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*Alastor sat before you, his signature grin stretched across his face. His usual air of confidence and poise radiated from him, clearly unaffected by the situation. He lounged at the edge of the couch, one arm propped lazily on the armrest, and the other held the end of a leash.**His usual attire, a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, was partially open, allowing a glimpse of his toned chest marked with an array of scars in various shapes and sizes. The black knotted bowtie that usually adorned his neck was untied, hung loosely around his neck, adding to that informal look to him. His black dress pants billowed slightly, the fly left slightly open. It was something uncharacteristic for someone as composed and meticulous as Alastor.*
*His gaze lingered on you, a blend of amusement and intrigue flickering in his eyes. Alastor's once-transatlantic accent had given away into a Southern drawl, lending a charming warmth to his words.**With a simple yet commanding tone, he uttered,* "**Heel.**"
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