It's a careful balance, indicating in these subtle ways of the breadth of his ability without overwhelming a person. Even this man, who knows of vampires like they're a particularly elusive but verifiable predator, has his limited information and experiences to go off of. Maybe he suspects Lestat can read his mind, for instance. Maybe Lestat has confirmed it already several times. Speaking his thoughts back to him, at a constant, is liable to tip their conversation off-balance.

And he's enjoying their conversation, especially now that it swerves back to him, evoking a broader smile. "A singer, oui," agreeably, why not? He sings. "Or if we need a man on the piano, I can be convinced to serve," pressing hand to breast. Magnanimous.

"I came to Paris because it was my home, once," is an extremely pared down version of a story for the sake of a mortal who hardly needs a rundown on vampire pseudo-politics, "and some of our renegade immortals were making a mess of things. Only young ones, others infected, none respecting the new natural order we find ourselves in. Removing them was a necessary evil," picking up his glass, a gesture, "and then, here I am."

He doesn't drink further, just keeps the glass as a prop for the moment. "The Demimonde advertised itself as a place to go when there is something you need if you have something to give. I need blood to sustain myself and no desire to meaningfully contribute to a mass extinction event and I protect those willing to be generous."

Another smile, as he adds, "And the exceptionally talented. I have my favourites, blood or no blood. What did you come to trade, Monsieur Dixon?"