This was not a normal occurrence, meeting with a man with particular talents in strange classless bar not even in her side of town. He had better be worth her time, but if reputation served to be accurate, the man possessed a unique skillset that was at the very least, intriguing to the vampire. So many have lost the dying art of torture and it was pity at how boring the general populace went about their daily vanilla existence, waving their guns around like it bought them power. All it did was buy them a power complex. The vixen loathed guns, there were better ways to garner power, more than one day to command respect. Could this man truly be as different as these usually hollow claims?

Everything about Risque seemed terribly feline, from the manner she moves across the not so crowded bar, to the way she slinks around her prey and watches with that predatory allure. Her body commands respect with a sensual sashay of her hips, her long midnight hair spilling down to the small of her back. Her long waist length black hair tickling the exposed porcelain pale flesh of her back. Her vibrant, striking blue eyes cut through the crowd of people as though it were like proverbial guillotine slicing through fragile with that sharpened blade. She is a reaper in an alluring package, with an expression that screams boredom. Yet she stands out among the masses, paler in pallour, as though the moon cast a permanent glow upon her satin skin. Lighting seemed to worship her as if she were its god.

As she slinked through the bar she could not help but wonder what an interesting choice of locale. A public meeting place to probably soothe a worried mind, by not entering the feline's den. It didn't make her any less dangerous, but she will let him have his personal blanket if it helped give him that security he yearned for. Davante was easy to spot among the insignificant faces, his confidence oozes an aura that commands attention, his magic a staining imprint. All the charisma in the world may make you rich if you know what to do with it, but did he have what she was seeking for? That was yet to be determined. She casually slithers up beside him, his magic permeating the air around him.

With a casual indifference she peers at him, taking a moment to soak him in before she speaks.

"So you're the warlock with an impressive resume." Her words are languid, much like her movements. Names are not important at this stage in the game but mortals were so very particular on names as though it meant something more than just what you were called. As though you knew someone if you possessed their name, but you never truly know someone. The quickest way to get honesty, true honestly is to bring them to their most primal state, when they have lost all control. Peeled past the banter and the flesh and clothes worn on the outside. That's how she liked them. Flayed wide open with their souls exposed to her.

"With a reputation like that, I hope it doesn't proceed you. I am not pleasant when disappointed." That iconic hypnotic voice oozes from her in that sensual poisoned, liquid decadent chocolate kind of way. The kind of voice that could make a mortals skin crawl with her sickly sweet poison, that siren's irresistible call. But if one truly looked her features they could see those ruby full lips curl into a subtle one-sided half smirk. That smile was not one to be trusted as the thoughts her mind were hardly angelic. Could he take a beating like he delivered one?

Risque

just face the moon and put your death mask on