Cobain, frankly, was sick of his own kind. The obsidian haired boy had spent most of this immortal life he had been thrust into dealing with other vampires. His first experience with the blood suckers had been less than thrilling. When Cobain had been young, he remembers when Dracula had come out, and the ebony haired youth had earthen, chocolate hued eyes that never seemed to tire of skimming the pages filled with words that created a story. He would sit there, reading, reading, pouring over those pages until his eyes would grow so heavy with sleep and the candle nearly all burned out and his mother would ruffle his dark locks telling him it was time for bed. It is at the same time that his father would say how he would beat him in the morning for wasting such precious candles on reading. Though, Cobain knew he was too drunk and that he would forget by morning. But that had been the dark haired boy's first exposure to the immortal blood consumers before he became one himself, with eyes as red as rubies turned from that earthen hue, and thirst as large as the ocean.

The next experience the dark haired Cobain had with vampires had been was when he was face to face with Risque, entirely unaware of what was going to happen next. If the boy could do it over again, he would have rather been beaten to death by his father and sent into the afterlife instead of living this life of immortality. Eternally stuck within his own personal hell. The other encounters with those of his own tended to be...brief to save the least. Nothing more than informing them what he was there for, though they typically already knew who sent him and why. Those meetings always ended in flames.

He stares at him with those ruby eyes, silence hanging on his tongue until the bartender manages to return with a glass of the only drink Cobain allowed past his lips and into his body shaped in never ending youth. He watches that aged face wrinkle in discuss as Cobain lowers the glass and slides it back towards the bartender. He wipes his hand across his lips and runs his tongue over his ivory teeth to rid it of the ruby stain. God how he wished he could simply toss the metallic liquid aside, dry out and send himself into a slumber, anything better than continuing to remain alive and serving their shared mistress. But she would never let him, she could have killed him so long ago and she denies him such a simple thing as death.

Cobain looks to him with red hungry eyes, that settle into a dark brown, the color he had been born with before having his sole condemned to the fiery pits of hell. He looks for recognition upon the boy now man's face in response to the name of the red haired woman, but instead he is met with simply crude language. Did no one understand courtesy these days? Of course, this comes from the murdering blood sucker. Cobain merely smiles to the man, he has heard worse, so much worse than what Tetradore offers him. But the smile quickly slides off, as if it knows this is not the dark haired vampire's natural state and it was unable to stay there for long. "Maybe I stayed because I wanted to reacquaint myself with you again, Tetradore," he says with a shrug and a blasé expression on his face making it difficult to tell whether or not sarcasm laced his words. "We used to haveâ€"fun." Well, that is note entirely true, Cobain doubts Tetradore enjoyed the torture and for Cobain it was simply a release.

He knows that pack means a great deal to Tetradore, he knows he would do anything to keep them safe, but Risque had told Cobain very little of the panther's pack, and frankly, if they weren't on Risque's list of those to kill, the ebony haired vampire was disinterested. Just more mortals that stunk of animal to his sensitive nose. The black cat beside him was enough. He makes almost a smirk upon his face in response to Tetradore's sarcastic offering of attempting to escape Thursday. "Cant, I'm afraid, busy that night," he says, pauses. "Have some blood to spill you know," he says, those dark eyes gaining just the faintest tint of crimson within them. Cobain leans back in his chair slightly then and looks to the man. "You've grown considerably since the last time I saw you," he says, remember the child that Cobain had left within Risque's clutches, only to return back and see man in his place, though still in Risque's pocket all the same. This when he leans forward and looks closer at the were. "And yet," he looks closer still, "There is still that look in your eyes, the same look as when you were a boy." He leans back once more, catching the eye of the bartender, still thirst it would seem. "You may have aged physically, and they may all call you the Were king of the West, but you're still just little Tetty the black cat to me," and he reaches forward to grab the glass of crimson liquid. "You'll have to forgive me, we elders, it seems we have difficulty accepting change."