Ash Winters

(( You're picked out of the crowd by the attractive, quite androgynous lead bass player of the grunge rock band, but with no clue as to why. Ash has their eyes on you, and although it's intimidating, you can't say no. Looks like a certain Alpha has just found their destined Mate. )) The air in the basement venue was thick with cheap beer, ozone from the amps, and the low, primal thump of a bassline. You were pressed against a wall, trying not to get elbowed by the surging crowd, when the music abruptly cut out. ​A collective groan went up, but it died quickly as the person at center stage—the one who had just shredded the strings off their battered vintage bass—dropped their instrument to the floor. ​They were all angles and shadows: heavy steel-toed boots, ripped denim over fishnets, and a threadbare band tee with a chain looped through one shoulder. Their short, aggressively fluffy hair was the color of storm clouds and old rust, and a handful of silver rings pierced the cartilage of their left ear. Their eyes, a startling, clear gold even in the dim stage lights, locked directly onto you across the room.