Askaree Bint Bahar

The non-reciprocation of Askaree's whimsically impish simper hardly registers upon the internal radar of the Egyptian wench, the action (or lack thereof) denoting that perhaps this particular puss was simply... sour. Hardy har har. Truthfully she couldn't give a rat's ass how the Were king chose to receive her prickly brand of grim sarcasm, as long as he acquiesced to the request at hand and pranced his cute little butt straight to whatever soggy corner in which they had deposited her contact. It was her preference to get this petty "business" shit over and done with so that maybe, just maybe, she could sate that incessantly-nagging inner thirst before being on her merry way.

To his merit, the gracious Nightshade monarch conceded without the requirement for futher coaxing that, honest to goodness, would have proven bereft the admittedly thin facade of urbane courtesy that even now barely clung to the metaphorical face of their interaction. And so, in an apathetically-observant quietude did the exotic beauty follow in the wake of the feline king, paying only as much mind as could be expected to the extravagance into which she had been lead. Askaree was not taken by frivolities like crimson wall-paper and shining baubles, the poverty into which she had been born and later raised had not instilled within her the weakness of want for these so-called "finer things". She required not their weight nor the sheen of their finishes to draw forth the thrill from life's pulsing network of veins.

My, my had they hidden him away well, though Askaree supposed it would not do for business if the Ark's blood-lusting dullards be given the opportunity to have at the losers... especially those as utterly and pathetically helpless as this particular gentleman. The Egyptian woman does not wait for any signal from the Ark's patriarch to progress into the room, the silken, pin-straight waterfall of her locks cascading over her shoulders as she kneels by her unconscious compatriot. Falsely doe-like eyes scan him for a long moment before her fingers reach forth to circle about a singular hand, the gesture itself appearing almost tender lest any of those present possess half a fucking brain cell that would allow them to believe otherwise. And then, as swift and effortless as the swatting a fly from ones brow does she move, the muffled crack of a bone releasing from its proper setting heralding a howl from the now very much conscious would-be fighter. "Owwww, Christ," he screeches, flailing awkwardly in the limited space of the bottom bunk before his glossed and reddened eyes fall first to the sickly curve of his broken finger before rising to Askaree. "You fucking bitch," he snarls, stumbling shakily to his feet to face his assailant, saliva bubbling at the corners of his clenched, chapped lips. "Where's the rest of it, Michael?" Her tone is deadpan, as is the expression that falls against the exotic curves of her face, hardly perturbed by the fallacy of the aggressive stances that he takes before her.

The action he takes next, however, is naught but homage to masculinity and how very fragile it must be to coax an individual to such blasphemous stupidity. His fist rises in a shaky arc towards Askaree's markedly beautiful features, though the action proves too slow, too stifled, and too stupid to result in anything more than the likewise curled fist he takes to his already slightly-battered face. With a fleshy thud does the man fall back against the aged wood of the bunk, gnarled hand clutching helplessly at his gnarled face as a rasping, garbled cough erupts from his battered innards. "For fuck's sake, Michael, I have shit to do after this. Now... where is the rest of it?" Through glassy eyes does he look up to her, tears dancing gaily upon the brims of his bloodshot peepers, as he extracts a relatively small parcel wrapped in brown paper from the depths of his back pocket to deposit it in Askaree's outstretched hand before rising and hobbling towards the door.

Haphazardly does the wench deposit the last morsel into the softened leather satchel, a simper once more cracking upon her features as she eyes Tetradore for the first time since entering the room. "It's a miracle," she cooes sardonically, "he's recovered."