Maybe if things had been different in his life, it maybe he hadn't had to endure the murder of his parents and he had been born softer, kinder, then his heart might have gone out to the white-haired woman that sat there in the chair. Perhaps if things had been different between himself and the witch that so managed to get beneath that easily agitated skin of his, he might have shown more concern for her given the night's events and the fresher wounds that seemed to mark her undeniably beautiful frame. That was not how things were however, and so all he was able to do was fix her with that hard and cold stare as she sat there in silence. That voice in the back of his mind that he worked diligently to suffocate beneath a sea of alcohol and rage still managed to rise just barely to those forethoughts that flickered fleetingly across his mind as he simply stood in silence and watched her, and of course it was in the familiar tenor tones of his father as he lectured the stubborn and fierce young man to remember that life was all a balancing act and that despite their purpose, their services that they offered to the world around them, that did not mean that he should not feel some sort of compassion or sympathy towards the other races. So many times, Tal had been sure to emphasis that they did not kill for the pleasure or the rush, but rather they did what they did for the sake of the delicate balance that seemed to always be lingering on the precarious edge of being thrown off balance and thusly threatening that reality that was so easily shaken. Lazarus had been told time and time again that he should never take after the wayward uncle that had been exiled from the family council, that such a path was only fated to self-demise in the end.

For the most part, the young man would listen, his temper having come dangerously close to resulting in lashing out at a being undeserving of that wrath that burned like fire in his veins. Yet even though there was always that small glimmer of a conscience that would simply force the man with messy caramel-hued locks to turn his back on those that dared to rattle the bars that caged the anger he always seemed to be ever on the brink of, he could not bring himself to care enough that he was compelled to ask her about the fresh wounds and bruises that marked her. They were none of his business, and if anything, they were considered entirely her own problem and the absolute last thing he wanted was to get involved more in this witch's life than he apparently already was if only for the blood ties that existed between himself and the honey-blonde woman that the white-haired woman had unfortunately yet all too credibly taken a shine to. Lazarus was almost certain that if any individual were able to dislike the young woman, there was surely something wrong in them for as much as she could be too involved in the lives of those around her, it was always clear that that heart of hers which was almost three sizes too large in the cold and jaded opinion of Lazarus had room enough to embrace nearly every living (and almost non-living) thing to be found in this world. His thoughts are torn from his sister and the inner contemplation of just what his strategy should be to divulge more details on exactly what this woman did for a living and if there was a motive that he needed to concern himself with when he can see those tired blue eyes of hers watching him with an arched brow as her gaze moves from the tooth to his dark forest depths. When she replies that there were ways that she could make his life any worse, he says nothing as his glare only grows fiercer. He was nearly compelled to challenge her on that, but he decides against saying anything on the matter. Best not to welcome that which he definitely didn't feel like fighting through.

His keen and ever calculating gaze is quick to notice the clench in her jaw as he interrogates her further, needing to know exactly what his next actions should be to ensure without the slightest question that Elain's well-being was not about to be drug into things that she had no business being a part of. It was bad enough that she had the misfortune of being related to the troubled man, but that was something that neither of them could help. Fate was fucked up like that. The witch closes her eyes as a sigh ushered from her before her voice falls over the lips that had touched his own unbidden what now felt like an eternity ago. Ivan. That was the name of her alleged keeper? It is nearly all he cares about in that moment, storing away that name should it prove useful in the future somehow, his only reaction to her words the furrowing of his brow. She shifts in her seat, a grunt of pain falling on his ears and again there is that obnoxious prick of concern he is quick to once again smother. Her life, her problem. her next string of cooly spoken words summon a gruff "hrmph" from the man as he stands there, knowing that as much as he hated it, the witch was right. There was no convincing Ellie that this woman was no good for her."Whatever. As long as she's safe, nothing else matters. And it had better stay that way", he growls lowly, a threat laced between those syllables. The moment she was put at risk, there would be a change, even if his sister fought him every step of the way. It is then that the witch waves him away as she speaks once more, slouching in that chair, almost as aggravated as Lazarus if he didn't know any better though for what reason, he did not know nor did he care. For now. So he is happy to leave her alone in that library, moving into the living area where the ungodly number of weapons were splayed across the tabletops and spotless counters. Finding that chair she'd sat in earlier, he lowers himself into it and slouches over the table with crossed arms and hood drawn over his face. He decides then that he'll just allow himself to doze for a few hours before splitting before the sun rose over the horizon. The sooner he could get away from here, from her, the better. Closing dark forest eyes, he allows for darkness to swallow his thoughts as he drifts into uneasy rest.