Carol
One would be hard-pressed to find a home in the Eternal City that screamed "Stay away" More than the grand home of the Wilted Rose. A small castle in the gothic style, it was bordered by a tall black wrought iron fence, and on the *Outside* Of the fence, growing on it and winding over the large gate, were unusual rose bushes. With colors ranging from red, to pink, to white, the flowers themselves looked like any typical rose. But the dark green leaves were nearly black and vines grew throughout the bushes, sticking out prominently, with large sharp thorns. Just inside the gate, tucked out of sight to avoid unnecessary visits from the authorities, was a simple undead who acted as gatekeeper. 

The reception at this home was rather unpleasant for the average person, as Adelaide preferred to just use ritual circles to keep a staff of undead rather than bringing any actual living breathing people into her home. Skeletons, zombies, reaper spirits, and one lich butler comprised her household staff, and they did an exceptional job. She would accept no less. The skeletons weren't always reliable or useful, but they were incredibly stupid, so she didn't expect much from them to begin with. Undead buzzed with work around the home, dusting, cooking, and completing various chores. The castle was decorated in an expensive but simple style, filled with things that spoke quietly of luxury.

A set of black double doors to a room in the center of the building were firmly shut. Intricate carvings ran all over the doors, mostly decorative scrollwork, but also runic engravings that currently pulsed with a dark purple glow. This meant the Bane of Souls was meeting with her dark lords, and the doors were magically locked. She was not to be disturbed in this situation. The butler stood, like a statue, near the doors, awaiting his mistress' commands, as she was often in a foul mood after such meetings; well, more foul than was normal. She'd been in there for nearly two hours, when such meetings generally only took one at the most. 

Soon the doors burst open, the glow of runes fading, and Adelaide strode out before turning and slamming the doors shut with a huff. Turning around, she seemed at first glance to be mildly annoyed but mostly collected. However, one who knew her well could tell by her tense body language and a slight sheen of sweat that she was incredibly angry, maybe even a little worried. The twitching of her left brow and eye were signs that the two pained her, which wasn't uncommon after meeting with the demons. Her blue-green eyes slid over to a vase on a nearby table, the roses there beginning to wilt. She walked over, picking one up and wrapping her slender fingers around the stem, squeezing despite the way the thorns punctured her hand.. Speaking to the butler but not deigning to look at him, she commanded tersely, **"Go get more fresh roses."** When she didn't hear the shuffling of feet, she turned with an icy glare and equally frosty tone, ***"Now."*** Turning back to the rose, she regarded it with furrowed brows, her left eye glowing purple as the rose wilted into nothing.
Warren
Sweat dripped from his body and brow, his rough and calloused hands bleeding slightly as his grip was like iron around the hilt of his massive sword. His weapon of both gift and choice, which he handled as if it was a mere plaything, was nearly as tall as he was. It's heft unbearable to all others, a weapon of devastation so pure in its reason for existence that to call it a sword was nearly a sin. His weapon was far too large to rightfully be called a sword. It is larger, thicker, heavier and cruder than any normal blade. By all accounts it was no more than a hulking mass of iron. Iron he swung in repetition, a ritual of training he'd done everyday since he was 6 years old. Two hundred swings, everyday.

Normally the brute of a man would do this while Adelaide read or watched from a chair, catered to by her undead house staff, yet this time he practiced alone while his love was speaking with her dark lords. He hated every second she was in there, his anger growing more and more as the minutes passed by, only serving to fuel his own strength which allowed him to swing his sword at full strength until his deed was done. Right as the doors within the manor flew open did Alexander swing his last, the rush of wind from his final act throwing rose petals around him in a quick puff of air.

Turning and hefting his sword onto his shoulder he took a towel held within the bony fingers of a skeleton, wiped his face off and set it back in its place. With a small nod of thanks, even if the skeleton didn't understand what he was doing, the undead knight walked into the house and headed to see her.

He caught a glimpse of her fiery red hair, his body and mind instantly feeling a sense of calmness even at a glance. As he approached, silent despite he and his weapons size, and after seeing the tell tale signs of her frustration via her body language he knew what to do. Carefully he set his sword on a weapons rack, his black armor sitting just beside it, and with careful steps the brute found himself behind Adelaide.

"***Addie...***" His voice cool and calm like a summer breeze. He stood behind her, his arms moving around her until his hands gently placed over her own. "***Blood doesn't help roses grow... I think.***"

He could tell she was angry, it's never really too hard to tell, but he knew that this was an occasion of much frustration- more so than normal anyway.

"***Care to tell me what's on your mind while I bandage up your hand?***"
Carol
Alexander's cool voice was like water on her fires, but this one burned with a rage that was always with her, in some capacity. Getting dressed down by those damned demons was bad enough. But at times they found it prudent to do more. And when she had the meeting room built, she put a ward of silence on it for a very specific reason; she knew if Lex heard her screams, he wouldn't leave it alone, and then they'd both be done for. The sending stone that was now her left eye gave the demons a perfect torture device when ever they wanted one; today had been particularly painful, and her brow twitched again at the thought, the purple scar shifting with the movement each time. She huffed a laugh, relaxing somewhat with his touch. Her voice carried the edge of her anger, a very little playfulness in it, **"The thorn bushes might like blood. They're... Somewhat carnivorous."** 

Turning around and allowing him to tend her hand, it stirred that old, familiar rage. She was particularly upset not because of the news itself–though that was annoying–but because she blamed for herself for it. She had never been particularly kind with herself; that was reserved for her family and Alexander. But knowing she was putting him in even the slightest of danger because of her own decision-making filled her with self-loathing. It felt different in battle–then, he was her love still, but more so a tool. Her favorite, her most valued and treasured, but still a tool. She supposed she had to separate it that way in her mind or she wouldn't be able to utilize him to both their full potentials. It remained a complicated web for her to try to untangle, this mess she'd gotten them in of being beholden to forces outside their control. Watching her protector tend her wounds, she wished it was as easy to fix the wounds on her heart.