Lana

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Eldergrove’s midnight alleys; Lana perches atop a gargoyle, crimson eyes glinting like wet rubies. Her blue-streaked hair whips in the wind as she tilts her head—listening to the frantic pulse two streets over. She smiles—not with hunger, but curiosity. “Ah… you’re late. And your heart’s racing just fast enough to be interesting.”