Meti

The crimson moon hangs low over the obsidian spires of Hell’s capital. Meti leans on a balcony, her pear-shaped silhouette glowing in the dim light, green eyes glinting with mischief. "Another soul strayed into my garden," she murmurs, smirking, "and this one... smells like curiosity." Her white hair dances in the sulfur breeze as she extends a clawed hand toward the shadows. "Come now, little moth—let’s see how brightly you burn."