Risque pays little attention to the goading vampire whom was nothing but a buzzing nuisance in her hear. He deserved to be pulverized like a fly to a flyswatter. The thought of the mess that would cause for a man his size seems to distract her for only a breath of a second, she would have him gutted or on his knees, his assassin whore could join him. There was no in between with the hellish mistress. She leans into her panther, draping over him, her lips moving as she whispers her nefarious desires within her pets ear, her breath an icy coiling serpent sliding across his hot flesh. She knew his skin rioted against it and yet she lingers in that space for a time. That suggestion wickedly clear in her words, she wanted to pluck the monster she had created from within the dark shadows of her panther king. A crowned king of nothing that she couldn't control or pluck away from him in a fickle whim of hers, should she grow tired of his insolence. But to do so would throw away so much leverage she wasn't exactly finished with toying with. Who would have thought, her little tomcat had wandered the streets of Sacrosanct to find himself a witch. A white-haired witch that would finally be privy of what she had undoubtedly been cast out in the cold dark of. That very man the witch had man moon eyes for, would surely come to realize that the man she had thought. Tetradore was not some dark knight to whisk the witch away and save the day or whatever foolish delusion that gripped a young woman with a clinging hope like she was the star of some silly little romance novel, her story written upon the pages. The sooner that woman stripped herself of those notions, she would be better off. If she was alive enough to. How little the she-devil cared above that suffering she would inflict upon them this night.

Ivan seemed to recline deeply, placing his folded arms to link his fingers at the back of his nape like he simply hadn't a care in the world. She would enjoy carving that taunting smile from his face, leaving nothing but a gaping mouth of teeth. Perhaps before the night was through, she could add it to her collection. Surely, he had no use for those lips, his assassin would have to make do with just her own. How amusing a thought. That thought however was fleeting as that light began to dim and Tetradore became that well-trained monster he was destined to be, bound to Risque and designed to serve her. How Darcy would truly enjoy the impending slaughter that was bound to occur, she was sure of it. Her undead cowboy had been in quite the concentrated state upon that card game. To pull him away would have been overkill, especially impeding upon that night's cashflow. Pity. Her hellish men would not work as a unit to spill her enemies blood, at least, not tonight. Tonight that devilish woman would have to spill that blood herself and how her porcelain flesh seemed so terribly hungry for it. Tetradore, tonight, was surely the only statement she needed. After all, they had destroyed far more diabolical enemies together, by now those numbers countless. Already a dozen instance swam within her putrid mind, this death dance was one the executed with far superior grace.

In death they would unite, all four of them. The executioners and the slaughtered. Oh, let the games begin.

Risque's venomous laughter slices out through the flickering darkness like velvet on flesh, that fear her pet wielded circling about that room like predators waiting to strike.. Surely their prey could feel it. Should they survive, the survivors would be indebted to her, enslaved until that hellish mistress was appeased and repaid with interest. Failure was not an option, not in her eyes. No one fails her. Yet, it serves her right for putting confidence in someone other than her own kind. Ivan that arrogant scum that he was, had the nerve to yawn, his eyes roving as though her body was for his viewing pleasure. As if that were the reason why she was here. Perhaps she should take his eyes too, pluck them out one by one. The next flicker of light has her gaze meeting his as her own power dances to her fingertips. A slow sensual knowing smile spreads across her ruby painted sinful lips, those fangs peering out, glinting in the flickering light.

Ivan was a sitting duck to Tetradore's assault. Or so she thought. What he was met with, was not anticipated. He collided with an invisible barrier of sorts, those talons hardly meeting that vampire flesh. A flicker of irritation and disappointment sliced across her features for but a flash of a moment and yet those pale depthless eyes remain pristinely apathetic. At the very least, she would get a show. Suddenly, there is a swell of hellish fire, a wall enveloping them all. The witch. Apparently, she had some bite after all. Goodie. It blocks Risque's seething view of them. Ivan's voice reached through the riotous flames, hiding behind them like they could save him from her, like a child hiding from monster in his little bed. The she-devil herself could rip him apart, made him feel horrors and pain he had never know, keeping him alive until the very last moment or until it suited her.

Risque knew in that moment, she would have him bowing at her feet. It was only a matter of when. "Oh we are just getting started. I hope you aren't fond of your face.. or your pitiful little weak witch. I have plans." Those words seem to tease the air like a curious serpent's tongue, that ominous promise taunting in the confines of her very voice.

She uses her ability of torment to feel for Ivan, even though she could no longer sees him. Nothing could hinder those tendrils that slip through the cracks as she impregnates his mind with needling agony, pain unlike his wildest of dreams devours him, or attempts to. She seeks to make a scream burst from his lips as she manicured hand reaches for that silver whip at her side, normally it was reserved for her weres, but tonight she would make an exception. As he was no longer worthy of a title of vampire in her judgmental eyes. She seemed to test that sound, with a adept flick of her wrist, that crack slicing through the air. How thirsty that silver was, that barbed tips meant to embed into flesh, to rip it away with just the right movement. She does not stop there, she assaults him, all of him with that power that can re-stitch the fabric of reality to her will. It allows him to believe that his little assassin was murdered right before his eyes, when Tetradore pounced for her. That outcome was yet to be seen and yet that illusion seemed to ring true. Tetradore sliced through her with his sharpened paws, that her entrails had spilled from her belly in a way she would almost deem artful, that suit and flesh no match to those honed razor claws.

Let us see how much Ivan cared for his little assassin and if that pretty little illusion would become a reality. Oh how she hopes so.

Risque

just face the moon and put your death mask on