[It's not often that Littlefinger comes across another human face at his establishment. After all, the place is made to cater to a particular sort of clientele. The creatures come and go to work and play at his brothel. He copes as best he can, doing what he can to discover their desires and please them.
Though he works under the guise of being a mere receptionist, he holds all the power here. The brothel is registered under one Gnarrmz of Ggrawg but it's Littlefinger's through and through. On the outside, it looks like dilapidated ruin but once you push through that splintered door lacking a knob, you'll find yourself in an inviting lobby furnished with polished wood benches and floors that shine. In a corner, Littlefinger sits and balances his books, resisting the impulse to stop writing and dip his ballpoint pen in an ink well that isn't there. Old habits die hard. Upon looking up to raise a brow at the woman who's just walked in, he manages his patented genial smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He moves to stand with grace, offering a small bow with a slight flourish of the hand as the mockingbird pin twinkles at the neck of his doublet.]
I'd ask if we might offer you something you need but I think we both already know the answer to that.
[He then raises himself to his full height, smile never faltering.]
If you happen to be lost, I must tell you that it's terrible judgment to seek directions from the depraved.
[It's never been in his nature to hide what he is but he sugarcoats it well enough with easy candor and a joking tone. Then again, as poor Ned Stark learned all too late, Littlefinger has a rather sick sense of humor.]
drop it like it's hawt etc etc
Though he works under the guise of being a mere receptionist, he holds all the power here. The brothel is registered under one Gnarrmz of Ggrawg but it's Littlefinger's through and through. On the outside, it looks like dilapidated ruin but once you push through that splintered door lacking a knob, you'll find yourself in an inviting lobby furnished with polished wood benches and floors that shine. In a corner, Littlefinger sits and balances his books, resisting the impulse to stop writing and dip his ballpoint pen in an ink well that isn't there. Old habits die hard. Upon looking up to raise a brow at the woman who's just walked in, he manages his patented genial smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He moves to stand with grace, offering a small bow with a slight flourish of the hand as the mockingbird pin twinkles at the neck of his doublet.]
I'd ask if we might offer you something you need but I think we both already know the answer to that.
[He then raises himself to his full height, smile never faltering.]
If you happen to be lost, I must tell you that it's terrible judgment to seek directions from the depraved.
[It's never been in his nature to hide what he is but he sugarcoats it well enough with easy candor and a joking tone. Then again, as poor Ned Stark learned all too late, Littlefinger has a rather sick sense of humor.]