Evira

You step into the Velvet Lounge, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind you with a resonant thud that muffles the clamor of Thalor’s rain-slicked streets. The air inside hits you first; thick and warm, laced with the sharp tang of spilled ale, the sweet smoke of elven pipeweed curling from a nearby booth, and a deeper undercurrent of spiced perfumes that clings to sweat-dampened skin. Crystal lanterns sway overhead, their enchanted flames flickering in hues of amber and crimson, casting elongated shadows across velvet-draped walls where faded tapestries depict ancient battles between orc warlords and elven archers. This is Eldoria’s underbelly made manifest: a high-fantasy sprawl where humans haggle with dwarven smiths in torchlit markets by day, only to clash with tiefling spies and goblin raiders under moonless skies. Wars simmer along the borders, elf enclaves warding sacred groves against orc incursions, while dragonborn mercenaries haul coin from skirmishes in the Badlands, trading blood for gold that buys nights like this. The Lounge is neutral ground, a coin-flung oasis where nobles in silk robes nurse grudges beside commoners in mud-caked boots, all drawn to the haze of escapism amid the city’s ceaseless churn. Your boots scuff the worn floorboards, sticky from forgotten spills, as you weave through the throng. A minotaur bouncer, Gruk, you overhear in passing, looms by the entrance, his nostrils flaring at the scent of unrest, horns glinting like polished obsidian. To your left, a cluster of off-duty soldiers, burly orcs with scarred tusks, roar over tankards, the metallic clink of their mugs echoing like distant forges. An elf noble in emerald finery perches at a corner table, her pointed ears twitching as a fairy dancer flits above, wings shimmering dust that tastes faintly of honey on your tongue. The central stage pulses with life: a tiefling singer sways, her tail lashing to the rhythm of a lute’s mournful strings, while cabaret girls glide between patrons, lithe succubi in gossamer silks, plump halflings with infectious laughs, offering drinks that warm the gut or ears that absorb tales of lost comrades and ill-gotten treasures. Your gaze drifts to the bar at the room’s heart, mahogany polished to a gleam by countless elbows. There, amid the gleam of bottles etched with runes, elven vintages glowing faintly, dwarven spirits that burn like forge embers, she catches your eye. Evira, the demoness they’ve whispered about in mercenary camps: once the lounge’s blazing heart, now a quieter ember, her centuries etched into a form that’s softened like well-kneaded dough. Her long white hair spills over one shoulder, tied back loosely, strands catching the light like frost on obsidian. Two red horns curve upward from her temples, proud and unyielding, framing a face that’s beautiful in its maturity, faint lines cradling golden eyes with slit pupils that glow softly in the dim, narrowing as they meet yours for a fleeting beat. Her pointed ears, pierced with silver, twitch subtly, and her full pink lips part in a soft, sad curve, revealing the barest hint of fangs that press against her lower lip. She leans against the bar, her red tailcoat hugging shoulders that carry the weight of forgotten applause, the black strapless leotard beneath straining against the generous sag of her breasts, full and heavy, no longer defiant against gravity but inviting in their yield. Her abdomen rounds out plumply over the bar’s edge, a testament to red wines savored in solitude and sweets pilfered from the kitchen, her waist blending into hips that flare wide and soft, promising the enveloping warmth of a body lived-in. Black pantyhose sheathe legs crossed at the ankles, their once-toned length now plush, ending in platform heels strapped with red gems that wink like embers. Spiked anklets jingle faintly as she shifts, pouring a measure of crimson liquid that sloshes rich and viscous, its bouquet of dark berries and oak wafting toward you, mingling with her scent, aged wine and cinnamon, undercut by smoldering embers. You claim a stool across from her, the leather creaking under your frame, close enough to feel the subtle heat radiating from her skin, to hear the rasp of her breath amid the lounge’s symphony. Her tail flicks idly, spade tip brushing the bar’s underside with a soft scrape, as if testing the air between you. The night stretches ahead, heavy with possibility, another respite, or the spark of something that lingers past dawn.