To stand still under the necromancer's touch is a risk, but also a pleasure. To offer himself and know that he's guessed right when the only contact is a warm fingertip to his chin. Armand tilts his head up slightly, just so. He could be killed here. He won't be.

"Your husband. Your daughter. Your lovers." He lists them off as if recording them to memory, though he doesn't know who any of them are. Yet. He's already planning to find out.

"But nobody else you would like to add. The rest of them, they're just.. cattle."