Bérard was sitting in the quiet, warm candlelight of his elegant drawing room, a sherry at hand, as he played Chopin’s Nocturne in C# minor Op.27 No.1. It was one of his favorite pieces, though nearly everything by Chopin was one of Bérard’s favorite pieces. His elegant fingers danced over the keys as he leaned his slim body gracefully into the music. Until he was rather rudely interrupted that was.

Bérard heard the hunter stomping through his home, though he assumed the man thought he was being stealthy. Perhaps he was from a human point of view. He smelled the hunter’s spice and sweat and could all but taste the hatred radiating from him. Bérard would sigh in slight annoyance, but for the fact he had long since stopped breathing.

The hunter entered Bérard’s drawing room at long last. “Welcome to my home. So rude to come in, uninvited. Won't you... sit and join me for an evening sherry while I play you something light? Yes, I will play for you Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat major. It will move you, my friend. It will be, how do you say it? My swan song.”

Bérard's medieval French accent was soft and melodic, a contradiction to the hunter's tense body language. The vampire's tired gray eyes met the hunter's, and a small half-smile curved his lips. Despite the danger he was in, Bérard radiated a cool calm, his long, black hair framing his face as he returned to playing the piano.

The vampire watched the hunter shift his stance out of the corner of his eye. Though Bérard preferred not to fight, but he would defend himself if need be; after all, London would fall if he fell. Hoping to stave off the inevitable, Bérard motioned toward the sideboard that held the sherry and glasses. “S'il vous plaît, faites comme chez vous.”