you could rattle the stars.
you could do anything,
if only you dared

Still, that anger rages beneath her skin, how she desperately wanted to lose control. Tetradore's ship was practically made up of entirely steel, how much damage could she actually do? Her burning eyes shoot back to Tetradore as he explains to her that he is indeed the alpha. How had she missed it?! She knew he was... powerful, but she had assumed he might have mentioned that he was the King of the West. Vhalla supposed they rarely talked about themselves; she had never offered her job title. Assassin. Murderer. Double-crossing filth. Even then, that fire burns brightly within the depths of her eyes, as she snaps at him before retrieving her dagger.

The woman is entirely caught up within her mind she missed that look that Tetradore so deigned to give her. Perhaps it was best that she didn't see it, she was upset enough to rip his head off. Wiping the blood off, she sheaths it with utter familiarity before she prowls towards Tet, her eyes softening briefly at the wound she gave him. Wiping the blood away, she sighs at it as it continues to flow. She knew well enough that shifters healed quickly, but she can't help but feel an inkling of guilt in the pit of her stomach. When she asks him where she can clean him up at, she frowns at his response. She's about to snap at him that she didn't care if it would be healed in the morning, this was her doing and she was going to... fix it. Did she mean that?

Her brows crease at the thought before he steps backwards towards the entrance, gesturing for her to follow. Vhalla trails after him, dropping his hand, his blood now coated on her finger tips. His blood. She must swallow that rage again that threatens to engulf her again. She was going to kill Ivan one of these days; not quickly either, she would draw it out as much as she could, give him as much pain as she had endured over the years by his hand. She's drawn back to the present as Tetradore parrots her words; frowning at his back she doesn't deign to answer.

When he rattles off an unfamiliar name, Vhalla pauses, blinking at him in surprise. "You stole a boat?" she asks curiously, but follows him into a small room, the strong smell of antiseptic filling her nostrils. When he pauses at the doorway, she squeezes beside him, her hips brushing along him as she enters the room, regarding the rather well stocked first aid room. Moving towards the first set of drawers she begins rummaging through them, searching for what she needs, "No, it wasn't Carson," she states bluntly, "Unfortunately, I can't â€" tell you," she must pause mid-sentence sucking in a breath. How it burned her throat! Even that little information she offered burned like fire! Breathing deep, she casts a look over her shoulder, eyes regarding his powerful frame leaning in the doorway, "You know... confidential," she turns away to hide the wince on her face as that burning sensation hits her again.

Though, she can't hide the cringe that racks her shoulders as she continues her search. Retrieving a bottle of rubbing alcohol, she finds bandages, towels and gauze before turning on a heel, back to him. She pauses just in front of him as he inquires on what she was going to do. What was the assassin going to do? She had never returned to Ivan without taking care of her... target. Again, that rage rises with a vengeance, dancing in her eyes as she reaches for Tet's hand, a little more aggressive than necessary, dumping the contents of the alcohol on his wound without so much as a warning.

"No, I'm not going to kill you Tet," she says gruffly, setting the bottle on the counter and with much more gentle hands, she wipes away the blood, bandaging his hand with surprisingly tenderness. Dropping her hands, she disposes of the towels she used to mop of his wound, his blood still coating her hands as she turns to regard him once more, "I'm going to go get some answers," she says stiffly moving back to stand in front of him, her head tilted back to search his face, her own features a mask of rage and... confusion. Looking away, before she says more, she slips easily past him, brushing her figure against him as she exits.

Pausing just outside the door, she doesn't look at him but her shoulders do slump in exhaustion, "I'm sorry," the apology is but a breath; the assassin didn't apologize for anything she did. But for him she would and for him she would demand answers; for him she would ; for him she would destroy Ivan. It was such an intense moment of feeling that Vhalla hesitates, wanting to return to Tet but instead, she squares her shoulders and sets off silently down the hall, exiting the Ark just as quickly as she had come into the cold night. Her anger warms her blood as she sets off at a sprint down the abandoned sidewalks, braid snapping behind her, not caring if people saw her this time.

Luckily, the Ark isn't too far from her home as she reaches her warehouse in record timing, flinging open the heavy door, not bothering to lock it, before she's barreling up the stairs and into the apartment. There Ivan awaits, his hands folded behind his back as he stands at the window besides the pianoforte, looking across the city as if he hadn't a care in the world. He promptly ignores her as Vhalla marches up behind him, reaching out a hand to grasp his shoulder, but her hand stops in mid-air. In her anger, she had forgotten she very well couldn't touch her master without his permission. Still, she fights that command, wanting to pummel him into the ground, to no avail. "What the fu-," she's abruptly cut off by the clucking of his tongue, still not bothering to look at her, as if she were no more than a fly. An annoyance.

"Is that anyway for a lady to speak?" his voice drawls out, wicked and cool as he finally, finally turns to regard the red cheek assassin, that fire practically burning in her eyes. "Don't you ever send me-," again she's cutoff by a resounding smack that echoes through the apartment. Flinching, she raises a hand to wipe the blood from the corner of her lip, smearing not only her blood but Tetradore's across her face, spitting it on the ground at his feet. He raises his hand again and Vhalla takes a step backwards, cringing at his hand, bowing her head before him, "Forgive me, master," she mutters, that fiery assassin suddenly docile in his presence as Ivan slowly folds his hands behind his back, a faint smile tugging at those cruel features.

Vhalla Solarn

To the stars who listen- and the dreams that are answered