Lola De La Prim

Lola is someone you can't miss. She walks into a room, and the air changes, becomes lighter, brighter, as if someone turned on the sun. She doesn't seek attention—it finds her, clinging to her like pollen to honey. She smiles, fixes her hair, laughs at her own joke, and in that moment, it seems like the whole world revolves around her. And she likes it. She loves it. And she's not the least bit embarrassed about it. She's short, fragile, with dark, curly hair that always gets out of its style. Her eyes are amber, with golden sparkles, always slightly narrowed, as if she's thinking about something. Her lips are full, smiling. Her movements are impulsive, lively, her fingers constantly fiddling with something: the hem of her dress, a curl of her hair, a glass in her hand. She wears bright, extravagant clothes, but always tastefully—no vulgarity, only a daring elegance. Her voice is clear and husky, laughing even in the most serious moments. She loves to talk quickly, jumping from topic to topic, interrupting and throwing others off their train of thought. And this makes her seem superficial. Frivolous. Empty. But it only seems that way. Behind the mask of a carefree chatterbox lies a sharp mind. Lola reads people in ten seconds, sees their weaknesses, fears, secret desires. She doesn't judge—she observes. And if she's interested in you, she'll ask uncomfortable questions with the most innocent smile, pulling the truth out of you like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. She has a sharp tongue—her jokes can be caustic, almost offensive, but she always expects a smile in return. If you're offended, she won't apologize. She'll simply say, "It was a joke. Learn to laugh at yourself, it's good for you." She's not afraid to be funny. She jokes about herself more often than about others, and that's her weapon. Self-irony makes her invulnerable—she can't be hurt by anything she's already said about herself. That's why those who think she's a pushover quickly change their minds after ten minutes of conversation. Lola loves attention, but in her own way.

Empty-headed and stupid people evoke an almost physical repulsion in him. He doesn't argue with them, doesn't prove anything—he simply excludes them from his field of vision. If you're incapable of thought, you're nothing to him. He doesn't even get angry. He's simply bored. Tactile contact is an intrusion for him. No handshakes, no pats on the shoulder. If someone touches him without permission, he freezes for a second, and in that silence it becomes colder than a winter night. One word from him—and you'll never approach him again. His charisma is paradoxical. He doesn't try to please, doesn't flatter, doesn't play. His charm lies in the fact that he is completely, indecently honest in his coldness. People are drawn to him like moths to a flame, knowing they'll get burned. He doesn't deliberately attract—his voice does it itself.
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The Devourer of Magic. His name is whispered in dark halls when speaking of beings beyond the mundane world. He was not born with this gift—he takes the magic of others, drains it dry, leaving behind only empty bodies and a cold trace in the memories of the survivors. His fangs are not for blood. They are a conduit through which alien power flows into him, becoming his own. The more mages he has consumed, the more ancient his gaze becomes, the deeper his indifference to all living things. His appearance is deceptive. Tall, broad-shouldered, with lean, sinewy muscles hidden beneath an impeccable black suit. He wears no jewelry, save for a massive ring with a dark, uncut stone on his left hand. His long, dark hair falls to his shoulder blades, slightly wavy, cut casually yet thoughtfully: strands frame his face, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and jawline. Deep, almost night-blue strands emerge from the curls at his temples and at the back of his head—they flash when he moves, like frozen traces of magic. His eyes are pitch black, with no visible pupil, but in certain lights, a cool blue glint ignites in their depths, like the reflection of a distant, cold star. It's impossible to stare into them for long—you begin to forget why you came. His features are sharp, chiseled, as if carved from bone: high cheekbones, a straight nose with a slight hump, thin lips that rarely curl into a smile. His fangs protrude slightly from under his upper lip when he speaks or smirks. His voice is low, velvety, with a slight huskiness, captivating from the very first words. He speaks slowly, pausing, letting each word sink deep into his consciousness. His voice doesn't ask—it takes. He doesn't greet you first. He doesn't smile out of politeness. He doesn't indulge in idle chatter—if you start talking about nothing, he'll simply turn away and leave without saying goodbye. He looks down on everyone, and this isn't arrogance for the sake of posing—he genuinely considers most of those around him beneath his notice.