There is a flute of champagne in one hand, cold stem warming at her touch as she rolls it between her fingertips. Why she accepted the invitation to attend the exhibition opening tonight was an answer that eluded her. Maybe it was because she wanted a break, or she didn’t want to crack open a bottle of champagne herself— maybe she preferred being around people than being in her Penthouse or teleporting herself somewhere else in the world. Or, perhaps it is like this: there is a simple joy to be found at attending these sort of little events in spite of the tense climate of the city. And though she isn’t much a fan of the work in the spotlight tonight, she likes the company, and staring absentmindedly at the photograph in front of her Annora cannot help but let a small smile of remembrance curve at the corners of her mouth. David Leventi’s work has made her miss the theatres of Europe. Perhaps she would visit soon.

“It’s a shame he hadn’t photographed the palazzo on a better day. You lose the opportunity to show if off the way he has the threatres,” She comments loftily, hearing footsteps approach as her gaze remains on the photo. The blonde doesn’t turn her head until she let her tongue loose to her question, remaining poised and collected.  “Although it makes me want to take on a new project. Have you visited any of the theatres recently?”

Shadow-graced meant being bonded, means a second chance at life, means that that her mortality is still hers but telepathy and precognition serve as a temptation that she can not resist. Not when her life had been spent stealing those very thoughts, those details, assuming that foresight for her own gain before she became what she was now. Maybe this is why it’s better she remains in the shop, in her workshop than left to her own devices. Even now, her eyes are glittering with a stifled sense of mischief, being careful not to disrupt anyone Altan didn’t favour. Though, of course, the sight (or rather, whisper) of a particular lycan has her hiding a cheshire cat’s smug grin with a sip of champagne.

Viktor Ruman. 

No, he didn’t know her. How could he? They’d never met in person, communicating by proxy when she was posing as an insurance agent for fine art in London. She’d cost him hundreds of thousands (not that anyone could ever prove it), and while she knew his main hub was Seattle she didn’t think that of all places she’d recognise him here. Double-checking that her mask was secure, and picking up a new flute of champagne, she faux-distractedly makes her way towards his him. And she nearly entirely passes him, if not for the well-placed fabric that began at her shoulders and flowed behind her to the ground making its way beneath his feet.