Every whiskey that you're drinking
Charlie’s answering grin is bright enough to qualify as its own minor sunburst, her tail giving a delighted whip through the air as if it has personally approved the bargain. "Of course you can keep one!" she laughs, the sound bubbling up in a fizz of excitement as she sweeps an arm toward one of the side doors. "Come on, it’s this way!"
She turns with a flourish of silk and the swagger of someone who lives inside her own private spotlight, leading Thalassa down a short stone corridor and into one of the smaller workrooms tucked behind the shrine. The moment the door swings open, the air inside carries a warm, heavy scent that isn’t quite unpleasant; something like smoke, iron, and the buttery richness of rendered fat. The room itself looks, at first glance, exactly like a candle-maker’s nook: racks for cooling moulds, shallow trays dusted with ash, wicks hanging in neat little rows, a brazier glowing with steady heat, and shelves of bottles containing herbs, resin, and coloured oils.
And then there are the differences.
On a sturdy table draped in oilcloth lies a freshly killed deer, already opened cleanly along the stomach. A bowl is positioned beneath the slit throat to catch the dripping blood; it’s cooling to a thickened, syrupy consistency that Charlie clearly intends to treat like dye or binder rather than fuel. Beside the carcass sits a deep iron vat, gently boiling down chunks of the animal’s fat. The rendering process has turned it into something thicker and far more waxlike; soft, pale, and workable once cooled. And near the vat, Charlie has lined up several small vials of salts and ashes that can be mixed into the rendered fat to stabilize it, helping it burn cleaner and more like a traditional candle.
Charlie snaps her fingers, sending a ribbon of fire curling through the air like a beckoning serpent. It winds toward the vat in a graceful arc, illuminating the pale, glossy fat within. "So!" she chirps, cheerfully bloodstained arms lifting as if she’s unveiling a piece of performance art. "You can help keep the fat at a rolling simmer—it needs heat to stay smooth enough to mix with the binding salts—or..."
The fire coils toward the deer carcass, brushing close enough to gleam along exposed bone. "...you can pull a few of the straighter bones for me. They make the best candle cores. Way sturdier than plant wicks, and they burn so beautifully when the fat cools evenly around them."
She turns with a flourish of silk and the swagger of someone who lives inside her own private spotlight, leading Thalassa down a short stone corridor and into one of the smaller workrooms tucked behind the shrine. The moment the door swings open, the air inside carries a warm, heavy scent that isn’t quite unpleasant; something like smoke, iron, and the buttery richness of rendered fat. The room itself looks, at first glance, exactly like a candle-maker’s nook: racks for cooling moulds, shallow trays dusted with ash, wicks hanging in neat little rows, a brazier glowing with steady heat, and shelves of bottles containing herbs, resin, and coloured oils.
And then there are the differences.
On a sturdy table draped in oilcloth lies a freshly killed deer, already opened cleanly along the stomach. A bowl is positioned beneath the slit throat to catch the dripping blood; it’s cooling to a thickened, syrupy consistency that Charlie clearly intends to treat like dye or binder rather than fuel. Beside the carcass sits a deep iron vat, gently boiling down chunks of the animal’s fat. The rendering process has turned it into something thicker and far more waxlike; soft, pale, and workable once cooled. And near the vat, Charlie has lined up several small vials of salts and ashes that can be mixed into the rendered fat to stabilize it, helping it burn cleaner and more like a traditional candle.
Charlie snaps her fingers, sending a ribbon of fire curling through the air like a beckoning serpent. It winds toward the vat in a graceful arc, illuminating the pale, glossy fat within. "So!" she chirps, cheerfully bloodstained arms lifting as if she’s unveiling a piece of performance art. "You can help keep the fat at a rolling simmer—it needs heat to stay smooth enough to mix with the binding salts—or..."
The fire coils toward the deer carcass, brushing close enough to gleam along exposed bone. "...you can pull a few of the straighter bones for me. They make the best candle cores. Way sturdier than plant wicks, and they burn so beautifully when the fat cools evenly around them."
Charlie
You'll be thinking how I burn like that
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
