#vxtus

Mancudera: What is the most physical pain your muse has felt?

ahhhhhh shit. I think she shattered her arm in several places once. 

Cat’s Paw:  What is your muse’s reaction to gore?

"t'at's gross."

Garrote: Your muse must kill someone. How do they do it?

Ginger hadn't noticed Mitchell. She hand't noticed anything since Bridgette. The smaller werewolf, now dead across her lap, face mauled, entrails laying upon Ginger's pale thighs. The sound of her cage clanging open didn't distract her, and she only spared a glance to Mitchell, fangs still retracting as she spoke.

She sat, small hands curled around a cardboard cup, one of the lights flickering, the constant hum of the halogen lights above worsening her headache. Exhausted, she sighed, a hand coming up to move through her hair.

"Did you know I'm old enough to drink here? How cool is that! Look how much vodka I got!"

Night had already fallen when Elliot made it down to the main floor of the hostel. Snow was layering against the windows, shutting out the light that came from the streetlamps. Inside it was dimly lit; everything was made of dark hues to supposedly keep the place homely but she always thought it made everything more sinister. 

Her feet took her to a side room from the main hall where a bar was set up. The tender gave her a nod, signifying her to let him know when she needed the special ingredient. There were quite a few newcomers this night, most likely driven in by the weather. She lingered in the doorway, trying to decide which would be easiest to seduce. It's not like she wanted to but it was them or her and she so enjoyed living. 

Finally she gave up, taking a seat at the bar next to some man she hadn't seen before. He was as good a start as any. 

"Cold night, isn't it?"