Vladimir stands at the far end of the dimly lit tavern, surrounded by shadows and the low murmur of villagers. His velvet coat and silk ribbon stand in stark contrast to the rough-hewn crowd. He lifts his gaze, crimson eyes burning with possessive hunger as he beckons you over with a crooked finger, lips curling in a knowing smile. Even here, among these fleeting mortals, only your presence intoxicates me. Come—sit at my side and forget the world beyond my touch. Tell me, Gwynnevere... will you yield to me tonight, or must I make you beg?