It would have been a shameful farce for the Russian woman to deny that the inkling to coax further details of the outcome of her life's quest from the unfathomable bounty of her uncle's mind did not tug at the very fabric of her soul with the insistence of a nagging, petulant child. Curiosity was, after all, the most beguiling siren... especially at a time such a this when Anastasia traipses the treacherous crag of a personal crossroads. And yet she moves to prod him no further despite the ravenous gnawing of the urge as it presses its needlepoint teeth into the tenderness of her insides. Instead does she offer her uncle little more than a knowing glance, leaving unsaid all of the things that dare not pass betwixt her crimson lips.

It is yet another count for the merit of the elder fae that he seeks to maneauver the conversation towards far more light-hearted fare... or, rather, what should pass for it between two such peculiar individuals as themselves. "I shall not breathe a word of your indulgence," she concedes in a manner that is darkly playful. A manner that quickly becomes markedly insidious with the mention of the existence of a Crusnik, a savory conversational morsel that the Duchess seizes upon as any practiced predator would have been wont to do. It did not do for a Hunter to have their hands bound by the idleness of a peacetime lull, no matter how tremulous or marked by brevity it was. For Anastasia, the notable absence of proper fodder had instilled within her a stagnation that was nothing if not entirely precarious.

Matteo's assurance that the Crusnik existed beyond some proverbial barrier of protection forged by the company he kept does naught to sully the devilish grin settled upon his niece's lips. The Russian woman's simper does not wilt at the brims as some flawed and fragile blossom beneath the touch of a greedy hand; no, rather do her eyes change, their light sage darkening with alluring intensity as she peers towards her companion with a slightly narrowed gaze. "You know far better than that, dorogoy. I answer to no one." As tempered and as poised as Anastasia was given to appear, she knew that Matteo was far from daft, the fae having spent the greater portion of his existence in the presence of a man who had conquered worlds, had crushed them within his own hands. And he had taught his daughter well the art of the hunt. It would, indeed, behoove this Crusnik to stick tightly to the presumed security of his "family" lest he should wander too far astray...

"Da," she concedes, allowing the topic of the Crusnik to fall into conversational oblivion for the time at hand, for there were considerably more paramount matters to be tended to than the hypothetical fate of a wayward vampire. It was a tradition, of sorts, and one that Matteo had indulged upon all of the pair's ventures to Anastasia's homeland. Yet despite the repetition the suppressive heft builds within the Russian woman as it always did as they drew nearer to the cathedral, its golden domes resplendent against the sprawling azure tapestry of the afternoon sky. It had not always been thus; the first time that Anastasia had traversed this particular avenue there had been a modest residence set upon this land. It is this house that her mind chooses to recall as they meander forth in nearly-absolute quietude, the memories flooding her mind as if by the breaking of some breeched psychic dam. She recalls without fault and in horrific viridy the feel of the uneven, fissured tiles beneath her feet, the aged, moist smell of the basement and the atrocious, peeling stripped wallpaper at her back.

It is that place that she battles so valiantly to relegate back to the shaded ether of her mind's furthest reaches as the pair traverse the church's doorstep. "I'll be but a moment," she offers quietly to her companion, taking her leave of him as she saunters toward the alter and the rows of candles clasped within their intricately woven iron holdings. In the dim light of the church they are her only beacon, her every step calculated in the near-complete darkness created by her defect. In a ritual that she had repeated more times than she dared attest, Anastasia ignites a solitary match, holding against the wick of each candle in turn. For Tatiana, for Maria, for Alexei, for her mother, and... the last was always for her father. Five candles set alight: such a small gesture of remembrance in comparison to lives and love that had been taken so suddenly. So consumed is she with the indulgent memories of her stolen loved ones that Anastasia hardly registers the approach of another individual at her back until the unnerving heat of his breath whispers against her neck. "You know... I always light a candle for you as well, moya Anya."

She would have known that voice anywhere, for truly it had spoken to her from the depths of many a nightmare since her transition beyond the mortal realm. But, before the Duchess can chance any movement, a flurry of movement from behind her extinquishes the myriad dancing flames before her... plunging her headlong into an impenetrable dark.

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia