they argued my right to ascension

There was, he is sure, a certain trait within the Dorian line that assured anyone in possession of such blood seemed entirely incapable of not answering back, else managing to find the most sarcastically unamusing answer possible. It was unfortunate really that the woman before him had inherited this trait, much as her aforementioned brother- after all, without it- he may have almost been willing to admit she was not wholly unpleasant by design. It is a shame, truly, that she is so afflicted by this magical curse, it has been a long time since anyone had cared to feed him anything nearly so nice as this, his fears over her desire to poison him with something dispelled in the few moments in which he had cared to look over her shoulder, returning hastily to his seat only to have her words assure him that she had, perhaps, been aware of his momentary prying- a grunt of sorts uttered in response and little else. If she lived with Davante she was surely used to such a masculine retort. It is the mention of Davante in some sort of maid outfit that seems to allow the barest trace of humour to slip through his often iron-clad façade of agitated indifference or outright hostility, the later of which he wears like armour itself in an effort to forcibly repeal all others from him. It is a habit perhaps, one developed after so many years of watching anyone whom he fostered any form of relationship, platonic or otherwise, be slaughtered, injured or otherwise disappear entirely. It always ended the same and truly the prospect of the next thousand years or so truly help little by way of delight within his mind. Indeed- this sandwich was by far the most enjoyable thing he had done all day.

The tea, he supposes- is a close second. His vague reference to the nonsense of witch spells seems to draw a response from the slender woman whom had fortunately take up a seat several feet away in some effort to ease the anxiety that was more obvious then he truly intended it to be, the question in her words seeming to indicate she thought abracadabra to be some sort of ridiculous phrase, his own shoulders offering little more than a shrug by way of response, a scowl of sorts settling upon his ever-youthful features. He truly has no desire to have this conversation, much less witness any form of her sinful, unholy magic. Witches were perhaps the most preferable of all the supernatural species, these creatures merely more than humans with an affinity for commanding the elements and yet even despite their relative attempts at normalcy there is something distinctly...unsettling about them. Perhaps there were some facets of his power and her magic that were similar to his own and yet to call his weaponry 'magic' seemed to irritate the man entirely. He was not like them, he was nothing like them. What did he call his light trick?

"It is not a trick, it is merely a manifestation of my ability to command charged photons and manipulate them, along with other particles, into shapes or weapons. It is certainly not magical."

The words are harsher, perhaps, then he truly intends them to be and yet the man remains adamant that such a power is hardly one brought about by magical inducement, entirely content to argue the point for as long as the woman should see fit to continue to fight him on it. Her next words however, very nearly bring a sigh to his lips, this Lore, as she called herself- apparently entirely content to continue to press the point, arguing with him now about her determination to be a good host and sister, her words polite and yet pointed enough to earn a huff of sorts from the agitated Hunter as she moved to clean up. She was, he supposed, so far the only woman he had met in rather a number of years whom actually seemed to understand just exactly what to do with a guest, at least, in the way he had remembered it back in his younger years- her hosting skills entirely...refreshing and yet his ability to offer any form of praise remains as entirely unmoving as his form upon the chair, the words her offers little more then a mutter barely audible between his lips and yet seems to insinuate some form of pleasure in never having any sisters.

The womans return to the kitchen at least offers him momentary solitude, the blonde man determined to wait for Davante all the same, even despite his sisters determination to 'host' and her ability to continue to argue with him in a manner highly reminiscent of her brother. At least she was more appealing to look at. The scent of some form of pastry however- as it does with any man, seems to manage to attract his attention, if only slightly, one golden eye flicking towards the dessert she places upon the table, Azrael still content to continue to stare at the fire. Why on earth did she keep fighting with him? Wasn't she happy not to entertain? Wouldn't she prefer not to talk to the assassin sitting in her lounge room? The vast majority of other species chose to ignore him so why couldn't she?

"My time out? I'm not a fucking child."

It is only the realisation that an impending tantrum over the fact may very well prove her point that sees the man pause, one hand reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose in an effort to quell his anger and at least attempt to force a slightly more pleasant demeanour- if only for the sake of proving her wrong entirely. A task he very near fails in at the sight of the pillow placed beside him, the unusual features upon it earning the woman glare of confusion, the man evidently in some form of flummox over the appearance of the pillow as she speaks and only seems to darken his already obsidian mood.

"In fact I would prefer that as a companion- thank you. As for my abrasive words they are generally enough to discourage most people from their attempts to befriend me and yet it would appear that I did indeed forget as to whose relative I was speaking. You- like your brother, seem to be in possession of an excessively overzealous determination to attempt to be funny. Your parents must have a been a riot to produce two children with such assurance of their own humour."

It is quite possibly the longest sentence he has ever offered the girl, the man continuing to glare at her beneath lashings of slowly drying hair before reaching silently for his piece of pie- the dessert....better than he had been prepared to give it credit for, this almost begrudging realisation seeing the faintest of scowls linger upon his features before he seemed to resign himself to the fact that Lore was going to speak regardless of his attempts, her pie, perhaps, having at least earned her an answer.

"What exactly about it did you want to know? You're going to have to be more specific although I cannot dry people off with it as you seem to do your own, at least, I never tried."
Golden eyes flicker back to the pie now, the man having shifted towards her at least a little to offer her some measure of politeness, her offering of a dessert seeming to have earned her at least that- even if he still fails to look entirely pleased about anything.

Azrael Evero

only fools walk where angels fear to tread