Drakari watched her as she spoke taking in her words and her reaction... He was thinking. Her words told him that she would do what was needed, but he knew deep down that killing someone who shared your blood wasn't always that simple. He couldn't know how she would react after it. He had no doubt that in the moment she would kill her cousin. WIthout hesitation or trepidation, yet the after affect was what made him curious. Her words spoke of betrayal. Of deep rooted anger and pain. He knew her whole family had died and that would make anyone grow up hard.<br/><br/>Drakari could see that she wasn't affected by the alcohol any more then he was. He knew in her case it was most likely her supernatural blood that burnt through the alcohol at a faster rate rather then being trained to work through the affects. Drakari's entire life was training. Lessons learned at the back of pain and torture. He closed his hand against the glass and drank deeply meeting her gaze. Studying her eyes. Intent.<br/><br/>He could see that her past was a dark and deadly as his own. As filled with pain and horrors, if not of the same variety of a variety that left it's own scars. Unlike him, who wished he'd had his family killed, her's had been. Her brutal past had been at the hands of strangers. Maybe even friends, there was betrayal there, just as deep and painful as his own past. His had been at the hand of first his father, then his uncle, then his fiancee. He'd never had friends, never been close to anyone. Never dared. Not after everything.<br/><br/>Absently he traced the scar that ran across his wrist running up his arm as though a knife had cut across his skin and been yanked upwards during a fight. The faded bumps of the scar and it's distortion said that he'd gotten the scar when he'd been very young. A child. He'd been four years old when he'd felt his father's blade for the first time. Barely a baby. He showed nothing of the resounding pain the echoed in his mind at these thoughts. That's when his innocence died. From there the road to hell was paved in blood. Mostly his own.<br/><br/>He finished the glass. Ignored her and grabbed the bottle. He left the glass there and downed a large and deep swallow straight from the bottle feeling the alcohol burn intensely down his throat. Fire. He felt it ease his mind back into calm. Back away from the memories. The buzz starting to sooth the brutal pain that crippled his soul every moment of every day to a dull ache. He drank again and said softly, "so what's our plan?" There wasn't any way he'd walk away now. They would finish this together. He was almost startled by the thoughts. They were so at odds with his usual thoughts. Why he cared what this woman thought, why he cared about her well being, why he cared what happened to her at all was beyond him. He never cared, he never hesitated and he never got nervous, so what was so different here?