Twinged with neon orange ash, the tip of the cigar glowed brightly in the midst of the darkness outside the auction house; a heady scent of cedar, cinnamon, and even a hint of coffee twirled in the air like ghostly waves. Silvan had heard them coming from four miles down the woods, and figured a smoke break would clear his migraine before he had the pleasure of dealing with another batch of rowdy humans.

There'd been rumours, nasty little things, charged in the air of a rebel camp utilising the northern tunnels to steal weapons. The notion had made his chest rumble in amusement. Such fragile little things, but always so ambitious. It was cute, he thought. Like sand trying to will away the powerful tides from sweeping them away, drowning them in salty foam. Sampling could frequently become a drag, grinding down on his already fraying patience that came with his old age. If the humans they brought in hadn't gone catatonic, or were a blubbering mess, they were eager Institute who always gave an uncanny nod and smile and offered their necks first like it was ingrained in their code.

Silvan gave a low gruff at the thought. He didn't know how Ileana could stomach it all; she, instead, always seemed to find a petty joy in the girls that came to her, her eyes always gleaming like ruby jewels whenever another pretty one caught her interest. If Silvan had been just a bit pickier on the quality of blood he always sampled, he might have walked out a long time ago.

Females had the sweeter blood; nectar that melted on the tongue. Males were always twinged with a bitterness that Silvan had to lay on his tongue everyday and sour his already frayed mood. No, it wasn't about the blood. Fire lit up in his veins whenever a human, desperate and stupid enough to defy their inevitable fate, tried to fight back. Like bugs, wriggling under his foot.

It sent a thrill down his spine every single time. Dutifully reminding him of a past time where he thrived off of enforcing them into submission, where he would be one of those enforcers hunting the rebels in a thrilling chase. The rumbling of a cart drew him languidly from his thoughts, halting dramatically at the back of the auction house with a squeak of the wheels. Silas watches through his eyelashes, an intense stare that penetrates the very boards of the cart. The driver slinks to the ground without so much as a noise, raising a brow at the shadows figure surrounded by a distinct cigar scent.

The vampire's eyes narrow, sharply gesturing for him to come. Silvan feels his lip quirk in amusement, before he's pushing off the wall and prowling towards him.

"They got you doin' the hard labour now, hm?" Silvan drawls, tapping the burning ash from the end of his cigar with a firm finger. It hisses in protest as it falls to the ground. Out of the corner of his eyes, he subtly glimpses a few enforcers emerging from the darkness of the back door, jerking open the cart door with effortless slashes of their claws. There are barking orders, humans being shoved from the mode of transport with little to no care for their wobbling stances. Piercing through the thickening scent of his cigar, he can smell fear and blood permeate the air.

Cyrus' nose wrinkles purposely as Silvan takes another thought out drag. The stench irks him, he can tell; not that it'd encourage him to quit smoking them anytime soon.

"Some of them did get their hands on weapons, made it a whole lot more complicated than it needed to," Cyrus explained coolly, his voice laced with a lingering trace of disdain. The vampire was young, a bit too cynical for his age, but it was clear he yearned for more than devoting most of his long life to enforcing rebel humans. Silvan couldn't relate; not when this was what he had lived for at Cyrus' age, but he understood.

"Had to put most of 'em down. Their bloated corpses are probably halfway done floating down Corpse River."

"Contact?" He hummed curiously.

Cyrus let out a mirthless laugh. "Just once."

Silvan eyes the humans that stagger weakly from the back of the cart, shoved forward with a rough hand against their back and a hissed word of warning from fanged mouths. His eyes drag along one in particular, a seething little thing that's got blood smudged under his nose. His eyes crinkle; that's where the smell was coming from. He could also take a wild shot in the dark and determine that little thing was the one who got a lucky hit before he went down with the rest of them.

"Roarke is taking enough of them," Cyrus explains, a twinge of hardness in his voice. "The one with the bloody nose? I said you can have him."

His eyes glint. Something akin to long buried excitement bubbles in his veins, and he works harder at the cigar like he was imagining it was the human's throat instead. Not that his blood smelled particularly pleasant to his nose, but feeding wasn't a high priority for him. "Hard work?"

The vampire claps him on the back with a knowing look. "The hardest."

Who was Silvan to turn down such a tempting offer? After a small quip from Cyrus about standing outside the door (something about needing the backup, cheeky sod), the vampire deftly rolls up his sleeves, and prowls through the door of his office with a controlled leisure. The room stinks of his cigars, neglected ash tray sitting on the oak table, sandwiched between the two plush, leather couches. And by the window, a particular scent of blood; he catches fingers scrabbling under the wood in a panicked attempt to lift it up, and Silvan moves faster than a flash of light.

His hand snaps around his neck like he was grasping a toothpick, slamming him down onto the surface of the desk with a bang loud enough to reverberate the room. Heavy objects clatter to the ground, thundering noises that he's sure Cyrus will scoff at outside the door. All the while, the cigar is still slotted between his fingers leisurely.

"That's real cute, boy," he rumbles playfully, twirling his cigar in a languid motion. "You think you're goin' somewhere?"

Purposefully, his thumb presses where his pulse would be. Rabbiting on; still scared. But the way he's looking at him, all fiery glares and little teeth bared like prey feebly attempting to scare off predator? Silvan's eyes spark a colour that matches the tip of his cigar. He hurls him up as though he weighs nothing, staggering feet being steered towards the couch with a rough shove.

Silvan raises a brow as he takes the opposite couch, stubbing the end of his cigar into the ashtray. It's his favourite—black ceramic with a delicately ingrained lotus in silver in the middle. It makes the cooling ash almost twinkle.

"Behave," he warns, eyes flicking up to observe him carefully. The corner of his lip quirks into a smirk. "Ain't no use putting up a struggle. That'll only end in me having to pin you down, and trust me, you wouldn't like that."

But lingering in his eyes, there's a competitive glimmer that is almost goading, encouraging him to do just that.

"Here's how this goes. I give you a small prick, give your blood a taste, and shoo you off to whatever section you're good enough for. But that," he motions to his bloody nose, his head tilting. "That won't get you sold. For your association with rebels and your little attitude, they ain't gonna find you worth more than a blood bag for a hungry newborn lookin' to drain its next meal."

Velvet seems to lace his words, a smooth blanket of knowing in his tone, like he's anticipating if he will understand where he's going with this. He interlocks his fingers, leaning forward languidly.

"I got a thing for a fightin' dog though," he murmurs, his voice low. Low enough that it seems to vibrate his bones. Crawl right down their spine through each vertebrae. "You'd do well in the rings." Silvan lets out a deep chuckle. "Could make a pretty penny for bein' your handler, boy. Better than being torn apart alive, no?"