Bathing in the inhuman sensitivity of the blood, Konstantin found his naturally critical eye appraising the surrounding vampires like raw material, a craftsman simply pondering on imperfections and imagining possibilities for improvements. Like an undertaker he had a well honed talent for appraising such factors as the height, weight, and breadth of an individual to an uncanny degree of accuracy, which was helpful, since he could always craft a few suitable simulacra of them from ghouls in order to experiment with a few possibilities. While he did rather enjoy a touch of the sadism that was necessity to preserve one's sanity, he was often only too eager to drop the facade of a fiendish monstrosity in order to get down to his beloved work, which usually involved finding new ways to twist flesh and minds beyond anything a loving God could ever have wished to inflict upon them.<br/><br/>It was while he was eyeing up the inventory, listening to the rustle of clothing, the twitch of the Gangrel's tail, the distant rumble of traffic, the fluttering of moths around the street lamps, the scuttling of vermin on the Nosferatu's hide, that silence fell over them, all the more shocking for the rich tapestry of sound it so greedily swallowed up. He frowned, taking in the Assamite with the customarily calm, collected manner of one who had little tolerance for being unpleasantly surprised but unwilling to express such distaste without an especially good assurance of emerging victorious from any following conflict, and a good few contingencies just in case. He might have been imperious and egotistical, but he did have a sharp survival instinct that held a rather strong veto on the rest of his narcissistic psyche when the possibility of being lunch for a pack of lesser beings was still viable.<br/><br/>He followed in the group trailing inside, flicking his cane up to tuck it under his arm as he plucked at the fingertips of his gloves, easing them off his hands as he strolled through the crowd. Normally he rather enjoyed taking the time to appreciate pretty young women, one of the more implacable sort of demands his particular Beast was prone to making. A lifetime spent cautiously avoiding women, and were it not for the fact that very few young ladies had a tendency to sleep in diaphonous white gowns and sleep with windows open, he'd certainly have gotten into a lot more trouble. Not that they were his type, of course, he was jealously territorial when it came to his toys, and he had no use for those that had been tarnished by the world. Still, the scent of blood and fear mingled in a heady cocktail drew his attention, and a warm, angelic smile, although that ever critical part of his mind was a little disappointed in such an amateurish use of such a fine piece of material.<br/><br/>He shrugged off his coat, tucked his gloves into the pocket, and draped it and his cane over the girl's arms, not taking the time to see if she caught them. Servants who failed to be attentive were simply not a phenomenon he was cognisant of. He entered the Bishop's presence with a respectful nod. He had a tendency to respect a station as much as its occupant, but he adhered to a courtly decorum if only because it was in a Fiend's nature to support any trappings of power that could turned to his own advantage. Showing due deference to an Elder could translate into authority, with care and proper opportunism. He was in no meed to speak first, however, taking his usual moment to see which of them might feel the first need to assert dominance.<br/><br/>Well, it was hardly surprising when the Lasombra leapt to seize the wheels of power, and he could hardly be surprised by the inevitable. He waited a beat or two in order to see if any immediate rivalry might emerge, and took a step forward from where he leaned against the wall. He assayed a brief, slight bow, dipping with fluid grace although he kept his eyes locked firmly onto the Bishop's own gaze for those few brief moments, it was never wise to be show that much vulnerability to any Cainite. The voice was unnaturally pure and clear, even spoken with that unmistakeable Slavic accent. "Your Excellency,  I Vladimir Konstantin, of the blood of Tzimisce." The formal introduction over, he carried on, clasping his hands behind his back. "I am a scholar. I have learned the ritae and lore of this grand Sabbat, the history of our descent from Caine, and, of course, a habit for inventing new and interesting ways of dealing with our enemies." He rather liked those times, when he could play with another Cainite and get away with it. Ghouls were never as much fun. "For the good of Her Excellency's needs, I may offer to lend my education in the metamorphic arts to the improvement of others, although I do happen to also be rather good at taking a long time and a lot of words to express rather simple concepts, in a number of languages."