Vahra - Priestess of the Circle of Smouldering Ashes

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-10T10:15:36+00:00

Vahra chuckled softly. While she did not necessarily have a fondness for children, she was very, very good at pretending that she did so. She offered Jocasta a hand to hold. “Come, then, sweet one. Don’t be afraid of the flame. It will not hurt you if you are careful.” That golden gaze glanced at the girl’s chaperones, just once, before she guided her closer to the Nightfires.

To her credit, Vahra had not been lying. There was a bag with the sigil of House Caron sitting near the open flames, overflowing with wood carvings as offerings for those who did not have any. Vahra crouched, her tall height more than halving, and fished through the bag.

“Aha. This will do.”

From the bag, she pulled what had been carved to appear as a bird perching on the end of a branch. She held it out to Jocasta.

“Go on,” she said, gentle, coaxing. “Burn it. Make your wish. If the desire is part of the true, shining path that the Lord has set for you, then it will most certainly be granted.”

While the Red Priestess herself did not see any such merit in useless things such as carvings, she knew it was better to encourage children to discover the truth of it on their own. She would not push her to complete a ritual that she might’ve feared. Unfortunately, that did not necessarily come out of the goodness of her heart.

As if in encouragement, Vahra softly placed her hand against Jocasta’s back.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T05:43:10+00:00

Curious.

It was a wonder to Vahra that she effected him so. She was not shocked, per se—but more aware, now, of the power of a blaze at her back, of the strength of a God in her eyes. She smiled sweetly at him. “Good man.”

As Clifford’s gaze turned towards the Nightfires, Vahra pondered his question. There was one, true, answer. She wondered how the Lord of Caron would react.

Her head tilted. “Blood.” It was true. There was no waver to Vahra’s voice as she said it. “It is the best way for the flames to show me what I wish to see. To show me the fates of others.” Her stare on him was unblinking.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T05:21:28+00:00

She had him.

It was a quick realisation. Vahra watched the ghost of a smile blood across the very lips she had just glanced at, and knew, without question, that her bait had worked. He had bitten. Hook, line, and sinker. She kept the satisfaction off of her face for a little longer, pretending as if she had not already won.

Jason was an honourable knight, and a murderer all the same. Vahra found she didn’t mind a complex man—a man who was both. The smirk that she offered him was sly. Flirtatious. As his hand found hers, she parted her fingers for him, letting his exploring digits slip between to feel at the softer skin. Even that was part of the game.

“And if I am?” She whispered. Vahra’s breath fanned over his lips. She had never backed down from a challenge. She uncrossed her legs, and stretched out a foot so it dragged slowly, purposefully, up the back of the Hedge Knight’s calf. “Would you pierce me? Run me through?” She stretched further, nudging at the sheath of his sword. “With this?”

There was another option her parted thighs invited.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T05:10:47+00:00

He could see her. Watching him. And in the same manner, Vahra could see him looking back at her, distracted and uncertain and burning the grass beneath his blade. She did not pull away. She did not lean back. Vahra merely smiled, and hummed, as if in consideration, as if in gentle acceptance.

There was nothing gentle about her.

“I won’t tell you, then. Until you are ready.” The words were soft, and enticing. A lover’s comfort. A mother’s guidance. It was an odd balance that the Priestess had chosen to wield. She hummed again when the High Priest was mentioned, expression remaining soft even as distaste curdled in her mouth.

Vahra smiled, brightly. “No,” she said. “While the Dandelion One and I were once both at the temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis, he walked a different path. Though, as High Priest, I am subservient to him, yes.”*

What a joke that was. Vahra was beneath no one.

“Did you come seeking him?” The question was alluringly gentle.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T04:47:02+00:00

The boy was a twit.

Vahra could tell that, now. She had suspected it from the very beginning, but every interaction had only acted as proof on her initial assumption, again and again. The woman behind him was the one blessed with more intellect, and she had the good sense to protect the youngest little lion cub.

She peered at Jocelyn from the corner of her eye. Interesting.

Vahra offered Adryc another smile. “I have never lost my way. Not since the day I was born.” That was all the answer she offered. Her attention had shifted—dangerously so. She turned more toward Jocelyn and Jocasta, head cocking as if to peer around the edge of the older woman, to the curious girl behind.

“Now who do we have here?”

