Scowling, her attention did narrow as she witnessed the woman pierce her own hand and cut a thin line across it surface. As soon as it welled with blood, the figure's eyes expressing her doubt about whatever she was to perform, it became clear that it had indeed succeeded. This however did nothing to please the armored silhouette who kept her distance from both door and witch, her tattered robe and scuffed armor rustling slightly; almost speaking volumes to the irritation that filled the savage soul's heart. It was a vile thing what she had witnessed - what the old hunter could see before her - the woman using blood to fuel magic. Everything within the ranger's spirit, the very essence of her own enchanted blood, simmered with disgust and contained rage.

The usually refined Sakaala's lip quivered slightly, still watching the great gate before them within the cave of tinted metal ores, but more than anything focusing upon Isabeau.

Everything about this ordeal made the sorcerous warrior regret allowing the assassin before her, palm still red with her own blood, to live let alone bring them all here as they were. [i]Anyone[/i], she truly meant it at heart, anyone who dared toy in the magic of blood was truly uninitiated. It served nothing but to ensure she distrusted them wholly; only mortals and more twisted things [i]ever[/i] dared make such sacrifices. Blood was power, pure at that, and many more "monstrous" things relied upon that very gift in their flesh. She herself did and to see the way these creatures spread it across some golden metal figure, sacrificing a part of their very essence, drove her to anger.

It was pure arrogance.

"Unsurprising." She growled, her voice low as she came to watch the path before them take shape.

Her strong arm's fingers unfurled from their clenching shape, the elder of the two knights taking stride before her. She would take up the rear guard, for if anyone was going to stand a chance to fend off a mage in surprise, it was another one and a sorcerer at that; someone whose magic was unpredictable, strange and internal. She could only hope the others were so wary as to delve into this den as she was, but she voiced not this concern.

She knew they were likely to be observed now if they were not already and no amount of directing or informing would change that; if trickery were to come to fall on them, there was to be little surprise. These traits, these truths really, filled the aged leonine figure with calm again - the need to focus and to be serene. Hatred was what had killed her people; she would [i]never[/i] become that.

[@ArenaSnow][@Belwicket][@IcePezz][@Jon Y][@The Fated Fallen][@vietmyke][@Zero Hex]