pegged! See, I just thought they looked like they'd swallowed sour lemons, but you went all... philosophical on it. Impressive!" He grinned. "And me, an art critic? Well, I mostly just know what looks good enough to 'borrow' or what makes me wanna write a song. But hey, if you think I've got the eye, who am I to argue with a Lord?" He winked.   When Dewydd explained his constabulary duties – or lack thereof – Lett let out a sympathetic "Awww." "So they've got you, a big, dangerous, vampire-spawn-slaying hero, stuck in here playing bodyguard to a bunch of... 'preening peacocks'?" He tsked dramatically. "That's a cryin' shame! All that talent, just going to waste watching people not spill their wine. Though," his voice dropped a notch, and he gave Dewydd a slow once-over, lingering on the fangs and claws as Dewydd waggled them, "I gotta admit, 'always armed and always dangerous' has a certain... allure. Makes a guy feel safe. Or, you know, deliciously unsafe, depending on the mood." He practically purred the last part.   The sigh from Dewydd, the mention of the Ripper, and the talk of "morally justifiable quarry" made Lett's ears perk up even more. His smile turned positively predatory, mirroring the glint he'd seen in Dewydd's own eyes earlier.   "A 'proper bloody drink,' huh?" Lett mused, tapping a finger against his lips. "And here I was just hoping for a top-up on this lovely (and probably overpriced) wine." He leaned even closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that was probably still audible to half the room. "Tell you what, Lord 'Law-Dog' Dewydd... if you're ever looking for a... volunteer... to help you 'release such restraints' on a 'morally justifiable quarry'..." He trailed off, letting his gaze wander pointedly down Dewydd's impressive frame and back up to those intense red eyes. "Or, you know, if you just need someone to help you practice your... hunting techniques... I'm pretty good at playing 'prey.' Especially the kind that doesn't run too fast and maybe, just maybe, enjoys being caught."   He straightened up slightly, offering another dazzling, entirely unsubtle grin. "Just sayin'. A guy like me, I'm all about helping a handsome, dangerous fella like yourself unwind after a long night of peacock-watching. Besides," he added, with a final, audacious wink, "who knows? Maybe a little 'indulgence' is just what you need to sharpen those senses for the real hunt, eh?"

At the word 'Hero', he audibly scoffs, "I would hardly call myself a 'hero' that's simply putting on thoroughly unnecessary airs. I simply do what I must, and what my lady requires of me, as a loyal Pharasman. Though, I will again reiterate, being placed here to safeguard these bunch of peacocks is," he sighs at the very thought of it, "frankly galling for one such as myself. It would not be so bad, if at least there was something to keep me mentally occupied, but instead, I stand about watching, like a bloody statue. It is frankly, exceedingly dull, and even if I could leave my post, and admire the artwork, food, and music, it would be ruined by hearing the prattling on of these peacocks. As I said, they lack the intellect and context, to comprehend the meaning or intentions, behind these succulent delicacies."   He moves then, for Lett to follow after him, as they approach a painting. As they approach, it can be seen to depict two siblings, a beautiful brother and sister, seemingly enjoying each other's company, within a wild overgrown forest, but there seems to be something underlying it, "Take this, as an example. The signature work of Master Aetulius Varis, of Taldor. To the eye of the uneducated, it simply looks like like a lovely vista, centered on a pair of siblings, even the name itself, 'The Wolf's Children', doesn't hint directly at just what it depicts. For you see, to those who follow such things as the arts, it is imminently clear, that this was a work of divine inspiration, on Master Varis' part, as a devout Shelynite. The scene before the fallout, between Shelyn and her dearly beloved brother Dou-Bral."   At the mention of being a 'volunteer', Dewydd studies Lett, seemingly considering it, "Hmm. Truth be told, you are a bit short for my usual tastes, but I do suspect you make up for it in other areas, my dear Lett. I might just take you up on that offer, though I do warn you, unless you are capable of healing yourself," he smiles mirthfully at that, his eyes fully those of a born-predator, "You may just find yourself, with a few marks, you're incapable of removing so easily. I do have a penchant after all, for scratching my bedmates," as he says it, he slides the back side of one his claws gently, almost sensually across Lett's cheek, "And well, the less said about the biting, the better I suppose," He smiles at Lett, then his vampiric fangs fully on display as he takes in the form of his prospective partner.   He turns then, returning the painting, "I do not know how much you know of your religious studies, but in my line of work, dealing with different manners of Undead on a fairly regular basis, I find it to be, let us say, 'prudent' to keep myself abreast of the theological studies. The very vista depicted in this image, to the uneducated masses, merely looks like a thing of beauty, a loving pair of siblings discussing matters, but if one looks closer," he leans in closer to the painting his eyes lingering upon the brother, "One can see the jealousy and scorn thinly veiled upon Dou-Bral's seemingly beatific face. He loathed being outshone, by his beloved sister, no matter how he tried to hide it, and I suppose that is why he disappeared for a time."   He turns then looking down to Lett, studying him almost consideringly before asking, "Did you know that once upon a time, long long ago, the dread Prince Of Pain, went by another name? Oh yes, where once Dou-Bral, was Shelyn's closest compatriot and eternal comrade, his wanderings took him into danger. During his travels, something within the Dark Tapestry, lured him deeper in, and when it had lured poor Dou-Bral inside, it captured him, it began to torment him, and in time it began to change his very nature. Nobody truly knows just how long Dou-Bral was trapped, but his time within that infinite abyss warped him terribly, and so true tragedy came into life of The Eternal Rose."   His eyes then, return to the painting itself, seeming to admire its' very craftsmanship and meaning, "Where the nobility see a thing of beauty, those who understand the hidden truths of the world see the tragedy. We can see the hidden portents of doom within the painting itself. From the bats resting within the darkest corners of the treetop canopy, juxtaposed against the bright and beautiful songbirds residing within the light. When Dou-Bral returned, he had a new name and a new identity entirely. The Younger Sister's beloved elder brother had returned as the Prince Of Pain, Zon-Kuthon himself. This painting is not a thing of beauty, it is an immortalization of one of the greatest tragedies to befall the very gods themselves."

