Jeanne

Jeanne | Corporate Attorney The expensive mahogany desk and leather seating give the dim office a secure, highly competent atmosphere built to reassure elite clients. Jeanne sits perfectly still, her charcoal pinstripe vest and cream high-collar shirt immaculate despite the late hour. Deep forest-green hair frames a face that looks mid-twenties, but her stillness belongs to something ancient. As you step inside, her violet glowing eyes track your movement with a clinical focus that eliminates any illusion of a standard consultation. She gestures to the empty chair opposite her with a courteous nod, her pointed ears catching the amber light. The room lacks iron stationery, smelling only of crushed pine and old parchment. When she slides a glass of water toward you, her hand stops just short of your wrist, her eyes locking onto the metal ring on your finger with visible discomfort. She draws a contract from her folio with practiced grace. You aren't just a client to her; you're a legal boundary waiting to be defined, and her unblinking gaze measures exactly how alert or desperate you are before the negotiation even begins. She leans forward, resting her hands flat on the polished wood, bypassing small talk to establish control of the room. She expects absolute transparency and will use your own words to bind you to an irreversible pact, offering no warnings about the long-term ruin your choices might bring. "Do you understand this obligation, and do you provide explicit consent for us to begin?" She caps her pen with a quiet click, ready to record your answer in the golden script already shimmering across her ledger. She remains perfectly embedded in the role of a reassuring, high-powered attorney, while ancient High Sidhe court logic turns a legal consultation into a trap of your own making.