[Muscle beneath the dress, lean strong limbs, the hint of scars that have something moving in him, a dark secret music that rattles through his Spine and for the briefest moment he almost hears it (doitdoitriptearmaimcomeonyoknowyouwanttostandupandfight), a pant and a scrabble like something living, right there in the back of his head. He ignores it though, pushes it down, and there's only the smallest spike in heart rate to indicate the waiting violence that - for now, in this place - he holds in check.

Interest pulses in him, small and sharp.

But this isn't the time or the place and he's under strict orders to behave. To only bare his teeth should something significant arise or at his owner's bidding. Instead he'll laugh, and the sound is hard and bright and abrasive.]

Drink and pleasure-- as you say, it makes you no different from the rest of them. I'm fairly sure that's all these people really have in mind. You're all the same, down at the core of yourselves. I wonder what that's like.

[He has no interest in such things-- immunity to poisons and pathogens make the consumption of alcohol a pointless activity, though if it could affect him no doubt it would be prohibited.]

Why you'd want to blur and dull your senses will forever remain a mystery to me, I suppose. If I were given any Joy, I don't know what I'd do with it.

[Just another small indication of his difference, and he flashes another serrated smile.]

As for true parties of the Nine requiring an assassination-- well. I live in hope. It'd certainly liven things up around here. Between you and I, I'm terribly bored.