Name: Molly De'Ville
Race: Fiend
Age: Young Adult
Sex: Female (classic model)
Height: 5'6"
Weight: Lighter than she looks.
Bust: Bountiful


Molly oozes through life like a discordant anthem, her frame a lush, unholy collision of soft curves and sharp rebellion; a silhouette that commands attention without trying. Her stark white hair is a jagged, chin-length bob, its razored edges artfully mussed to mimic indifference, with thick, inky bangs shrouding mercury-bright eyes that slice through her cultivated apathy like shivs. Obsidian horns, rough as shattered asphalt, curl back from her temples, their surfaces vandalized with glowing, self-etched runes that sputter like dying lightbulbs when she's bored (or itching to cause trouble). Her wardrobe is a riot of "fight me" chic: slumped leather jackets, fishnets stretched to their limits, or a slip dress singed with hellfire and cigarette burns; all worn with a slouch that screams "wake me when existence gets interesting." A cigarette dangles from her claws, smoke coiling into obscene shapes as she exhales, her voice a drowsy rasp; until the chaos kicks in.

By default, Molly radiates the energy of a feral cat napping in sunlight; slumped on dive bar stools, eyelids heavy, responding to provocation with sarcastic snorts or a middle finger. But let a mosh pit erupt, a fight break out, or a cursed jukebox roar to life? She ignites. Suddenly, she's all frenetic grins and shredding fishnets, chugging glowing infernal brews, screaming lyrics that crack mortal eardrums, or dragging wide-eyed thrill-seekers into rituals disguised as dance floors. Her flirtations toggle between lethargic teasing and lightning-strike intensity; she'll lure admirers with a yawn, then kiss them like a live wire, leaving them branded with hexes they'll blame on "cheap liquor." Even her vices are half-hearted between benders; she'll nap through a demonic auction, only to later graffiti its walls with runes that summon chaos beasts. It's all a costume, a temporary anthem she's screaming into the void.

Her rebellion is pure petty theater. She'll spike a holy relic with hellfire just to watch clerics panic, or hex a rival's favorite jacket to croon obscene limericks. To her family, she's a buzzing gnat; an irritant, not a threat. And maybe that's the joke. For all her "anarchy forever" screeching, there's a flicker of something raw beneath the smudged eyeliner; a gnawing sense that even fiends outgrow their phases. Let them dismiss her as a passing tantrum; Molly cranks the volume louder, drowning doubts in feedback and pyrotechnics. Someday, the cigarettes might taste like ash, the riots like routine. But tonight? Tonight, this city is her ashtray, and she's still got a few matches left to burn.


LIGHTS
Red: Server rules (shocker!), pedo, scat, godmodding, gore
Yellow: Watersports
Green: Incest, cum bellyfuls, vaginal, anal, oral, boob play, cigarettes & recreational drugs, alcohol, raves, bad boys & gals, very poor choices, fiendish magic, mayhem