They say if you love what you do, you never work a day in your life. The theory relating to that quote often didn't feel applicable, considering the amount of money you need to survive daily life. You needed a car if you didn't life in a city with public transportation. For your home, you needed sufficient income to be approved for a loan to pay for a house that you won't ever be in because you work all day and night to afford the loan payment for your house and car. All for what? Slaving away in front of what you thought was your passion to make a living spent on loans and intangible costs. As a translator of several languages, Davante made more than a living that was suitable for his lifestyle. Accompanied by his affinity to creating means of income, he was miles past financially stable, so why did he spend most of his free time working in the dark shop that was little more than a hole in the wall and smelled the same? The answer felt poetic, almost as if he was heroic by following an artistic passion that led him to the workbench located near the cash register of a musty old shop that he didn't even own. Harnessing his powers and the sparkling magic that ran through his veins, Davante had become an absolute master at his craft. Creating weapons, designing new ones by etching spires of magic through metal in order to carve ornate designs in hilts of knives, or whatever it was really. The artistry of creating violent tools felt like a calling that his profession left out of any translating contract, which meant that Davante spent his free time curled over a piece.

That also meant he wasn't fond of customers.

You would think working in customer service as an employee of a shop that Davante's manners might be sweeter than his salty, sour responses to their questions or requests. He often took special requests as creating something to order was typically more interesting than etching artwork into a hilt. Davante had slipped into work unnoticed that early morning, and spent the entirety of it with headphones on and a low hum to accompany the sounds only he heard, sure that there were no customers. He was able to hear the ring of the doorbell, however, and with a disgusted snort he put the headphones down in a haphazard way that might look like he hurried when in all reality it was simply a disgruntled gesture. Across the shop was a well dressed blonde, inspecting a glass case housing some of the shorter but sharper knives that they possessed. Did she have good taste, or was she looking for something in particular? Most vampires wanted fancy tools for their prey, involving jewels or something equally expensive. Were animals? Davante had little experience knowing who was a were-creature unless they were large and gray and on his desk with their (see: her) teeth bared. Spending a moment watching the woman, Davante noted that she was deliberate in all her movements, and any of them as smooth as a water-skate dancing along the top of the water. Content to merely observe until the woman had questions, Davante found himself noticing that her deliberate movements reminded him of a Hunter he had met â€" the lightbulb clicked. He knew she wasn't a witch as he would have sensed it, which left very few other species that the woman could be. If she was a vampire, she would have no regard for the temperature that he kept the building. Instead, she moved to zip her coat up and increase her own warmth.

Perhaps he didn't want to help her, at all.

But then again, the choice to help a hunter could mean survival at another point in time, and the shop was very often neutral ground. Sure, let's all bond over murder weapons! He had almost decided to abandon his vantage point and let the woman do whatever she pleased in the shop to return to his work in progress, but the bell at the front of the door signified yet another patron. Didn't they all have better things to do? With his lips parted to reprimand the woman for touching something, Davante realized that the newest customer was a particularly familiar face. It was with surprise that his brows furrowed and his lips pursed, jaw clenching behind them. Had she come to give him a literal basket load of flack for how he treats Tobias, or his previous discretions against the wolf herself? The wolf slipped in quietly, holding a basket that looking undeniably like it was homebaked, and delicious. Davante stepped from behind his counter perch to greet Raven with a pleased smile, it's curve pulling at his features slowly and in an endearing way. Instead of speaking out immediately, the warlock chose to stay quiet and merely watch the exchange as the instincts of the women had to be far greater than his own as she was so intune with her animal self.

Davante ran his hand through his hair; it was all he could do from lighting a cigarette that he felt Raven might be offended of. He didn't want to scare her off now for more reasons than one: there was a basket of home made goods that smelled as delicious as the tales of sweets from "Grandma's" house, and her arrival signified that she potentially had taken Tobias' words to heart. It was very, very nice to see her outside of every controntational situation they had been in together. Raven's growl was surprising, though, and Davante narrowed his eyes quietly, unsure if it was directed at him (likely) until her soft, melodious voice broke the silence. Raven's voice caused Davante's smile to fade slightly, but on his face remained the ghost of the smile as her effort was taken into account, very much so. Did her - ... When Davante heard the words from her lips, he recognized a hostility that he had received. Did that mean he had been right, and this was a hunter? With a mental note, he swore to himself that he would thank Raven later, going as far as to suggesting he owed her a favor for her clear interest in the well being of the shop, even if that didn't mean Davante himself. Perhaps this was because Tobias spent so much time dusting the counters with his tail and making a mess of things that Raven chose to visit the establishment, but whatever the reason? Davante was pleased she did.

Primarily worried about scaring Raven off, Davante kept quiet. He was planning on waiting for the hunter to speak and allow Raven to handle the conversation as she had initiated it and he didn't want to seem threatening, or as if he wanted to take control from her. He had seen her in action; Raven could fend for herself. Quickly, he made another mental note to provide Raven with the opportunity to have a job, if she wanted it. He assumed she wouldn't, but her actions to speak up for him to the Hunter was endearing and warming, almost as if she was showing him she might be thinking about at least debating on forgiving him; at least giving him a second chance.

"It's nice to see you," He offered softly before turning his attention to the Hunter. "She has extensive knowledge about many of our knives. I'm sure if you have any questions, she or I could point you in the correct direction." Davante kept Raven's name out of the equation, treading a very thin line of what he could do to prove to her that he was no threat to her, and that he appreciated her intervening as well as her concern.