The night brought him some sense of serenity, or, as much as it could. It was a caressing hand on that pale moonlight skin of his. But, still, there is an anger deep inside him, burning, so alive, and it surpasses over emotions, strong and undefinable, nothing more than a haze of smoke in his soul, but it is the most dominant thing about him. He does not push it down further, it only provokes it. It is why he stands in the darkness, controlled by his anger and fate, letting it overcome him as it always does. In the end, he has no control over himself and who he is.

But he knows that if he stands here, in the breathless night, he can think back to that night, when the silver moon passed high into the sky and cast her innocent light, cold and bitter over his head. She stood there, smiling and bright, so desperately beautiful and happy. And Cobain, in all his rage, sought to bring her down for spoiling the perfection of his darkness. He was cold, aloof, and alone, he was danger and wickedness and greed. He was anger and that deep undeniable malice.

It was feeling desire for something he could not have.
And Cobain was letting it destroy him.

Though he has a new distraction now, though his fascination has been saved for one and one alone.

"That may be true for you," he says angrily because Isolt escaped, but Cobain was tied within Risque's clutches, her claws sank deep with no hope of release. She moves and he mirrors her. Isolt would not get away so easily. He had heard her name spoken, had learned her face and decided he wanted to know more about her. There was a morbid curiosity as he looks at her, the same way the boy pokes the dead squirrel with a stick.

Cobain posses no paternal instincts, he has been left at the age of 17 year old boy, just turned into a 17 year old monster. Yet, he does not make to hurt her, he had no desire to do so as he has with many humans, or how he had with the silver eyed fae girl. He does not view her as kin, nor does he see her the way he sees Risque. Nor does she prickle him with annoyance as Darcy does, or make him somber as Tetradore. It is true indifference when he looks at her, entirely lacking emotion in that moment, and it offers almost-relief.

He feels no rage.
No hate.

But he has no love.
Or sense of friendship.

Those eyes fall dark, the ruby red leaving him behind as he folds his hands together in front of him, continuing to eye Isolt with weary, curious glances from both her protruding stomach and her pale face. "Good," is all he says to respond, but there is doubt floating there. "Do you know for sure?" He has to know, though whether or not she tells him is entirely another matter. Oh, but there is one more thing he must know, and it feels so important-so important.

"Does Risque know?"