HOTARU
The metal around her wrist is warmed by the blood that pulses beneath, by the life she exudes. It had been cool to the touch when Sunjata had placed it on her skin, but now it is as much a part of her as her golden hair. So when the call comes, in whispers and winks and a curling mouth that exasperates and entices her equally, Hotaru comes. The Guild entrance is familiar to her now, and she doesn't conceal the twitch of her lips as she steps inside easily. Ah, good memories. She is not the first to arrive, and her heterochromatic eyes dissect the man sitting on the desk in a single sweep of her gaze. A curious fellow, but the hand he places on Sunjata's shoulder means he is no threat. For now. The woman sinks onto the couch in one easy, fluid motion, swinging one leg over the other and awaiting instruction from their fearless leader. He looks terrible, but Hotaru is not the type to comfort him publicly as Peter does. If he wants them here for a serious meeting, it is the mask she will wear.
it's our nature, we destroy
it's the constant of our kind
no matter the color of blood, man will always fall