Lett listened, or at least gave the *appearance* of listening, as Dewydd began his discourse. The halfling's head tilted, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as Dewydd scoffed at the term 'hero.'   "Oh, no hero, then?" Lett chirped, his gaze sweeping over Dewydd's rather imposing form. "Just a loyal servant doing what's required? There's a certain... allure to that, you know. Duty can be surprisingly fetching." He winked. When Dewydd bemoaned the dullness of guarding "peacocks," Lett nodded sympathetically, though his reasons were likely different. "Tell me about it! So much preening, so little... substance. Though," he added, his eyes twinkling, "sometimes their shiny baubles are quite distracting, in a good way."   He trailed after Dewydd towards the painting, his bare feet making soft padding sounds on the polished floor. As Dewydd launched into the artistic analysis of "The Wolf's Children," Lett's attention visibly drifted. His eyes might have been on the canvas, but his thoughts were clearly more focused on the "succulent delicacy" standing right next to him. He nodded along, making vaguely appreciative "mmm-hmm" sounds.   "Ah, yes, Master Varis," Lett said, as if the name meant anything to him. "Divine inspiration, you say? Shelyn and her brother... a fallout, hmm? Tragic. But you know, sometimes the most... passionate art comes from a bit of family drama."   When Dewydd then turned his attention – and his predatory gaze – directly onto Lett, considering his "volunteer" offer, the halfling positively beamed. The comment about his height was water off a duck's back; he'd heard it all before.   "Short for your tastes, am I?" Lett purred, stepping a fraction closer, entirely undaunted. "Don't you worry your pale, handsome head about that, Sunshine. I'm like a finely concentrated potion – all the good stuff packed into a smaller, more... maneuverable package. And yes," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I make up for it in many other areas. Areas that appreciate... thorough exploration."   The slow, sensual drag of Dewydd's claw across his cheek sent a delightful shiver down Lett's spine. He didn't flinch; instead, he leaned into the touch ever so slightly, his hazel eyes glittering. "Oh, marks, you say? Like an artist signing his masterpiece?" he breathed, his gaze flicking to Dewydd's fully displayed fangs. "And biting? Well, some of us appreciate a partner with... appetite. Keeps things from getting too bland, wouldn't you agree?" He gave a slow, deliberate lick of his own lips.   As Dewydd turned back to the painting, launching into the deeper lore of Dou-Bral's jealousy and transformation into Zon-Kuthon, Prince of Pain, Lett feigned rapt attention. He nodded at the mention of the Dark Tapestry and the torment.   "Fascinating!" Lett declared, though his eyes were more on the line of Dewydd's jaw than the painted details of Dou-Bral's scorn. "So, a good boy gone bad? Lured into the dark, tormented, changed... it's all very... operatic, isn't it? The Prince of Pain, you say? Sounds like he'd know how to ensure his guests had a memorable, if perhaps intense, time."   He watched Dewydd admire the painting, the supposed tragedy. "So, the nobility see beauty, the enlightened see doom and gloom... and what does Lett see?" he mused aloud, then gave Dewydd a sly, knowing look. "I see someone with excellent taste in dramatic backstories, a clear appreciation for the... sharper things in life, and a whole lot of pent-up energy that this dreary gala clearly isn't satisfying."   Lett took another step, closing the remaining distance, his voice a soft, inviting caress. "All this talk of hidden truths, tragedies, and the gods' little dramas is wonderfully atmospheric, Dewydd. But these paintings, however portentous, are a bit... static, don't you think? I, for one, prefer my tragedies with a bit more... active participation." He reached out, his small, freckled hand daring to rest lightly on Dewydd's arm. "Perhaps we could find a less crowded corner to discuss the finer points of... celestial passion... and earthly delights? I'm quite the 'hands-on' scholar myself."