( He stills long enough that another of the servants passes him by in haste to observe him and witness if they can make use of themselves — refilling his glass, offering to relieve him of his coat. He allows both counts, then turns, carefully, to behold the girlie again.

A strange question, pinching his brows, arresting his attention. )

It's popular, innit? With all the talk of skirmishes with the dead in the east. ( A careful shrug, ungainly on the bulk of his frame, for all he calculates it. ) You're no one if you don't know a necromancer or a séance psychic, these days.

( Or better yet, the thin edge of his smile might convey, if you lack the funds to contract such professionals. His gaze walks the room, washing over the multitude of insignificant and memorable heads. )

They're ones for the sport, anyway.