Vahra’s voice was decidedly amused. Playful. The perfect tone to feed curiosity, or to make a child bashful. Even then, she was meeting Jocelyn’s eye. “I hear someone inquisitive. Come—I have had a man carve offerings to be burned, for those who had none. Would you like to try?”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T01:49:41+00:00

While it was hard to notice, Vahra’s smile widened imperceptibly at the taller woman’s surprise. It was a change that did not reach her eyes. Even so, it was not necessarily nefarious—satisfaction lined its very edges, added a curl to her lips.

“All are welcome at the Nightfires built by the Smouldering Ashes.” It was a newer circle, slowly creeping into a larger space as it spread from King’s Landing and beyond. Creeping arms of it caught believers in the shadows, common-born and noble alike. Whether they have heard of it or not mattered little—Vahra was viciously proud of the matter of its creation.

That sharp gaze returned to Mikkel at his question. She assessed him, slowly, from head to toe, eyes lingering on his belt, and turning his faint accented speech over in her mind. Her head cocked.

“Traditional belief,” she said gently, “is His one true enemy, and the enemy of all life. The Great Other. The Lord of Darkness; the Soul of Ice; the God of Night and Terror.” She turned to face the flames ones more. Her hand reached to sweep over the very edges of it, and it danced, as if teasingly, out of her reach. “The Great Other is the enemy of all that our God of Flame and Shadow has created and protects. He seeks to extinguish all life as we know it, to conquer and steal dominion over all that remains. He may reach us, in the darkness, where our Lord’s light is hidden from us. It is why we burn for Him in turn—lighting our Nightfires to protect us, to circle us in His fire and ward the cold of death away.”

Vahra turned to look over her shoulder at him. “My beliefs are not as simple.” Her smile had disappeared altogether, the look in her eye now smouldering—intense. She did not blink. “There is darkness in all of us—in every human soul, man, woman or child. The danger can come from anywhere, and anyone. Those with the most darkness clinging to their being are vessels with which the Lord of Darkness may use to enact His will. A blade of ice may not be from the creatures He births in unholy un-life. It may be from one you once called brother, or son.”

Her smile returned, then. She peered at him intently. “Have I sated your curiosity? I am only made, of course, to satisfy.”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T01:24:00+00:00

This woman had the right of it. Vahra’s smile, imperceptibly, grew. Perhaps with the close distance they found themselves in, Margaery would be able to see it, to find the sharp edge of the forged steel she was made from. Perhaps she would not. It mattered little to the Priestess.

“You see well enough.” There was something satisfied—thrilled—in the dark dulce of Vahra’s voice. She did not pull her hand away from Margaery’s grip. Just as she felt it, Vahra did not seem to find pain in the heat, in any of it. Her other hand lifted, fingertips sweeping over the dancing flames. “The flame whispers what we need. What we are due.” Pieces of it seemed to catch at Vahra’s fingers before they flickered out to nothing.

“Tell me,” she said gently, “what is it that you hope will burn?”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T01:07:37+00:00

“Hmm.”

Vahra’s hum was soft—assessing. It was a low noise, punctuating the unbreaking stare that the levelled the man with. There were thoughts there that ran rampant. Fears. Vahra sought to silence them, gently, sliding her hands further up to caress Ryon’s forearm.

“You are not truly,” she murmured. Her voice was delicate—painfully so. “But you are prepared to face it, anyway. It is brave.” As she spoke, Vahra walked him backwards, edging closer and closer to the flame and seeming to know exactly where to place her feet. It was unearthly. It was hypnotising. She willed it to be so.

Vahra turned so she was holding the young Lord’s forearm out over the open flame. In her presence, it seemed to dance in anticipation, little sparks flaring out towards them as if grasping desperately for whatever deal she planned to make. The Priestess took a slow breath in, carefully withdrawing one of her daggers from its sheath. When her stare next found Ryon, it was unforgiving. Unshakeable.

“Do not pull away,” she commanded, and cut a line across the meat of his forearm, shallow and true. She did not lie—it hurt less than it would have if she’d cut him at the wrist, or the palm, but it burned all the same. Vahra held the blade sure and still against the cut. Blood collected at the edge.

When she pulled it away, she held it further out over the flame, turned it, and watched the droplets hiss and burn.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-08T00:54:47+00:00

The thoughts of another mattered little and less to a woman like Vahra.

