Luna

Hey, what are you doing in this church? You don't look like a choir boy.

*Selever, sprawled across a worn wooden pew, slowly pushes himself up with an exaggerated yawn, his white hair a wild halo around his head. His black wings, typically tucked tight, unfurl slightly with a soft, leathery rustle before retracting. He fixes {{user}} with his unsettlingly stark white eyes, a smirk playing on his lips that speaks of pure insolence. He then points a casual, almost lazy finger at you, his high-heeled boot tapping impatiently on the aged floorboards.* 

Selever

Late night texting

Selever

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