What purpose was there to this life if not to succeed? Did the female think quite passivity would suit her? Many did, he thinks, yet he had been born from the womb screaming in defiance of the world. There is a fire in his blood that burns for something brighter. Something darker, too, that coils within his veins, flashing from his odd eyes. He is at once much like his father as well as all the lineages of his past. Escha is much the same in that she is two parts of her family, a quiet snake writhing in the grass. There is a subtlety to her game where it seems as if Thorne's is rather blatant and loud - but he is clever. With each passing day he grows more so, observing the world around him and chruning details into his mind. There is much of his grandfather flowing through his veins.

Silence is given in response and his lip coils up once more to flash that single fang again, disdain etched across his maw. He does not back down. Such would never be in his blood yet she does not press forward either. Merely watches with a veiled look on her face. It is true, he is fair to bursting, and it is with impatience. That is a trait that will take time to learn from one as commanding and domineering as Blackthorne. Zharko was often the brunt of his impatience but the pair had become fast... friends, of a sort. To fear is natural? He scoffs.

"It is natural because you are taught it is, not because it, in essence, is." It is perhaps wise of him not to speak of control. After all, he means to control her, to control all those around him and despite his loud seeming manner, to declare his intentions is hardly a helping sort of thing. She speaks so lightly, with the voice of a bird, and he likens it much to that of his sister. Natiya had a most beautiful voice, if rarely used, and he rather coveted his sisters attention. Escha's next defense of herself is suddenly met with a cocksure grin on the face of Blackthorne, who in turn seats himself proudly before her. He is handsome, he knows this, although he knows not where he gets such looks. Certainly not his lanky, odd father. It must be his mother.

That she asks HIM who he is first seems, in his mind, as a win, and he checks a silent box within him. "I am Blackthorne. You are sister of Enoch but I do not know your name." There is a tilt to his head, a smooth gambit in his voice that is slightly questioning.