"401, actually," he corrected but it didn't have as much pride behind it as someone might have thought it would. His eyes moved away from the man before him to some space on the walls and his fingers stopped ringing around the rim on the glass to pick it up instead.

"The Count was thought to be dead for many of those years." He started again. "When the county finally revolted against us and burned our dwelling to the ground I survived and came to see the realities of my atrocity. I'd shed so much blood I couldn't die, so it seemed."

He finished the drink and pulled back to lean into his chair- eyes finally met Reynard's again. "I had begun to age. After it all, and vowing to never return to blood magic or dark arts again. But then he returned, and here I am."