Ruby red eyes stare blankly up at the ceiling. Those dark red eyes do not move, nor blink, but simply stare, relentlessly upwards. He is alone, so so alone, but the hell boy does not beg for company, he is distant in his manner and separate in the way he keeps to himself. His life had been nothing before he had been turned and it continues to be nothing now, and surely it will remain nothing one after he has turned to ash in the fires of hell. Cobain does not have a history in his lifeâ€" he has a scream stretched through time. His life is not full of the emotional highs and lows of the living, or even some of the dead. There is only darkness in silence, silence that could drive a mad man. Every day, nothing but the silence inside his mind, inside his body. It is death without being dead, numbness without being entirely numb. Cobain swears in another life, he can feel them walking atop the roof of his grave, stopping around carelessly, recklessly. The monster does not belong here or there, among the living or the dead. He had died, killed at the hands of the man he called father and yet his heart still lays in his chest and he holds air in his lungs. The boy cannot recall how old he is now, but he remembers that his body is still very young in terms of a mortal life.

It is only when the monster thrashes within his chest that the obsidian haired boy finally goes to a vertical sitting position atop his bed. Still, nothing, only that hunger wriggles inside him. It isn't much, but at least it is something besides anger, hatred, or rage. He messes his black tresses before moving off the bed. It felt strange to the onyx haired vampire, this feeling of being stationary. For so long Risque has kept him on the move, and suddenly he returns for another assignment from his mistress and tells him there is business for the vampire to attend to here? The red eyed demon boy wasn't unaccustomed to this life without constant movement, it wasâ€"unsettling. He exhales a silent distaste of the chain that secures him to her. But Cobain needs nothing but himself. Those crimson eyes catch sight of himself in the mirror, obsidian hair messy with bed head even though he hadn't been sleeping. But a quick brush of his land sets the hair back into place.

Life was full of disappointments, that much is true, the crimson eyed boy preferred to run errands for his mistress rather than just sit here and wait. At least when she sent him on said missions it meant less time spent within her clutches, with her so very...near. But, alas, Cobain lacks any sort of free will when it comes to her.

The pale boy stifles a growl in his throat before beginning to look through his tiny closet to find some clothes he may not actually hate wearing. Cobain has only ever had what could fit in a duffle bag, therefore his options for clothes were typically limited, he preferred to collect items as he went, though of course Risque wouldn't want one of her 'pets' embarrassing her by showing up to murder someone in nothing but the best. So despite the title of a roaming vagabond, Cobain hardly seemed to look the part. The pale vampire decides on a suitable attire, something that wouldn't draw any unneeded attention, but also something that would keep Risque from sending him upstairs to change like he was some disobedient, angsty teenager. Which he was, for the most part, though Cobain was far from disobedient, his mistress certainly made sure of that. An expensive watch ends the outfit as one hand runs through obsidian locks to ensure they looked presentable. But now, it was time to eat. The hell hound was hungry and there was only one thing that could satiate him: blood.

Though, the thought of transversing through Syn was as daunting as ever, the pale boy hated those who congregated there, in their masses, but he knew there would be blood, for the hostess knew how to serve. Dark red eyes peer out into the hallway as he then moves towards where the party of Syn tended to happen, whatever food supply there was for the congregation of vampires, no doubt it would be in the thick of things. just how Cobain hated it. That crimson gaze is kept forward, direct, like a spear hitting its target rather than the beauty of flourishing sword. Determined not to interact with anyoneâ€"that is until...

The pale servant boy can smell it. He can feel his lips curl back from his sharp as knives fangs. He knew that scent upon the air, Cobain never forgets a smell, a voice, a face, it was what Risque had trained him for. Cant have a headhunter if they couldn't properly hunt. The pale, slender vampire turns to the direction where the scent was coming from. A name floats on his lips: "Tetradore." Cobain's tone is like ice, distant, lips curling slightly in distaste. The pale boy moves in the direction, knowing the were's sense were most likely just as keen as his own.

Perhaps, if circumstances had been different, and the obsidian haired boy hadn't been forced to follow every whim and answer to every call of his mistress, maybe the two males crushed under the weight of Risque's abuse would have found something akin to an alliance with one another, though friendship would have been stretching it a bit too far. Tetradore was still a were and Cobain still a vampire. He moves through the bodies, wanting nothing more than to bite into one of them, taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, but these were Rsique's customers, and Cobain wouldn't dare. Well, he would but he cant.

Red wine eyes spot him then, slumped over in the corner by the bar. Cobain moves towards him with quiet movements, slipping in and around the crowds easily, like a marble on glass. He looked different than the last time ruby red eyes laid upon him, he had grown, while Cobain has remained relatively unchanged, his eyes having grown duller, his lack of caring about anything in particular all but fallen down into the deepest and darkest depths. Still, he moves to panther all the same, his face unfamiliar, but his scent digging into Cobain's deeper memories. "Tetradore," he says, voice empty, void, like a black hole within the confines of outer space. Rubies for eyes continue to look upon the were as he sits beside him. The bartender approaches, only to move away as Cobain raises his hand towards her. He had never cared for alcohol, perhaps it stems from his childhood, when he father would consume such large quantities at the tavern only to come home, the stench of the foul liquid on his breath, to beat his son mercilessly. Regardless, he narrows his eyes upon the were, "She still has you," he says, whether it is simply stating a fact or taunting the poor man is unclear. He can nearly hear the blood pumping through Tetradore's veins, but Cobain knew he was not to lay a hand (nor fang for that matter) upon the panther unless Risque presented him with a direct order to do so. "But what surprises me mostâ€"you're still alive."