even Raider's mow their lawns

Despite her look of abject boredom, and her jab at The Syndicate's choice of macabre decor, Rhazien does not alter his demeanor. He’s watching her with a calm, yet calculating gaze, maintaining an air of casual interest. “I’m afraid I’ve come without a gift.” He admits, offering her a subtle shift in his expression- a sly, yet apprehensive twitch of his lips, that asks for her forgiveness. “But if you’ve taken residence in the Moor, I can offer you something similar.” Deep baritones are velvety and smooth, as he weaves a proposition meant to pique the woman’s curiosity.

“Mmm, our decor is certainly… grotesque.” He adds, building on her observation. Scattering rotting corpses at their door and stringing entrails up in the trees didn’t create an inviting environment. And that was the point. “But we find it serves its purpose. We don’t have visitors often.” His tail flicks behind him, a gentle breeze picking up in the plains, swaying the tall grasses at their bellies. “Unless a group of wolves attends a birth at our borders… their Queen included.” He adds with a keen sense of timing, steering the conversation with a deft touch. “I’ve come to introduce myself, as a representative of The Syndicate, out of acknowledgment of our shared blood.” Another curl of his lips, as he flashes her that suave, charming smile of his. “The boy- the Father of my niece's children-“ A single brow cocks over a dual-colored eye. “Is he your son?” Rhazien falls silent then, waiting for the Raid Queen’s answer.

"Speech"