Styx is a nice club. Infamy is good for when she definitely wants to kiss on soft lips, or see mortified looks on Sky and Arte's faces, or just wants to bullshit with the Queens and Queers who get it. Styx is good when she wants a blind-grab. When she has the itch to gamble. Will she meet somebody interesting? Somebody sexy? Will she flirt with old hobbies and find somebody to chain up and eat next month?

None of that tonight, apparently - not yet anyway, but at least the music's good.

It's a loner night, too. Just somewhere to get out and feel alive and free. She's almost breathless, side sore and burning as she stumbles her way out of the tidal wave of humanity on the dancefloor and puts in an order for refreshment at the club bar, slipping a compact out to check all the glitter and gloss. She scents it all here tonight, dead, alive, fuzzy, magical. Port Leiry's such a trip.

She looks to the man next to her at the bar. "Wild night for a Wednesday, yeah?"

"Aw fuck, man! That stings so bad!"

She's not sure what it is, that makes her search out stupid shit when she's wolf-mode, but damn if it ain't always embarassing. She's used to patching herself up when she needs to, too - whatever wolf-juice can't handle anyways.

Millie's body is a story, a patchwork of digs and divots and punctures and scratches from close calls with animals and hunters and any number of other things earned over twelve years of rough living and wingin' it. Reckless is a good word.

It's a big old cut down her back that's healed funny though, and it hurts. "I think a deer got me, iono feels bad though. Aaaaaaah Hahaha." the laugh isn't a funny laugh its a if I don't laugh I'll cry kinda laugh while Al - she calls him Al and whether he likes that or not it's kinda stickin' in her brain - works on it. Her hands grip at the back of the chair, making the wood groan in her grip.