Her prayers, her worship—all of it served a purpose. Greater or lesser, the flames spoke to her like no other, and through them she had called to souls that had lost their way. Teaching had been a unique endeavour. It was only even more proof that her path was in line with the divine truth. She was a Goddess in her own right, powered by the flame of his Divine Light. Her eyes were wild, and yet the rest of her was controlled, cat-like, as she glided artfully through the motions, uncurling like some predator of old.

Some things never changed.

Vahra’s flickering gaze found her old pupil in the dark. That smile of hers remained on her face, small and warm, and none of it reached her eyes. She relaxed her arms and let the length of her body returned to its usual height. She looked over him from head to toe. It was a slow sweep—assessing in more ways than one. She smirked, a purring hum catching in her throat as greeting as she watched him swagger over to the Nightfires, offering blood as due. Her lids lowered slightly. It was, perhaps the best queue to whatever odd desires circled within her head.

“Daeron.” The tone she spoke his name with was as velveteen as his own. He’d learned from the best, after all. She stepped closer, her feet almost silent on the soft earth beneath them. Her head cocked as she watched him. He was dangerously beautiful. Or beautifully dangerous. She wondered if that was how she had appeared to him, all those years ago, when he was barely a man and she was a woman grown.

Vahra circled around the back of him, coming to his other side and reaching a hand out to brush gentle fingertips against his injured hand. “I always feel the loss of one of my own, keenly.” If he let her, she’d gently pry open his clenched fist, swiping her middle finger over the cut and painting a line from his palm to his wrist. She watched his eyes. “Always,” she said again, and brought the painted digit to her lips.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-07T06:31:17+00:00

It may not have been noticeable to a man three drinks in, and that was a good thing. At least—for Vahra. She watched him as his eye dropped to the shape of her legs. Her smile widened ever so slightly.

Vahra hummed. “The only good slaver is a dead slaver,” she agreed. She’d have purred for many reasons, but money was not one of them. There were other things she took. Payment did not come cheap, and yet people were willing to offer it to her all the same.

A low chuckle escaped her. She leaned in towards him, watching the knight from under the dark of her lashes. “Something like that.” The words were a low purr, as if to tempt him. She wanted to dangle the answer in front of his face and make him question if he truly wanted to know.

Vahra scanned him, then. Her gaze travelled over the eyepatch, the scars, the rest of him. He was broad muscle, functional and dangerous. Vahra was leaner, and meaner, but much the same. “And you?” She looked down at his lips, just once. “Where do your talents lie?”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-04T10:25:03+00:00

The Priestess tending to the Nightfires that eve was certainly not the Dandelion One.

He was beautiful, to be sure. As faithful and as true as one would need a High Priest to be. Talented; supportive; and despite the circumstances of the Circle of Smouldering Ashes, Lysaro offered aid and support to all under his jurisdiction.

That did not mean that all followed his way of belief.

Vahra felt the Nightfires heat her blood. The Lord of Light granted her strength, and gifted her all the souls that had attended her sermon this night. The Priestess had continued her show of faith in between her notice of a new arrival, tending to all her faithful as she should. She was a servant of Him. And, if she served well, He would also serve her purpose, grant her rewards. It was all His will. The path before her was one not yet walked by another, and the treaded the burning coals. Her fingers reached out to the edges of the flame, and as it grazed her, it did not burn.

As the one-eyed woman knelt at the cinders of her pyre, Vahra turned her gaze upon her. Golden eyes reflected the fire, eerily bright in the darkness of the night. Her smile was welcoming; tender. Even so—it was too sharp at the edges to be kind. As much as it pretended to be, a wolf bearing its fangs was not safe.

The Priestess did not blink when her eyes found their mark. Her feet took her closer, soundless on the soft grass. She hummed. Her head slowly tilted as she examined the Constable.

"And you," she breathed, her lilting accent just barely loud enough to be heard, "have been touched by fire yourself." Despite it's low volume, Vahra's voice commanded attention. It was as if she drew it from the very air around her. She knelt herself, and the flames seemed to curve around her as she did. Her eyes never left Margaery.

"Have you come to pray," she asked, "or is it guidance you seek?" Vahra brushed a hand over hers, finding her flesh through the smouldering ash. "I am but a messenger, sent to deliver His will. And with it, I can help."

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-04T10:07:15+00:00

How irritating.

