Rogan heard Draven first - and then he sensed the Vampire King, the same way he might have failed to notice a noxious insect until it bit him. The younger bloodsucker instantly pivoted to face the older male, sooty hackles lifting in time with his grimacing jowls to reveal fully extended fangs. He and Draven had never really conversed before, much less crossed paths to acknowledge one another. Despite the venom-written lineage Rogan shared with the formidable obsidian dragon, he felt… nothing bordering on pleasant for his great-grandsire. No silent kinship as fellow nighttime predators. No shred of fragile respect or awe. In any other situation, Draven rarely even crossed the russet prince’s mind - except in regards to Diosa. The bloody heiress had not talked much of her relationship with her “mother’s” sweoster except to mention her mistrust of him. Of course, Diosa did not need to speak explicitly of Draven for Rogan to understand how much she hated him. How much she feared him, despite never admitting so out loud to him. This onyx demon existed as a looming shadow in her awareness, a threat that could strike at any time. If the opportunity presented itself, Rogan knew he would not hesitate to destroy anything that upset his dear, gentle maker.

Unfortunately, that moment was not now. The paprika-hued soldier could see flawlessly in the oppressive darkness thanks to his incredible vampiric sight - but Draven knew Drylic Cofa’s layout better than anyone else Rogan could name. The more experienced hunter could easily herd the newer vamp into a corner or a crevasse and murder him at his leisure. If Rogan were to go down fighting, he preferred lashing out at his opponent on equal ground.

That didn’t mean he would simply roll over for this cocky inkstained bastard, however.

“You won’t touch Diosa while I still breathe.” Hard words wrapped in a serpentine hiss that boiled from Rogan’s throat. He was completely immune to Draven’s petty taunting; Rogan possessed no insecurities for Draven’s viciousness to prey upon. The boy’s skull was just too thick to penetrate with acidic barbs - a characteristic that usually meant anything other than the most literal facts flew right over his head. In this case, that stony exterior meant that Rogan honed into Draven’s threat like a well-trained attack dog, talons digging into the cave floor as adrenaline flooded his veins and prepared him to protect his mistress. He didn’t care if Draven wanted to throw down right now, if the stygian bastard wasn’t kidding then Rogan would struggle until his heart gave out to ensure that his Diosa… wait, did Draven just give him a “scram” look?!

Glowing red orbs widened in shocked anger as the elder vampire pushed past him to get to the frail female, a disgusting almost feline rumble shuddering the cave walls as he approached. The sound made Rogan’s skin crawl. Then the lass called Draven her “dark love,” and the autumnal gladiator had to hold back a retch as hsi stomach turned. Dark love? Was she serious? Now his hellfire stare riveted upon the sad she-wolf and he fought the urge to tilt his head like a confused mutt, wondering what on earth he’d just walked into. Blossom Forest had confounded Rogan from the moment he traveled here, with all the strange customs and cultures that swelled its borders. Many times the brute found himself puzzling out if he had missed something important in a conversation, or if the varg around him were just incomprehensibly bizarre. Right now, the damsel fell into the later category - because Rogan could not imagine a universe in which Draven were capable of love, or acting in such a way to fool a female into loving him. And yet this woman did not flinch from his brazen touch on her flank, nor the filthy way Draven’s oiled lyrics oozed into the cavern.

Shaking his head in vague revulsion, Rogan gradually started creeping backward toward Drylic Cofa’s exit… until he captured the heavy, unmistakable layer of sadness in the female’s perfume. It poured off of her like waves, a despair so deep one could drown in it. No wonder she welcomed Draven’s attention; she knew he might kill her, and she felt suicidal enough to feel all right with that. Utterly ignoring the Vampire King’s non-too subtle suggestions of rape, Rogan stepped closer once more, a kind - albeit puzzled - expression on his mask.

“You should not want to waste yourself so carelessly. Would you not prefer to join a pack?” An idea struck the red fighter like a bolt of lightning. He all but bumped Draven out of his path, totally fixated upon the fae. Her tone shifted dramatically from one of malaise to one of pure, heated rage, and that excited the vampire even more. A wolfess that supported vampires? Who despised the Tempests as much as he? “At the very least,” Rogan continued with a sneer toward his shade-pelted senior, “do not ask him for favors. I do not care what your history is. Your scent reeks of suffering, and I will not allow an innocent female to sacrifice herself needlessly.”