There was a part of Tetradore that had become so innately attuned to those vampires that surrounded him over the years. He recognized the hungry look in those crimson eyes, just as he innately knew what had so vehemently caught Cobain's attention. Frankly, he was glad the bartender had found the vampire a glass before the undead creature sank his fangs within Tetradore's own veins. That Alpha power that ran through him, after all, gave his own blood a rather...distinct taste, one Risque herself tended to relish within. The Were-King remained silent as he watched Cobain took the class near immediately, quite near gulping down the warm red liquid. The copper scent caused his nose to wrinkle has his emerald eyes turned back to the liquor within his own glass. Slowly, Tetradore rose his own glass to his lips, sipping on his own beverage to only further that small buzz in the very back of his head. God, how he yearned to simply forget he was here, as impossible as such a thing was. It was that very thought that lingered upon his mind, prompting his own comment of how surprising it was that Cobain was still there within the depths of Syn when he claimed to so hate both the dance club and their shared mistress. He was hardly surprised by the man's silence, particularly when the vampire was so fiercely engrossed with the blood that slid down his throat.

The Were's vibrant irises slid back towards the undead man as that blase tone reached out to him and yet Tetradore merely snorted. He suspected that Isolt's name upon the vampire's lips was supposed to rial him. Frankly, he was hardly terribly surprised the man had knowledge of his sibling in death, despite how drastically different the pair were. "Bullshit." He retorted, placing his own glass back own upon the marble countertop. "Face it, Cobain, you want to be here. Don't keep giving me that damn crap about how I 'don't understand your kind' - I understand that you're so fucking pathetic that a fledgling vampire is able to withstand Risque's calls better than you're lowlife ass can." Maker or not, the crimson-haired neophyte had found a sanctuary away from this place. She had found an escape that, while entirely closed off to Tetradore, was hardly an impossibility for Cobain. Isolt had damn near proved that much. Hell, even Tetradore himself had established some life beyond the reverberating walls of the club. At least they had tried to make more out of life for themselves while someone remained so innately stagnant. His head shook ever so slightly as his attention turned back to his glass, hardly caring of that anger his own words were entirely capable of igniting. After all, from what he remembered of Cobain, that detachment held beneath it a short-fused resentment and fury so often directed at the very world at large.

Tetradore was almost not astonished when the conversation so abruptly shifted towards his own pack. Risque had been all too quick to inform him she too knew of its existence. Such goading, however, hardly prompted little more than a shrug from Tetradore's shoulders. Oh how much deeper Cobain would have to dig to pierce through those thick layers that so surrounded the Were-King's heart. "They're fine." He responded in an entirely vague and non-committal fashion. After all, Tetradore had little interest in providing even Cobain a hint of the true nature of his pack, those cards continually played so close to his chest. It was that inquiry of escaping though, that caused Tetradore's eyebrow to raise ever so slightly. His eyes fell flatly upon Cobain, as if he was all but baffled by the man's mere existence. Frankly, he rather was. For one who desired freedom so greatly, he seemed so quick to give up on any notion of achieving it. That fight within the vampire was all but gone. It was almost a thing to be pitied, really. "I'm planning one next Thursday, want to come?" That sarcasm upon his lips was, perhaps, a bit more poignant than he had intended and yet, truly, did Cobain think they were friendly enough to warrant such a level of...comradeship? It was habitual, the fashion at which the feline so kept to himself. Those thoughts shared so rarely, those plans even less so. He was often times more the opportunist, striking when the chance arose rather than so meticulously planning some foolhardy escape. Plans, he knew well, could be found. Plans could be dashed and destroyed. Blatant recklessness was far harder for them to anticipate.