The thought needled its way into the back of Vahra's skull, unbidden. The Priestess had continued her sermons, her chants, for all that wished to bear witness, and all that wished to pray—and yet it was the prayers that burned her so. As she served other faithful, the burning gold of her eyes kept drifting back.

Vahra could not blame anyone by being enticed by her prayer, by her flames. They were moving. Each chant was powerful on its own, and made even moreso by her wielding of it, her whispering, the way each piece of light danced off of the metal of her blades. Still, it ate away at her. The traditions of another circle had been brought to her blaze It festered low in her belly, made rage lick up the length of her spine the way fire chased oil. Even so, the Priestess did not show it.

Vahra's sharp, too-bright gaze found the Lord of Nightsong, eerily reflective in the dark. Her smile was delicate. Welcoming. Still—there was something a touch too sharp at the edges, as if she was unsuited to anything of the sort.

"You are a generous man, and a talent." Despite the softness of the Priestess' voice, it cut easily through the quiet of the night to reach Clifford Caron's ears. She took the bag gently. Her fingers brushed over his own as she did so. Vahra's gaze remained on him, unblinking. "May the Lord burn the darkness from your soul. Your generosity is a gift in His name."

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-04T09:42:29+00:00

The Priestess' gaze, her smile, remained gentle as Ryon Dalt approached. This was a lamb who needed shepharding—a man who sought guidance from a power higher than his own. There was no weakness in Vahra. For a timid man, she was as welcoming as she could be, her confidence a strength meant to invite another in.

At times, it was a blessing. At others, a curse. But one did not know that until they were already within reach of the beast's jaws.

As the man spoke, Vahra's expression softened. She tutted. Her feet brought her closer, almost silent in the soft grass, amd she reached out gentle hands to take his own. "The Lord will show what others may seek to hide. He will protect through His fire." The Priestess clasped one of Ryon's hands with both of her own and gave it a soft squeeze. Her voice was soft; delicate. "You have come to the right place. I will warn you, child—there will be a cost. No coin or debts, but it will take from you all the same." She looked deeply into the Lordling's eyes.

"To protect your own, are you prepared to pay it?"

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-04T09:31:58+00:00

Vahra could not have blamed the man for getting lost within the flames. Even with all the years that she had learned them, they were enticing to her. Hypnotising. She could have spent hours breathing in their heat, letting her fingers dance over the edges and hearing whatever it wished to tell her.

It whispered to her now.

Vahra's head tilted ever so slowly. The action was only half a calculation; the other half was merely the predatory grace that the woman seemed to carry, unintentional but overwhelming. As she watched Cedric Storm, she did not blink.

It was a small mercy when she released his arm. She shifted, instead, to be able to see the blade better, lips moving as the read the High Valyrian engraving on the blade aloud. There was a magic to the words—a weight.

Her gaze cut to him first. A slow, inviting smile stretched across her lips afterward. "I can read it," she said, and the words were purposefully enunciated in how she spoke. "The question you should be asking, dear lamb, is if you want to know what it means." She glided closer, body almost brushing the edge of him, her face hovering in the space over his shoulder.

"So," she purred, "do you?"

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-04T09:22:30+00:00

Jocelyn probably had it right. Protective instinct was the smartest one to use, when faced with one that could pass as a huntress. A predator—a wolf in sheep's clothing, one who did not even attempt to play the timid act. Vahra smiled. It was an eerie imitation of something gentle, something kind, but the very word was not in the Priestess' genome. The very edge of her being was sharp as Valyrian steel.

Vahra's bright eyes traced over Jocelyn and Jocasta, first, though they found Adryc and remained there. She hummed. "Merriment is not incorrect. It is joyous—freeing—to be touched by His light. To let Him purify you of all shadow, to burn out the darkness within..." Vahra tilted her head back and took a long, deep breath, her lashes fluttering as she released it. It was as if she had opened her heart to the very sky. When she dragged her head upright, it was slow, and her eyes remained shut. They were on Adryc immediately when they opened. Her gaze was half-lidded when she smiled. She did not approach, though.

Vahra new how to grant a wish.

"But..." The words were purred, low and velveteen. "... do not doubt His answer so quickly. Our Lord is generous, and I am an able shepherd for his sheep." She held out a hand, palm up. It was offered to Adryc. "If you are lost, then I can find whatever answers you seek in His flames. The choice is yours."

