It is at the close of a tiresome day that Rowena reclines gracefully into the cool embrace of the leather at her back, the subtle hum of her computer purring to silence as the screen blinks to darkness. The sage of her eyes travel to the scene unfolding beyond the panes of the window, the sun having long ago succumbed to the draw of the ever imposing dark and sparing only the soft glow of the ornate lamp perched above The Witchery's equally as intricate doors. And it is by this light that she sees them, slithering from the veritable woodwork like the pests that they were, one of them bearing a rather familiar mop of golden locks. A smile, if it could have been called such, creases Rowena's sharp features for she knew exactly who he was just as he surely knew her. She wondered, offhand, if the Hunters of Sacrosanct knew of how oft their Council, and even their Chancellor, betrayed the creed of their species by offering her their patronage. How many of the petulant back-biters had come here, willing to subtly denounce the prejudice they clung to so vehemently and put their money, their trust, their safety and sometimes their bodies in the hands of a witch? Countless.

A deep and exasperated sigh filters through her lips as Rowena makes short work of discarding the business attire that clung to her figure in a way that was virtually immaculate to replace it with garments far more sensible for the scene that was surely to unfold. It would certainly not do to sacrifice her best attire for whatever beastly games they had cooked up in their minds. Having been successful in her business ventures for some number of years, this had certainly not been her first waltz with a posse of the over-zealous poachers who fancied themselves so far above the supernaturals they deemed "prey"... and she doubted with some measure of agitation that it would be the last. A nuisance to be sure, and one Rowena could only hope would be squashed as quickly as it had been initiated.

The muffled snap of the gunshot brings the domineering blonde pause, anger squirming about within her as some long-dormant demonic cretin, begging for release. Calculated steps bring her to the key pad hidden tactfully into the aged wood of her office, a few purposeful clicks heralding a deep, sinister growling that seems to come from the very walls. Steel locks snap into their respective cradles, effectively sealing every suite and major corridor, including the grand entrance, save for one. The Sempill, currently occupied by a quite prestigious member of the Hunters' precious council; if they so wished to go about killing warlocks, then she would surely do the same. An eye for an eye, as it were.

At once two individuals storm into the alcove that is her private office, one of them a rather new addition, sobbing uncontrollably and slumping, shaken, into the intricate molding of the doorway. The other, her assistant, the hard lines of the woman's otherwise young and beautiful features betraying the annoyance that Rowena feels. "I'm aware," she purrs in response to the question unspoken. "Inform the guests that this is a temporary drill, no need for alarm." Her tone is clipped, demanding as is her custom and yet no worry for the situation unfolding within her foyer seeps into any portion of her face for there is none to be had. Sage eyes slice to the sobbing brunette now cowering into a corner, disgust tugging pleadingly at her lips. "Hush you mewling twit," she spits, barely sparing the whimpering girl another thought before turning to a locked cabinet in the far reaches of the office, extracting from it a macabre variety of vials and knives, each one to serve its own special purpose should the need arise. Lastly, her sure fingers curl about the gun perched ever so delicately within its cradle, the embrace as welcomed as that of long-lost lover. "And what will you do, Rowena?" Her assistant's words breed a sickeningly sweet simper unto the witch's pouty lips, her words curt and utterly matter of fact. "I'm going to do what we always do when a guest rings that bell for service... I'm going to give it to them."

Her footfalls are light, calculated and consumed by the silence that pervades save for the timely pinging of that goddamned bell as she passes through the corridor that will take her above the foyer. A slender glass vile flips easily between her expert fingers, the billowing black mass within growing ever more turbulent with every pass. It is something the blonde matron saves for naught but the very most worthwhile occasions, seemingly having deemed this to be at least mildly deserving of the time it had taken to brew. Rowena has but a moment in which she might discard the precious vile, an exposed and elevated walkway spanning merely a single yard acting as her only available vantage point over the foyer. The stoic blonde gives no pause or lingering glances to the Hunters in her foyer as she passes over the small bridge. Her passage is as silent and poised as the death she controls, the only resonance to betray her temporary presence is the smashing of the vile as it alights upon the tiled floor of the foyer.

An impossibly dark and all-consuming smog erupts, saturating the space in a near-instantaneous fashion and smothering whatever light might otherwise have been had. But this is merely a show, a vessel for which to spread what truly lay within... a peculiar acid, honed and transformed so that it is seemingly harmless. A farce. It burns not into the wood and ceramic of her foyer, evaporating as steam from the pristine surfaces of her lobby, and yet should it alight upon the skin of her poachers... The macabre joker's grin upon her features widens with the thought as Rowena simply moves on into the bowels of the establishment she knows as well as she knows herself, slipping around a few choice corners and coalescing into the darkness.