when I walk in a room, I can still make the whole place shimmer
The kiss to her knuckles makes her grin.
The kiss to her wrist makes her glow.
Heat blooms along her skin like a curtain rising, slow and decadent, as if her flames can’t help but respond to the reverence in his mouth. Sparks unfurl in the crown of her curls, catching like glitter in the soft swells of her hair, and her horns sing with emberlight. By the time the fire trailing down her arm brushes gently across Pann’s cheek, Charlie is already laughing—a low, delighted thing that rings like a windchime drunk on wine.
"No need to apologize, sweet thing," she purrs, lifting his hand in turn and pressing her lips to his dust-smeared knuckles with playful mockery and molten grace. "Despite my baby-demon aesthetic and general air of youthful depravity, I’m a good deal older than I look. Early days, even. Like, when-the-gods-were-barely-housebroken early." Her eyes glitter as she twines her fingers loosely through his, tracing lazy spirals of heat over his palm. "Which means I was probably tucked away in stone the entire time you were making the world more interesting."
She leans in with a wink. "But lucky us. Awake at the same time now." She says it like a toast, raising her hand in a mock cheers before letting her gaze slide downward—slow and utterly unrepentant. Her eyes sweep across the torn collar, the dirt-dusted vest, the stubbornly charming trousers that hang low on his hips. "Hm," she hums, tail flicking. "Honestly, I think you’re pulling it off rather scandalously well. Sort of like a roguish statue’s attempt at high fashion. Very...post-entombment chic."
But at his question—real and weighted beneath the flirtation—Charlie straightens just a little. She doesn’t dim, not exactly, but the fire around her settles into a lower, thoughtful burn. "Tolerance?" she echoes, then nods slowly. "More than there used to be, for sure. The Ancients—those of us who got the stone treatment—mostly hang out here in the Hollowed Grounds now. We’ve kind of reclaimed the place."
Then Charlie's smile spreads, all fang and fire. "Now, depending on what or who you like to satisfy your bloodlust on..." Her tone lilts like a purr in a velvet glove, one brow arched. "You might have to be a little subtle. Animals and livestock are all fairly widely accepted." She tilts her head. "Cannibalism’s more of a niche hobby these days." Which wasn't to say forbidden, but certainly it was a good deal more covertly done.
Another shrug, her silks catching the firelight. "I’m happy to help with that part, by the way. Integration. Culture. Wardrobe." The priestess pauses before her ruby lips pull back enough to reveal her fangs in a wide grin. "Or de-robing."
The kiss to her wrist makes her glow.
Heat blooms along her skin like a curtain rising, slow and decadent, as if her flames can’t help but respond to the reverence in his mouth. Sparks unfurl in the crown of her curls, catching like glitter in the soft swells of her hair, and her horns sing with emberlight. By the time the fire trailing down her arm brushes gently across Pann’s cheek, Charlie is already laughing—a low, delighted thing that rings like a windchime drunk on wine.
"No need to apologize, sweet thing," she purrs, lifting his hand in turn and pressing her lips to his dust-smeared knuckles with playful mockery and molten grace. "Despite my baby-demon aesthetic and general air of youthful depravity, I’m a good deal older than I look. Early days, even. Like, when-the-gods-were-barely-housebroken early." Her eyes glitter as she twines her fingers loosely through his, tracing lazy spirals of heat over his palm. "Which means I was probably tucked away in stone the entire time you were making the world more interesting."
She leans in with a wink. "But lucky us. Awake at the same time now." She says it like a toast, raising her hand in a mock cheers before letting her gaze slide downward—slow and utterly unrepentant. Her eyes sweep across the torn collar, the dirt-dusted vest, the stubbornly charming trousers that hang low on his hips. "Hm," she hums, tail flicking. "Honestly, I think you’re pulling it off rather scandalously well. Sort of like a roguish statue’s attempt at high fashion. Very...post-entombment chic."
But at his question—real and weighted beneath the flirtation—Charlie straightens just a little. She doesn’t dim, not exactly, but the fire around her settles into a lower, thoughtful burn. "Tolerance?" she echoes, then nods slowly. "More than there used to be, for sure. The Ancients—those of us who got the stone treatment—mostly hang out here in the Hollowed Grounds now. We’ve kind of reclaimed the place."
Then Charlie's smile spreads, all fang and fire. "Now, depending on what or who you like to satisfy your bloodlust on..." Her tone lilts like a purr in a velvet glove, one brow arched. "You might have to be a little subtle. Animals and livestock are all fairly widely accepted." She tilts her head. "Cannibalism’s more of a niche hobby these days." Which wasn't to say forbidden, but certainly it was a good deal more covertly done.
Another shrug, her silks catching the firelight. "I’m happy to help with that part, by the way. Integration. Culture. Wardrobe." The priestess pauses before her ruby lips pull back enough to reveal her fangs in a wide grin. "Or de-robing."
.
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