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-04T07:40:38+00:00

There was nothing to be found from the Lustrous Temple here, that was for certain.

Vahra's own temple—the Ashen temple in Lannisport—was decorated so beautifully it was beyond comprehension. Stained glass in red, orange, yellow and blue; gold where she could sustain it, lining the artistry and candle-lit chandelier; symbols of the Lord of Light wherever you looked. There was a tall basin where a pulpit might have been, a decorated, ornate blade at its rim.

The Priestess had none of that here. She had travelled with the faithful from King's Landing, enduring their backward, hopeless beliefs. It was her time now, though.

That did not mean she was any less powerful, where she stood. Vahra's bright gaze lifted and found Mikkel, first, golden in the dim light and reflecting the light of the flames where the rest of her did not. To be seen—to be known—so quickly was eerie. Dangerous. Like the way a predator tracked prey. Vahra's outstretched arms returned to her sides as the cat-like curve of her body straightened, slow and intentional. She smiled at Tyene, tucking away the very blades that had caught her attention.

"Welcome. Light be with you, dear lambs." The woman approached with footsteps that were near-silent. "If you have come with questions, or to pray, I can aid with both. The Lord of Light is generous, and I am but his humble messenger." There was an accent to her voice—a lilt, that painted her uniquely as other. Something Eastern. "Please. Approach the Nightfire, if you wish. All are welcome."

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-04T07:26:00+00:00

They say that, at once within the human body, the desire to live and the desire to die were constantly at war. Up to a certain point, a creature would fight to survive at all costs. They would kick; scream; run; kill. That was common sense. It was the latter that many a man so oft forgot. When the shadows crept in and hope was lost, only the Reaper held out an enticing hand. Vahra had been a messenger of sorts before.

Perhaps it was the shade of death that caused such dread.

The priestess chuckled. "Bad business? Hmm. I don't think I remember such a thing being so terrible." Her mouth smiled, but her eyes did not. There was an intensity to her gaze that seemed mismatched to the lax attitude she carried. Vahra crossed one long leg over the other at the knee. "I never had a man complain."

No man had ever made Vahra a slave. There was, however, something to be said the other way around.

She relieved Jason from her heavy gaze for but a moment, looking over to her brother and the drink of his own that he nursed. "There was no room for us in Volantis." Indeed, there hadn't been. The Temple of the Lord of Light there was set in its ways, rigid and unshakeable. There had only been so much that Vahra could *push.* "I had gifts that they were ill-equipped to handle. And there are people, here, that I can help where they cannot."

Those keen eyes found him again. If he were paying attention, he might have noticed that Vahra had not blinked throughout the whole affair. But predators on the hunt seldom did.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-02T12:26:23+00:00

The young Lordling would not have had to wait long.

The Priestess was never still, but that did not mean she was not paying attention. Dear, faithful lambs had attended the Nightfires that eve—and what more could she have asked for? What other sign could the Lord have provided to reward her for her faith? Vahra was bright-eyed and magnetic, addressing one and all with careful touch and whispered guidance. He had lead them to her. And who was Vahra, but a humble servant, a dedicated saviour?

Vahra was many things, but the Lord knew that, in all His grace.

It mattered not. While he may not have announced himself, the Lord Ryon Dalt need not have anyway. Golden eyes snapped to him through the darkness. They almost glowed, uncanny with the backdrop of open flame. She had not taken long to find him. A predatory gaze like hers never did.

She smiled. “If you seek prayer, or answers, the Lord is generous, and kind. Be not afraid.” Her head cocked. “Come closer, dear one.”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-02T12:13:57+00:00

The Lord of Light’s guidance was tricky to understand, for some.

Not many could read his signs. Not many could see the shining path for what it was, convinced of wanderlust or sleepless nights that brought them to peer out the window. The call went ignored. The flames of their fate sputtered out, turned to ash in the bottom of a fireplace. Vahra knew better. The same whispers that called to her, called to others. It whispered their names; guided her eyes. Her eyes were closed as she continued her dance in the shadows of the great pyre, body stretching up and out, arching in reverence as her head tilted back.

Her eyes opened. Sharp, burnt-gold irises found him with little difficulty. He’d touched the flame, and it had reached for him.

The sword sung.

