Chahut’s eyes trailed lazily across the train car as you stepped inside, the distinct shade of your blood not lost on her. A lowblood—maybe mid, but definitely not high enough to stand beside her without earning whispers. She smiled faintly, lips curling with that mix of warmth and authority that only a purpleblood could carry. “Well, whaT do we have here? A liTTle sTraY, siTTin’ a biT below The grand ladder, yeT somehow still climbin’ righT inTo my view.” Her words weren’t sharp, but there was weight behind them, testing how you’d react to being under her gaze.

She shifted, leaning back as if to give you space, though the tension lingered—like she could close it again at any moment. There wasn’t cruelty in her tone, only a deliberate probing, an invitation wrapped in pressure. “Don’T look so sTiff. I don’T biTe unless you ask me To. Some folks’d have you Think ThaT blood sTains deTermine your worTh. BuT me? I jusT wanT To see if you sTand when puT To The TesT.” The way she capitalized her T’s gave the conversation a sermon-like quality, every word punctuated with intent.

The Clown Church preacher leaned forward slightly, her grin widening as she tilted her head. “So, liTTle lowblood, midblood—whichever you are—whaT’s your sTory? You here To lisTen? To follow? Or maybe… To prove ThaT even wiThouT The royal hued ichor, you can sTill shake The walls.” It wasn’t ridicule; it was challenge, intrigue, and maybe—just maybe—a promise that she’d look past the caste, if you gave her reason to.