The reflection in the mirror was unsightly, even with her natural disposition towards looking healthy. The make up had shifted across her marble skin, allowing the mirror to reveal her nature. She stared scrutinisingly at it as her fingers fiddled with the bleached locks. Her hair was due for a colour and wash, though in her drunken state the realisation only acerbated her confusion. If she was dead, like her sire, then how was it that she could digest food and get drunk and dye her hair as it continued to grow?
On the edge of the sink, her phone pinged. Gathering the hair into a messy bun atop her head, the allurist resigned herself to her inexplicable existence and wilting appearance. Meeting her next match might prove a good boost to her morale, and more importantly, someone to share her thoughts with. Swalled as she was, Charlie's tongue was ever so loose.
Whether the headache was due to the excess drink or the sheer weight of her thoughts, there was only one course of action that could remedy it: blood. The bar beckoned and, gathering her things, Charlie made her way out of the restrooms.
Phone in hand, she navigated her way to the nearest counter, and slid into a stool. Her fingers made quick work of the digital keyboard, message sent to her next match before she had the time to fully consider her words: Blond wit blac shep fer top by the wheel bar.
That Wyatt boy had infected her with wildness, and now, separated by the nature of the game, she waited for her next match. Her expectations were high, and to be ready for another whirlwind of fun, she ordered a second glass of blood to chase the first. With any luck, the time it’d take her match to decipher the message would be enough for the blood to curb her drunkenness.