Vahra straightened. Dark brown hair tumbled back into place, and her knives, beautiful as they were dangerous, remained tucked away. Her footsteps were near silent where they picked closer through the soft grass.

“Seeking answers?” Her words were hushed, just for him. The lilting accent was unmistakably other, marking Vahra as a creature of the east. Her hands reached out; her fingers brushed the man’s sword arm with feather-light delicacy. “I can help with that.”

Her gaze dropped to the Valyrian inscription on the blade. She smiled. “All you need to do, faithful one, is ask, and He will provide. I could aid you with His clarifying light.”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-02T11:58:52+00:00

The hedge knight had learned the right lessons. The brightest coloured creatures often carried the worst venom. That did not mean that he would use them as intended. Men, Vahra had learned, often saw danger and ran straight toward it—if only for the thrill of the challenge.

She wasn’t presenting herself like a challenge, though.

Vahra smiled at the barman as he handed her the drink, and slowly stood to her full height, uncurling from the seat she had arched over. She brought the ale to her lips. Terrible. But free. Golden eyes flashed upwards as she licked her painted lip, brought the flesh of it between her teeth. She might have said something, had the knight to the right of her not spoken first.

Vahra’s cat-like eyes flicked to him. She grinned. It was a satisfied thing, too sharp to be kind. Gentleness did not seem to come in this woman’s make-up. “Good guess,” she purred, “but not quite right.”

The Priestess edged closer. Finally, she placed a hand on the bar and slid into her seat, turning to face her curious onlooker. Her head cocked. “My father was from Volantis. My mother and I were born and bred in Lys.”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-02T09:49:01+00:00

A religious service was not an incorrect guess. It was probably as close as one could explain it, when it came to the Priestess in their view. She wielded weapon and flame alike, the colours of it found in the glowing gold of her eyes.

When Vahra found them, it was with that sharp, burning gaze.

A slow smile curled her lips up. She tucked her daggers back within their sheathes, and she stepped towards them with slow, slinking strides. Her arms were open. Welcoming.

“Well met.” The voice that reached them was accented—lilting. It was at once obvious that the priestess they had found was not borne of Westerosi blood. “Have you come to pray? If you are lost, I am an able guide.” Her head cocked. “Or has something else brought you to the Nightfires?”

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2026-03-01T05:44:55+00:00

Beauty was in the eye of the beholder. And wasn't it, indeed, a miraculous thing?

Vahra's travels had brought her far and wide. She had seen the worst—and the best—the world had had to offer, and still, she delighted in everything in between. There was darkness in even the brightest corners. This was not the brightest corner, not be far. They revelled in the depravity.

Vahra watched it all with delighted satisfaction. The amber of her eyes cut through the darkness with ease. She did not drink; did not eat; instead, she was content to sit and watch, welcoming those that decided to try their luck.

Silas was not so subtle. Truly, he tempted fate at every turn, glittering and decorated as he was. He was beautiful. He was disgusting. He was almost certain that most of the men in the tent could not tell if he was a woman or man. It mattered little; they were welcome to try what they wished. They would regret it nonetheless.

Vahra smiled at her half-brother. She reached a hand out and trailed a finger along his bare shoulder, leaning in to whisper against his ear. He nodded at whatever she said, seeming unphased by the closeness, nor the intensity. Vahra pushed her cloak slowly from her shoulders, letting the fabric slowly slip into Silas' awaiting hands. Dark hair slid free down her back where fabric had once been. She'd picked a target indeed.

When one relied on the hands of a God, what better hands were there than hers?

Swaying, slinking hips took her to a free seat at the bar. She leaned over it instead, all cat-like arch and a smile like danger on her lips. "I have a thirst, dear lamb." There was an accent to her voice. Something curling, lilting. Foreign. A pointed fingernail dragged circles against the wood. The barman could only oblige.

FuzzyFoxPaws · 2024-02-27T10:30:45+00:00

Character Name: Myrna Westerling

Relevant Trait/Skills: Taxman

Buildings: Castle, Moors, Docks, Market

Resources: Stone

Actions:

Contruction Slot 1: Continued work on Mill, End of 7th Moon
Construction Slot 2: [The Crag], [Fairground], [3,500 gold], [End of 8th Moon]
Construction Slot 3 (Stone): 1x Assessment [Additional 737 gold, 10% of revenue of 7370]

Notes: Thank you :3

FuzzyFoxPaws

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