For a time, Vhalla didn't pay either of the men any heed, she simply was fascinated by the dripping of blood, though when Sebastian speaks an entirely different language, her eyes slowly travel to him, her brows furrowing. She has a hard time focusing on him as a sudden tiredness tugs at the edges of her vision, "It's not polite to talk about others in a different language," she drawls a weary smile quirking her lips up. As she drags her hand across Dorian's face she vaguely notes the look of horror that contorts is features, instead another giggle emits from her throat as she inspects the smear of blood across the faerie's face.

When the faerie king walks away and Sebastian approaches, she can't help grinning up at the vampire as she reaches out her hand weakly towards him. Again, the blood drips from her fingertips and she's distracted once again by the dribble of blood pooling on the ground. Glancing down, she drops her arm heavily onto the couch. Her limbs felt leaded and it took a great amount of energy to be able to move. Vhalla's head is lolling to the side when Dorian returns with a damp towel. Again, the king speaks in Italian lyrics which causes the assassin to snap her head straight again. Attempting to focus in on Dorian with her best scowl, she struggles to sit up again, "Do not talk about me when I can't understand you," she snarls at both of the men.

When Sebastian kneels by her side she wholly ignores him as Dorian scolds her from flailing about on the couch. She does, however, pause when the faerie king tells her he will fix her hair if she stays still. Rounding her vision on him she inspects him, searching for the truth in his words. Vhalla only has amount before a searing pain draws her attention to her side. Flinching away, she glares at the hands upon her bloody side, noting it's Sebastian she struggles away from the pressure not enjoying the dagger-like feeling.

Since the woman is confined to the couch she has little room to maneuver so instead she fixes Sebastian with a menacing glare, "That hurts! Stop it," she snarls at him rather weakly. When he doesn't she simply growls at him instead when suddenly her body engulfs in flames. Snapping her eyes shut against the sudden brightness, she's unaware of what the men do in that moment as the assassin is wholly concentrating on how tired she is. The flames flicker for only a moment before they die out; Vhalla would be surprised if she were more present during this time, that the couch remains intact, she had only managed to scorch the top of the leather.

As her blood is a part of her, the liquid remains untouched on her skin as well as on the ground, though her clothes had not faired nearly as well. The material she had been wearing was barely clinging to her skin in threads. Slumping onto the couch, exhaustion swamping her body she manages to pry her eyes open to inspect the men as well as the damage to the room. She feels no guilt, no sorrow, no fear, she simply wants to sleep. That giddiness is gone replaced by fatigue as her eyes flutter close again, though she can still feel the dull pain in her side and the continuous flow of blood from her wound she ignores it as best as she can. There was, in fact, a part of her in the back of her mind demanding she treat the wound lest she bleed out.

The witch had lost a fair amount of blood and though she wasn't on death's door yet, it was only a matter of time before she lost too much blood. Still, Vhalla was exhausted and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. "Don't touch me," she mumbles weakly, her voice shaking with fatigue.