Every whiskey that you're drinking
Charlie’s grin flares into something incandescent the moment Thal chooses bones, as if the entire setup has merely been waiting—patiently, theatrically—for this exact pairing. "Perfect," she purrs, delighted in a way that carries all the glittering warmth of applause breaking open inside her chest.
She gestures lazily and the ribbon of fire she’d conjured earlier unfurls into a broader, steadier sheet of heat beneath the vat. The fat inside responds instantly, trembling into a glossy simmer that holds its temperature with all the precision of a jeweller’s torch. With her other hand she begins scooping and stirring in a graceful, practiced rhythm, adding pinches of powdered salts and a swirl of resin that blooms across the surface like smoke trapped under glass. Bit by bit, the mixture thickens into something that behaves very much like wax; heavier, richer, but smooth enough to pour in layered waves.
"Here," she says, plucking up one of the wicks and offering it with a flourish before indicating a narrow metal holder meant to grip the bottom few inches of whatever core Thal pulls free. "Just slot your bone right into that—only the lower portion needs to sit steady—and then I’ll start layering this over it. The tallow settles between pours like stone in water, so the whole thing grows into itself."
Her voice lilts with theatrical enthusiasm as she leans in to watch Thal prise the bone free with viscous satisfaction, the sound of cartilage being severed met with Charlie’s soft, pleased hum. She begins pouring the first silky wave of rendered fat over the set bone, letting it slip down the length in slow, mesmerizing trickles. "I’m making so many," she says, nose wrinkling in an adorable contrast to the gore on her arms, "because people are much more honest under candlelight, instead of big bright lights." She tips the bowl slightly, letting a rivulet of red-stained mixture catch the light. "Blood and fire light makes everything feel a little more daring. A little more like truth."
Her smile widens as she looks up, fangs catching the warm glow.
"Half the people who come to me for worship already know exactly what they want to do," she confides, her tone still bright but threaded with wicked amusement. “"But they get all shy or breathless about saying it out loud." Another pour, another layer. "So I give them a little ritual ambience. Fire and blood loosen tongues beautifully."
She gestures lazily and the ribbon of fire she’d conjured earlier unfurls into a broader, steadier sheet of heat beneath the vat. The fat inside responds instantly, trembling into a glossy simmer that holds its temperature with all the precision of a jeweller’s torch. With her other hand she begins scooping and stirring in a graceful, practiced rhythm, adding pinches of powdered salts and a swirl of resin that blooms across the surface like smoke trapped under glass. Bit by bit, the mixture thickens into something that behaves very much like wax; heavier, richer, but smooth enough to pour in layered waves.
"Here," she says, plucking up one of the wicks and offering it with a flourish before indicating a narrow metal holder meant to grip the bottom few inches of whatever core Thal pulls free. "Just slot your bone right into that—only the lower portion needs to sit steady—and then I’ll start layering this over it. The tallow settles between pours like stone in water, so the whole thing grows into itself."
Her voice lilts with theatrical enthusiasm as she leans in to watch Thal prise the bone free with viscous satisfaction, the sound of cartilage being severed met with Charlie’s soft, pleased hum. She begins pouring the first silky wave of rendered fat over the set bone, letting it slip down the length in slow, mesmerizing trickles. "I’m making so many," she says, nose wrinkling in an adorable contrast to the gore on her arms, "because people are much more honest under candlelight, instead of big bright lights." She tips the bowl slightly, letting a rivulet of red-stained mixture catch the light. "Blood and fire light makes everything feel a little more daring. A little more like truth."
Her smile widens as she looks up, fangs catching the warm glow.
"Half the people who come to me for worship already know exactly what they want to do," she confides, her tone still bright but threaded with wicked amusement. “"But they get all shy or breathless about saying it out loud." Another pour, another layer. "So I give them a little ritual ambience. Fire and blood loosen tongues beautifully."
Charlie
You'll be thinking how I burn like that
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
