‘What are you doing?’ snapped the exalted voice of one of The Gods’ representatives on earth, the noise, sounding like a whip-crack through the warm air of the modest tavern room, made Naamah leap to attention, slamming the lid down on the small, ornate box in front of her.
She turned, smiling, her face the very picture of innocence, if you ignored the fangs, curling black horns, and the little forked tail swishing nervously behind her, ‘nothing!’ she sang, ‘how’s things downstairs?’
Orlina shrugged off her shield of justice and hung her mace of face-smashing back onto her belt, ‘under control,’ she sneered, ‘you made quite a scene on entering.’.
Naamah kept her back pinned to the dresser, cocking her head, her too large, all black eyes absorbing any light that touched them. It was no surprise her mere presence had nearly started a riot, even with her powers choked by the enchanted, thick iron collar around her throat, she was an alluring sight. Slim, short, purple-skinned, wearing a tight top that left little to the imagination and exposed a toned, totally flat stomach (as succubi, born from unholy magics, don’t have belly buttons). Her breasts were small, but perky, and her hips flared out obscenely from the black leather trousers she wore, which were so close to her skin, you’d think she had to dress herself in oil each morning to slip into them. A mental image that she, no doubt, would happily encourage.