----- ꜱʜᴇ ꜱɪᴘꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴛʜʀᴜᴍꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴇᴀʀꜱ, ᴅᴇᴀꜰ ᴛᴏ ᴀʟʟ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʀ.

Dizzy from a few helpings already, Sappho grins, heavy lidded, at Lottie. She’s distracted for just an instant by the way the bar lights catch in her hair. But then Sappho nods, placing her empty glass back onto the bar.

𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐑. It isn’t a means of blaming anyone that she thinks this way, no, Lily had been volatile and dangerous and unlikely to allow help had it been a big cushy pad for her to land on from a great height. It’s why she takes shifts at the clubs in Tallinn, any club in the know, even some that aren’t. She doesn’t dance, her scars are too strange for that, but she is an unexpected layer of security, and a bringer of riches. 

The way Lily can relax the patrons, ease their pain and have their bodies dish out some sweet sweet feel-good neurotransmitters means they will be tipping the girls on stage well. She does similarly for the dancers, ease their pain, make them feel good. But she does not cloud their minds. The men, she allows the alcohol (and some drugs) to do what they will, but she would never inhibit a woman in a position of vulnerability. 

Which is why she has been eyeing one patron in particular who has been rowdy with a redhead, a supernatural, some demon up from hell. Lily has to work harder to affect angels, but it isn’t impossible. So when a hand comes up where it shouldn’t a crackle of electricity would sound around the red haired dancer, and the man would snap his hand away with a yelp, and he’d sit his ass back down. Lily would come to sit nearby, perched on an arm rest. 

@lottabank

“says the ‘immortal’.”

yes.  she could probably tear out his jugular and leave him a bubbling, gurgling, bloodless heap on the floor ( and probably get a nice hit from the amount of chemicals flooding his system while she was at it ).  and if she decided to, there was nothing really he could do about it.  however - as much as his little glimmers of insight were so readily dismissed by his kin, ( junkie, waster, loser ), for those that actually chose to listen, there was thought and truth and a surprising amount of clarity behind them…

“you, my friend, have time to spare.  time, to waste.  you could literally sit and watch paint dry and not have that mortal-guilt about having wasted precious hours.”

“ – we, on the other hand, have to jam shit into every second we can.  at least… theoretically.  a limited and finite amount.  an egg timer where those tiny grains of sand fall with the clamour of inevitability.”