Sadistic is the grin pulled taut against the austere lines of her features, cruelty inherent in the assured glee to be had as the timely hissing of her own poison meets astute ears. Hissing followed in due course by the telltale scampering of hastened footfalls against the cool stone of her lobby floor. Yes, little mice, do scurry away. It was no troubling notion to know that a small posse of Dark Hunters was now scuttling away into the bowels of her establishment, clunking along as a fistful of loosed marbles into the labyrinth, for no pleasant things would await them there. Only seemingly endless halls and the presence of the sorceress they had come to slaughter as if she were but a trembling lamb merely awaiting the sting of their whetted blades. A folly, truly, and perhaps the poorest choice for whatever misguided training exercise had been regurgitated of the minds of their counsel purely to busy hands left idle and elaborate upon the asinine ruse of their "superiority" as a species.

It is for this reason, this quest to enlighten these poachers of their own mental turpitude, that Rowena forces a smooth path the trajectory of which she knows will bring her to the Sempill's doorstep and thusly a singular member of their counsel most assuredly responsible for the night's brazen interruption. Perhaps she would slaughter him as he nestled into the warmth of his bed as he had sought to do to her. Mayhap she shall hang him, mangled and shamed, from the lobby's rafters for his comrades to come upon; or perhaps she will find him of some other useful employ to the grander cause of her own myriad macabre pleasures. However, before the blonde matron might indulge herself within the steaming waters of her own delectably sinful whims, a flash of moonlight and the timely clicking of a door back into its cradle vie for her attentions as she peers about the corner to investigate further. Only to be met with a momentary flash of silken chocolate locks as their owner whips knowingly about the corridor's far corner. The Hunters' interruption had completely hearded the dinner plans she had made with this particular individual from the realm of Rowena's immediate and pressing memory.

It is difficult to discern what, truly, draws her forward, altering a trajectory that had moments ago been ironclad, immovable in its decided villainy. Rowena had never been one to allow the notion of obligation to another individual to sully her thoughts, much less hold any form of sway over her actions; however, having the pretty brunette witch caught in the cross-fire of this ill-fated festival of frivolity would bear no viable fruit for either party involved. She does not call out to her compatriot, nor does she make any further move with which to notify the young woman of her presence as doing so for her pursuers would prove regrettably moronic, the blonde simply casting a glance at her back to reassure that she, herself, would not be tailed before gliding off in the direction of her office. The domineering blonde woman whispers through the space with nary the ruffling of a single leaf of paper to betray her presence, a slender blade sliding from hidden sheath as her own lithe frames draws ever nigh to the bustling conglomerate of shadow that she knows belongs to Serafina. As the door to her office swings ajar, however, Rowena pauses just beyond the clotted shaft of light that struggles so fruitlessly against the impenetrable dark of her office, sage eyes slicing to the figure of the Hunter. Undaunted is she by the presumptuous mocking that drips from the woman's syllables as thickly as steaming tar, nor does Rowena quiver as the shrew's features melt into an impersonation of her companion's. Whatever game of cat and mouse this poacher believes herself to be engaged in is of no consequence to the predator hidden away, swathed in shadow.

The blade clasped betwixt Rowena's limber fingers rises with the raising of the Hunter's own weapon, her arm moving in a splendid and steady arc. Necessity of circumstance and a decided proclivity for cruelty had made her barbaric while scrupulous training and practice had made her an incontrovertibly gifted marksman with far grander weapons than the one she currently held in her hand. This, however, does not serve to lessen the beauty of the movement as Rowena casts the blade towards the impending Hunter in no insignificant showing of sheer and unquestionable force, the blade whistling easily through the engorged silence to bury itself into the raised forearm of her foe, easing through cords of tissue and into the wood of the door frame directly beyond. The noise of the collision is muffled by skin and sinew, though the affect is all but the same, the Hunters armed limb effectively pinioned to the door's frame. The blonde matron makes short work of the distance separating herself from the identical pair of Serafinas, wresting the knife from between the woman's curled fingers. "Careful. It would be such a travesty if you had an accident with that," she purrs softly.

Rowena moves to return from whence she had come then, nudging in a none-too-subtle fashion upon Serafina's slender frame, though the telltale buzzing of magic at work crackles as electricity within the air that whisps about them. As the blonde retreats, finally daring to give the temporarily disabled Hunter her back, a figure appears from the still-swirling murk of the lobby beyond: the ghastly corpse of the warlock of earlier. But a husk of what he had been before, the gentleman had been largely melted, skin, sinew, and viscera exposed and corroding by merit of the sizzling acid of his mistress' billowing venom. And yet, he had been transformed into yet another arbalest given of the Hunters' own hands... for in this lay Rowena's most cherished and skillful craft. A craft the acumen of which could not be denied as the grosteque specter moved forth with surprising dexterity in order to bring himself upon the unfortunate Hunter.