[color=6ecff6]Béatrix:[/color]

Trixy noticed how Alistair kept stealing glances at her and blushed inwardly. Her porcelain skin maintained its pallor, however – it always did. Although it seemed odd for him to keep looking at her, surely she looked like shit, covered in a healthly dosing of dirt and blood. Maybe that’s [i]why[/i] he kept looking.

[i]“Béatrix, are you tired yet? It’s been a long day – a long week."[/i] Ali asked her while Mithias was out.

What a loaded question… Was she tired? Physically she was not; most vampires didn’t feel fatigue, unless they overused their gifts. She was a bit mentally drained, since when did she find herself capable of the emotions she felt that night? She felt both more herself and less like herself than ever, all at the same time. The internal changes were exhausting, but she would never admit that to anyone. She must appear to be strong and guarded, and remember who she is. 

Madame Vengeance. Wolfsbane. Head Executioner. 

Béatrix raised her cerulean eyes to meet his and held his gaze “A weapon never tires.” She said to him, knowing that her acting and deception skills would never let her words sound as hollow as they made her feel in that moment. From the outside she was tempered steel, hardened by might and battle, but she was molten within. How many more strikes until the blade that was Béatrix de la Croix shattered? And whose downfall would that truly be? A mere vampire reduced to a million pieces, or an entire city smothered by smoke and ash...

She looked away from him when he mentioned Adelisa, rolling her eyes in irritation. “That child reminds me much of a mosquito.” That was the only thing Trixy had to offer about the rogue girl. When he changed the subject, she was glad for it.

“Steal your kills? You practically hand them to me.” She chuckled, returning his refreshing playfulness “And you haven’t even seen me at my prime, I fight best alone.” Hell, she had to fight best alone, how else could she have survived 6 centuries as a rogue assassin?

[color=9e0b0f]Jareth:[/color]

Before he truly began his hunt, Jareth dropped by a familiar place. When he wasn’t spending his time writing songs, playing with chemicals, and torturing innocents, he spent his time practicing another art form – tattooing. Jar worked part-time in a human run tattoo shop called the Ink Exchange, under one of his many nicknames. 

[i]“JRock! Where ya’ been, man?”[/i] called an excited male voice from the back of the shop once Jared walked in. The scent of blood and ink and patchouli oil clung to the air with grace. The hum of a tattoo gun caused tangible vibrations all around him. Jareth flashed a deadly gorgeous smile “Stixx! How the fuck are ya?”

A human male with a crown of ginger dreads rolled his chair from around the corner of his booth. [i]“Pretty good man, called it quits with Tonya, turns out she was just as much of a slut as you predicted."[/i]

Jareth nodded “Don’t let it get to you too much, bro, that’s how they all are.”

Stixx shook his heads, causing the dreads to swing back and forth. [i]“Yer touched, boss.”[/i]

Boss, yeah. He might only work there part-time, more like whenever-he-felt-like-it-time, but he was their best artist. How could he not be, given his supernatural gifts? “Did I get any big appointment requests?” Jar asked.

[i]“Ya man, check the book.”[/i] At that, Jareth walked behind the desk and hefted the appointment book onto the counter with a loud thud. He flipped through the pages until he found the most recent entries. There were a few requests for trendy foot tattoos and tramps stamps, he rolled his eyes in dramatic disgust – when would they finally get it, that he was above those things? His red pen of dismissal X-ed out any appointment that he deemed unworthy, until one caught his attention. It was an upper back piece, but that wasn’t what grabbed him, it was the design that was requested that caused him to literally drop his pen.