There is a decisive aura of danger around this man. He is incisive and she is assured that this charade would have to be well executed in order for her to escape, well, execution. While he peruses her with the languid form of one who knows he is in charge and thus has the upper hand she stares back at him with daring mossy eyes, pretending for all the world that she is a mortal wronged by his flinging words. His hauteur is impeccable, the manner in which seems unflappable, but she retains her own pose because in order to convince him, this hunter of inborn instincts, she must convince herself that she is too. In the end, she suspects, it will not matter. She has heard many rumors of the Dark Ones, as her parents had called them in biting tones. Was it better of them to hunt those they deemed unfit for life, creatures of darkness, when their very profession was one of murder and torture? She stares into his own eyes and sees a sort of detachment there, a lack of compassion, and Sorcha, an ever intuitive woman, knows that he does not see her as a lovely young woman, witch that she is. All he sees is a target, another trophy to add to his likely extensive list of kills. He was a killer and she was his prey and it would take all of her concentration and her wiliness to consume his thoughts with things other than death - particularly, her death.

Her eyes narrow on his next words, so sure in their own, and her own riposte sits upon her lovely lips. "And I know what I am not," she declares, shoulders rolling back in defiance against him before she begins to try and distract him. Herbology was not a thing that many indulged in and she had hoped to try and lure her way out of it even if her words were truthful, for the most part, only a lie by omission. It seems that the moment she presses the vial between them there comes a stillness about him and her own body reacts in kind, tensing up, her breath catching in a quiet sort of way as she watches him with shrewd eyes. Would he kill her here in front of all these witnesses? The woman who had bought the last vial was watching with a sort of frantic uncertainty on her face, her hand tucked into her purse no doubt thumbing the potion she had been given. Did she think the Hunter would chase her down for it? Was she contemplating throwing it out or merely hiding it so that she could later try it, thinking of the dead Witch whom had sold it with a sort of sadness because she could have no more?

Would this be what her life ended with? Only the disappointment of customers not satisfied with more of her wares, watching her be dragged away knowing what was to come? It almost made her angry, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly before her lashes sweep down to cover her eyes and she steels herself.

Azrael relaxes and with it, so does she, as he takes up the mantle to her game and slides the vial from suddenly limp fingers. She pastes on that brilliant smile, showing her best acting skills which turn into genuine pleasure when he speaks of herbs. Not to mention his own question that is directed at her, her eyes narrowing and smile turning sly. "There are so few now who know of such herbs and uses. It is a pleasure to meet another," she says genuinely, although she also suspects if she links them two together in his mind that he will either grow frustrated or maybe, just maybe, see her as more than a witch. She plucks the vial from his fingers with ease, hiding her own slight trembling with movement and tilting her head to the side so her hair falls with it. "Irritable, no, but perhaps.. tense?" She hums in the back of her throat at the thought, eyes twinkling in false merriment (but how false, for teasing him is quite fun despite the implications that he wishes to drive something through her body until her life seeps away).

"I enjoy helping others with their health," she says freely after his own revelation of being a doctor - this killer, once a healer. Perhaps if he knows that she uses her own skills to help rather than to hurt that he will see her as something different but perhaps not. He was, no doubt, trained hard and rigorously all his life to think opposite. She spins smoothly as he passes her, making sure that her shoulder brushes his, each movement calculated to create a barrier in his mind against hurting her - to make her more human.

A threat veiled in an opportunity. Her eyes seem to snap a sudden daring as she deliberately pauses to do a slow, thorough scan of his body, aware of the audience that kept a careful eye on them. She taps her chin suddenly then reaches into her bag, slowing her movements lest he take some offense, and pulls out a small bowl wherein there is a small bottle that holds oil. "Oil of Rosemary, to help your intense concentration, although you do not seem to lack that, and help mental fatigue," she adds with a small smile. "As well, if rubbed into sore muscles, can help relax you. I imagine, sir, that you are a very tense fellow, with much on your conscience," she adds, her voice flavorful, knowing he would assume she talked of his hunting. Which, in fact, she did, judging by the way she stares at him. "Plus, if used on your scalp and hair, can help keep your rather luxurious hair as beautiful as it is now," she adds with a flirtatious smile and wink, unable to help herself. "It is a simple thing although many do not realize the benefits of such simplicity and would prefer the complex agents of over the counter drugs that are more likely to kill you with side effects than solve your problems. So tell me, sir, does this interest you?"