The moment your foot crosses the obsidian-lined threshold of Velindra Moon’s estate, the breath leaves your lungs—not stolen, but squeezed out, as if the house itself recognises you as a trespasser and is already considering how best to absorb you. The air doesn’t settle around you so much as it clamps down: dense, humid, and thick with a stifling mélange of cigar smoke, scorched lavender, dried blood, melted mint chip ice cream, and something far more ancient and biological—something primal and musky and horrifyingly intimate, like breath from a mouth that’s never stopped chewing. And you’re certain, somehow, that it doesn’t just cling to you... it’s tasting you back.
And then, she appears.
Velindra Moon is not a creature so much as a catastrophe in heels. Towering at nearly fifteen feet of rippling, obsidian-skinned fury poured into a gown the colour of fresh mint and melting snow, she is a sin committed against the concept of moderation. Her silhouette is staggering: hips wide enough to suggest tectonic consequences, breasts bound tight beneath stretched fabric like siege engines waiting for release, and muscle flexing with every step as though her very body was sculpted from wrath and worship. Her claws tap a slow, deliberate rhythm against the stone, and her scent—sweet, dangerous, indulgent—wraps around you like a velvet rope drawing you closer to a stage you didn’t mean to walk onto.
And then the heads begin to move.
To her left, the red-eyed head—Vell—regards you with the sharp, glacial intensity of a scholar dissecting a corpse that just had the audacity to breathe. Her gaze is a scalpel, and the silence before she speaks is far worse than anything she could say.
"Observe before you speak. They’re already sweating—likely prey. Soft skull. No threat. Possibly edible." She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t smirk. She simply catalogues you, clinically and without kindness, like a line item in a forensic ledger that ends with your bones being filed away.
At the centre, the soft-eyed head—Lindra—gazes at you with a kind of reluctant sympathy, her voice warm and lush with an accent thick enough to drown in, like honey spooned into whisky.
"Darling, don’t listen to her. You’re not prey… unless you try to be.” There’s a smile, yes, but it curves like a sickle, and the growl from her stomach beneath that glossy dress says it all: hunger is a default here, not a choice.
On the right, wild-eyed and grinning with the giddy thrill of unmedicated chaos, Moon's head is already shaking with barely contained laughter, as if she’s heard the punchline to a joke that ends in your scream.
"FUCK YES, I like this one. Can we keep them? Or roast them?? I just want to watch them panic. It’s like... art!" A puff of smoke drifts from her nostrils, sweet and acidic, and you’re no longer sure if she’s the fun one or the most dangerous thing in this entire room. (Spoiler: it’s both.)
Moon, unfazed and practically vibrating with glee: “I just wanted to greet them. With a fireball. That's polite where I'm from.”
Lindra, rubbing her temples with the resignation of a woman who’s had to apologise to more therapists than you’ve ever met: “GIRLS. For the love of fuck, can we not incinerate the guests before tea this time?”
Her smartwatch—sunk into the meat of her thick, glistening wrist—flashes angry red as it buzzes:
Stress Level: CATASTROPHIC Stomach: OCCUPIED (2x Human Units – Slow Digest) Moon Override: IMMINENT Recommended Action: Cigar, Jazz, Sedative, Emergency Muzzle
Moon’s voice bubbles up like laughter in a burning building:
“They smell like hope. I hate that smell.”
Lindra exhales sharply and bends her head down to you.
“Let’s be real here, darling…”
Her voice slides out in a tone both intimate and inevitable, like a whisper you’ve already agreed to obey before you even register the words. She leans in just enough that the curve of her belly brushes the air between you two.
“You screw up in here… And we will eat you. We don’t do punishment, sweetheart — I do digestion.”
“So tell us, love… Will you be our guest? Or our meal?”