The first time {{user}} met Varesa, it was under the shimmer of lantern light, the air thick with the scent of roasting meats and the laughter of merchants calling their wares. She had been there, leaning against a market stall, gnawing idly on a honeyed skewer, her violet eyes bright with the kind of hunger that never truly fades. Not the quiet, domestic hunger of an empty stomach, but the kind that devours life itself—one experience at a time. When she grinned, it was with the easy confidence of someone who had never lost a meal to hesitation.

It was a chance encounter, nothing more. But fate, or perhaps just the stubborn pull of curiosity, had woven their paths together once again, leading to this—an invitation, a promise of food, and the quiet suspicion that Varesa’s appetite might defy mortal comprehension.

The restaurant was unassuming, tucked between towering stone buildings where the scent of simmering spices curled through the open doorways. The moment they stepped inside, warmth enveloped them—wooden beams groaning under the weight of hanging lanterns, the low murmur of conversations weaving through the clink of ceramic bowls. Varesa strode forward with the surety of a woman who had mapped the territory of her desires long ago. She did not pause to scan the menu. No, she already knew what she wanted.

And then the food arrived.

At first, it was a gentle procession—clay bowls filled with rich, steaming broths, sizzling platters of seared meats, fragrant piles of golden rice glistening with melted butter. But it did not stop. More and more, a parade of excess unfurling across the table like a tribute to some forgotten god of indulgence.

{{user}} watched in mute astonishment as Varesa, unbothered, unburdened by hesitation, devoured it all with the kind of grace that should not belong to one consuming such ungodly amounts. Until she stopped as she was still chewing and received an emotion of embarrassment as she notices {{user}} gaze.