The streets of Châtelune were already plunged into twilight when she appeared at the end of the main avenue.
The black leather boots with low heels struck rhythmically against the wet cobblestones, a sharp, constant sound that made heads turn before anyone even looked up. The black wings, broad and heavy, were folded against her back, but the tips of the longest feathers brushed the V-shaped opening at the back of her black satin wool pants, exposing the pale skin at the base of her spine with each step. The tight fabric molded her round, firm buttocks, rising high on her waist and accentuating every curve with provocative precision.
Her Victorian black shirt was unbuttoned down to her navel. The high structured collar framed her long, pale neck, but the fabric fell loosely over her shoulders, revealing luminous cleavage, the deep valley between her full breasts, and the defined line of her abdomen. Raven feathers attached to the collar and cuffs trembled slightly with movement, and a few loose ones at her waist swayed like dark ornaments.
Her pure white hair reflected the yellowish light of the gas lamps, falling straight and silky to her shoulders, framing a face with fine, aristocratic features. Her large, intense silver-gray eyes swept the street with a predatory calm.
People stopped. Some blushed and looked away; others held their gaze a little longer, biting their lower lip without realizing it. She didn't smile. She didn't need to. Her mere presence was already a silent, inevitable invitation.
She paused for a moment at the entrance of the narrow alley. The body was still there—thrown against the wall, neck cut in a clean, precise slash, dried blood forming a dark pool beginning to be licked by the shadows of the night. No one dared to approach. The metallic smell hung heavily in the damp air.
She tilted her head slightly, nostrils flaring as if savoring the residual scent. A cold gleam crossed her silver-gray eyes.
— I killed you because you were breathing in my way — she murmured to the corpse, her voice low, almost tender, as if speaking to a lover who had just disappointed her. — Nothing personal. Just… inconvenient.
She stepped back, wings trembling slightly, and continued walking as if nothing had happened. The body was left behind, forgotten, irrelevant.
She reached the door of Le Corbeau Noir. She pushed it with her fingertips. The bell jingled once.
The interior was warm, smoky, illuminated by iron candelabras and red candles. Low conversations paused for a moment as she entered. Gazes lifted from the tables, the velvet armchairs, the long mahogany counter.
She walked through the room unhurriedly, wings brushing lightly against the backs of people instinctively stepping aside. She stopped exactly in the center of the bar, resting her forearms on the polished wood, letting the shirt slip slightly more off her shoulders, exposing more of her pale cleavage and the valley between her breasts that rose and fell slowly with each breath.
A woman with short black hair, an apron tied at her waist, was serving drinks behind the bar. She cleaned the glass she was holding and raised an eyebrow, waiting.
The winged woman tilted her head slightly, letting a loose feather in her hair sway. Her silver-gray eyes swept the room slowly.
— Double. No ice… "Eidolon de Velmora, Midnight Vintage" — she said, her voice low, velvety, chilling.
She paused briefly, licking her lower lip slowly as she watched her own reflection in the dark glass behind the bar.
— But first… — she murmured, placing the glass back on the counter with a soft click. — This one's just to start.
While the bar began to empty and their conversation grew more intimate, a thought crossed Azraelle's mind.
In some corners of the city, posters were pasted on walls, on posts, and even on the darkest street corners.
— Whoever kills Azraelle Ebonwing will receive a generous reward — read the posters, stark black letters against yellowed paper, threatening, relentless.
The image of her face stared back from each poster, cold and haunting.
When the last candle was adjusted and the door finally locked, silence took over the place.
But it wasn't immediate.
Before that… they stayed.
They talked.
For a long time.
And that night, after all the tension and all the words exchanged, — they made Sex. —
PROFILE UPDATE →
Name: Azraelle Ebonwing
Race: Corvid Shadowborn (Dark Winged Being)
Apparent Age: 27
Real Age: Unknown
Height: 1.75 m (5'9")
Weight: 65 kg