they say I did something bad, so why's it feel so good?
The hush doesn’t last; it’s shattered by the click, click, click of unapologetically high heels, echoing down the stone corridor like a countdown to chaos. The scent arrives first—hot copper and something spiced, like sin in a simmering pot—and then she rounds the corner with all the subtlety of a parade float made of glitter and blood.
A vision in red and irreverence, hips swaying like they’ve got their own choreography, and a tail flicking behind her with the kind of sassy enthusiasm that suggests it just heard a scandal. She’s cradling a ceramic bowl filled with steaming, fresh blood like it’s a pot of tea at a very exclusive garden party, and her hands? Well. Let’s just say the crimson isn’t just in the bowl. It slicks her fingertips, paints delicate smudges across the backs of her knuckles, and kisses the corners of her mouth in a way that makes her smile look extra sharp and deliciously deranged.
"Hellooooooo," she purrs, sing-song sweet with just a brush of menace, eyes sweeping over Zairah with interest so blatant it’s practically a fanfare. "You’re new!" Her gaze lingers, then slides lazily toward the obsidian shrine, as if checking to see what kind of mood the place is in tonight. Without waiting for permission (because please), she strides forward—her path lit by flickering firelight and an unmistakable sense of theatre—tail curling upward in a dramatic arc as if to wave hello.
"Want any help with your worship?" Charlie coos, voice wrapped in silk and claws, before lowering gracefully to place the bowl at the shrine’s base. The blood inside sloshes gently, thick and gleaming, a molten offering too fresh to question. She straightens, licks a finger with slow, deliberate delight, then flashes her counterpart a fanged smile. "I'm the priestess here, so anything at all you need, just ask."
A vision in red and irreverence, hips swaying like they’ve got their own choreography, and a tail flicking behind her with the kind of sassy enthusiasm that suggests it just heard a scandal. She’s cradling a ceramic bowl filled with steaming, fresh blood like it’s a pot of tea at a very exclusive garden party, and her hands? Well. Let’s just say the crimson isn’t just in the bowl. It slicks her fingertips, paints delicate smudges across the backs of her knuckles, and kisses the corners of her mouth in a way that makes her smile look extra sharp and deliciously deranged.
"Hellooooooo," she purrs, sing-song sweet with just a brush of menace, eyes sweeping over Zairah with interest so blatant it’s practically a fanfare. "You’re new!" Her gaze lingers, then slides lazily toward the obsidian shrine, as if checking to see what kind of mood the place is in tonight. Without waiting for permission (because please), she strides forward—her path lit by flickering firelight and an unmistakable sense of theatre—tail curling upward in a dramatic arc as if to wave hello.
"Want any help with your worship?" Charlie coos, voice wrapped in silk and claws, before lowering gracefully to place the bowl at the shrine’s base. The blood inside sloshes gently, thick and gleaming, a molten offering too fresh to question. She straightens, licks a finger with slow, deliberate delight, then flashes her counterpart a fanged smile. "I'm the priestess here, so anything at all you need, just ask."
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
