Of the many peculiarities to characterize The Witchery's sagacious owner, a proclivity for the oft-times mundane practice of interviews was a particular oddity. It could have never been presumed or proclaimed that Rowena Metcalf was kindly, or nurturing, or understanding as one would generally hope an interviewer to be; no, the blonde woman quite preferred to go about this monotonous ritual in a quite different fashion. Had this elegant little brunette proven shy, nervous, or prone to the horrifically irritating fidgeting and verbal stumbling that so often was the downfall of the potential candidate she would have been invited, in no uncertain terms, to kindly and swiftly find her way back out of The Witchery's front doors as so many had been invited to do before her. There was no place to be found for such things within these walls, amongst this clientele, and under the employ of this leader. And so it was to the young girl's merit that she should not indulge the quirks of the weak-minded and fearful.

"I have no need for your resume," she quips in agreement, a half smile kissing her lips, though it dared not bleed the fallacy of its kindheartedness into the sage pools of her eyes. The next comment does not see this simper falter, nor does the flinch of hesitance or irritation once sully the severe nature of her sharp features. So brazen a morsel was she, though her tone held a shred too much presumption for the blonde to rightly allow it to dissolve without retort, green eyes fixed unwaveringly upon those before her. "Is it now? That couldn't possibly be the reason for my wanting to acquire a new chef now, could it?" It is, indeed, a rhetorical inquiry, for as soon as the syllables are seen to dissolve into the verbal ether Rowena rises from the plush cradle of her chair, the practiced beckoning of a hand suggesting without misrepresentation that her would-be charge follow suit.

No words are sacrificed on explanation or behest for the brunette to follow as Rowena merely meanders from her office and down a few choice corridors to bring the pair to a set of pristinely polished silver doors, the unmistakable clamor of a kitchen well into preparations for the dinner service humming just beyond. The tall blonde transcends the barrier between hotel and kitchen with an unapologetic audacity that was solely and entirely her own, various members of the culinary staff seeming to employ a conscious effort to ensure they were well out her anticipated trajectory. The scrupulousness of her gaze seems to narrow somewhat as Rowena hones in on the individual who has caused her an unforgivably large portion of agitation as of late. "Move aside," she states curtly to the sous-chef, the portly gentleman murmuring only a "yes ma'am" before beginning to waddle off in search of what could only be assumed was shelter from the inevitable storm before Rowena seeks to bring him to a halt. "I said move aside, not wander off. You will stay right here." The words are dangerously clipped, her eyes never leaving the work station and the woman who has followed in her wake, not even to beset the flushed man with the full heft of her piercing gaze. A gaze that finally falls upon the blue of the woman at her side, her features absent even the cruel and calculating simper of before. "By all means, Ms. Dorian, show me what you can do."