they say I did something bad, so why's it feel so good?
Charlie’s grin flashes quick and white, fangs bright as if to punctuate the hunger hanging in the air. "Oh, she does," she answers, voice purring as she glances down at the steaming bowl, "and plenty of folk are happy to oblige. Carcasses dragged in, veins split open, throats emptied before the heat has time to fade." Her tone is casual, like she’s talking about market day, but her blue eyes spark with warmth, with delight, with something more feral glinting beneath. "But then—" her brows lift, tail flicking idly behind her "—I don’t exactly mind making sure there’s always enough on hand myself."
Zairah’s question earns her a clap of blood-slicked hands, the sound sharp and wet in the firelit alcove. "Of course there’s enough for you!" she all but beams, enthusiasm rolling off her like perfume. "And if you’d rather get your own, darling, I’d happily hunt with you. Any time, any place."
And then comes the softer hook, the shimmer of promise. "The rest, though?" Charlie bounces her brows, stretching out a crimson-stained hand. If Zairah takes it, her fingers will find Charlie’s grip warm and certain, like a rope meant to tug her deeper in. If not, her smile doesn’t falter for an instant; she simply turns, heels clicking smartly against the old stone as her tail arcs like punctuation.
She leads with theatre, every gesture an unveiling: rooms tucked away for quiet offerings, corners made for chaos, alcoves where sin itself has been given architecture—sex and indulgence laid out like feast courses, each space throbbing with its own flavour of devotion. Until at last, she stops before a heavy door, her bright smile sharpened with pride.
"This," Charlie says, hand splayed dramatically as she pushes it open, "is the rage room." Inside, obsidian gleams dark in the centre, a slab like a sacrificial heart. The walls bristle with weapons, glint with bottles of liquor, litter with things begging to be broken. The air hums as if waiting, as if aching to be used. Charlie steps into the doorway, blue eyes alight.
"Dygra helped us make it," she explains, voice reverent and wicked all at once. "Whatever happens inside, stays inside. Break it, drink it, stab it, smash it—hell, kill it if you want. Doesn’t matter. The moment you step back out?" She snaps her fingers, sharp as a spark in the dark. "Gone. Poof. Like it never happened." Her smile tilts, conspiratorial. "All except what it leaves in you."
Zairah’s question earns her a clap of blood-slicked hands, the sound sharp and wet in the firelit alcove. "Of course there’s enough for you!" she all but beams, enthusiasm rolling off her like perfume. "And if you’d rather get your own, darling, I’d happily hunt with you. Any time, any place."
And then comes the softer hook, the shimmer of promise. "The rest, though?" Charlie bounces her brows, stretching out a crimson-stained hand. If Zairah takes it, her fingers will find Charlie’s grip warm and certain, like a rope meant to tug her deeper in. If not, her smile doesn’t falter for an instant; she simply turns, heels clicking smartly against the old stone as her tail arcs like punctuation.
She leads with theatre, every gesture an unveiling: rooms tucked away for quiet offerings, corners made for chaos, alcoves where sin itself has been given architecture—sex and indulgence laid out like feast courses, each space throbbing with its own flavour of devotion. Until at last, she stops before a heavy door, her bright smile sharpened with pride.
"This," Charlie says, hand splayed dramatically as she pushes it open, "is the rage room." Inside, obsidian gleams dark in the centre, a slab like a sacrificial heart. The walls bristle with weapons, glint with bottles of liquor, litter with things begging to be broken. The air hums as if waiting, as if aching to be used. Charlie steps into the doorway, blue eyes alight.
"Dygra helped us make it," she explains, voice reverent and wicked all at once. "Whatever happens inside, stays inside. Break it, drink it, stab it, smash it—hell, kill it if you want. Doesn’t matter. The moment you step back out?" She snaps her fingers, sharp as a spark in the dark. "Gone. Poof. Like it never happened." Her smile tilts, conspiratorial. "All except what it leaves in you."
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
