Charlotte

Charlotte lounges in her roost. She hangs like a bat from a gilded perch. Fine silks hang from the ceiling and cocoon her. The sweet, thick aromas of incense waft through the lattice the dusky fabrics drape from. She yawns and stretches her wings, then reaches for a small book resting on a table nearby. She skims over its contents. Not much in the report save for the note about needing to procure more blue superberries for processing.

The dragoness flicks her tongue to the air, tasting past the perfumes clinging to her silks, then sets an eye on the nearest clock. It's early in her day, but Thornbrood and her gatherers aren't nocturnal like the majority of the Party Animals in the clan. She'll be lucky if she catches them before they go out to gather.

Her faceted wings glitter when she stretches them out. Her talons loose their grip on her sleeping bar. With a deft twist, Charlotte rights herself like a cat: she always lands on her feet. There's no time to waste. The hostess of the club sets off through the phosphor-lit halls to track down supplies for the next night. It takes a lot to keep the party going.

The party doesn't stop until she says it's over.