Name: Kurtz

Race: Human/Wendigo

Age: ?



Bio:

Kurtz represents the Santa Somabra interests of Barrow & White, Inc., an obscure London-based firm that-on the surface- deals in artwork, antiques, and exotic goods.

B&W are well known among the upper crust of the magical subcultures of Somabra as brokers in blood-slaves, assassins, magical artifacts, information, and anything else the rich and the preternaturally inclined might need. Looking for the sword of a twelfth-century warlock to aid you in your fight with an archdemon? Need to sell an ancient book of blasphemous litanies? Want a rival vampire-lord killed? If you're the right sort of person, with the right sort of contacts, Barrow & White is at your service.

The firm also serves frequently as neutral third party in disputes between rival vampire and elven houses. They are prized for their discretion, tact, and reasonable rates, as well as their and selectivity about with whom they are willing to do business.

Kurtz is Barrow & White's primary representative in Santa Somabra, working out of a small, upscale office in the financial district. He knows and is known by all the major players on the scene, and shares his employers' reputation for competence as a negotiator, and mercilessness towards those who cross him. Just what he is, and what the extent of his abilities are, is the object of some speculation. What is not in dispute, however, is that those who make enemies of the Firm usually end up dead.

"Listen buddy, I've been around as long as Santa Somabra's been a city. Seen big shots come and go, seen fortunes made and lost. This city's a hellhole, no denying it. Only thing that matters is what you make of it."

| Name/Nicknames |

"Andy Fontaine diMaggio. But to those in the know, they know me as Font. Everyone calls me Andy. Just Andy."

| Race |

"I'm a fuckin' zombie, what d'you think?"

| Age |

"Y'know? I'm not really sure myself. I've been around for a while since the city got started as a city, then I died and got rezzed, um, so I think I'm about 90 ish. It doesn't matter to me anyway, I can't age, I'm not even alive to begin with."

| Appearance |

"Where to start? I'm five feet ten, give or take an inch or two, with salt-and-pepper hair. Funny how it's all stayed up there even though I'm dead. Can't grow, can't die, so it's like I've got a perpetual widow's peak. Cool beans.

Anyway, I'm from a long time ago, so I dress with the times. Slick black fedora, with a white band around the body of the hat. Got a playing card in there, the Jack of Clubs. Got a white tie, black shirt, black vest, black suit jacket with a white pocket square. White scarf. Black suit pants, black shoes, black socks, black gloves. Black everything. All the better to hide my deadness from the world.

I'm not as decayed as that picture up there either. Most I got is a whole chunk missing off my right cheek, it exposes my jaw and teeth and everything. And then there's my chest, got a hole clean through where my heart used to be. I'll get to the why in a bit."

| Personality |

"Oh hell I'm not taking some psyche test am I? Ah screw it.

Some people say I'm slick. Others say I'm cruel. Whatever the case, that's me when I'm on the job. I gotta be, y'know? My line 'o work, chump needs to be both 'a those, with a good dash of cunning put into there too. This city's a cruel mistress. Guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do to survive.

Off the job? Sure I'll drink with you. Sure I'll chat. I'm real nice if you want to get to know a walking corpse. Just don't test me. There's only so far I'll go before I have to slap a bitch."

| Bio |

"History, huh? Well lemme share some with you, kiddo.

I was human once. Way back when the mob ran this town. No, not those idiot ogres, the real mob. Humans. People. People who wouldn't hesitate to put a pair of concrete shoes onto rats and send them to the bottom of Butcher Bay. People who would gun down their opposition by the truck load. A brutal, violent time, it was.

I was an enforcer for the biggest family in Somabra. The Santoni family, real big shots. The money they raked in from the bootleg liquor and guns they ran built this city, kiddo. It built the foundation for many, many things. However, not all of it was smooth sailing. I was the guy Mr. Santoni called when he had a problem he couldn't solve on his own.

Yeah, yeah I whacked people. What's so surprising about that? These days it's hard to find someone that hasn't killed someone else on the street. I've sent many a crooked man to hell, either with a bullet or a blackjack to the back of the head. Mr Santoni never let me put concrete shoes on anyone though, that was his shtick.

One day, he sent me to the mansion of a rival family. He wanted me to whack them all. Sent a crew of guys with me to make sure the job went right.

Long story short? We fucked with the Nyctari. And they fucked us back.

When I woke up I was tied to a chair in the basement of the mansion. Fella interrogating me was a sucker, of course. They all were. Asshole wanted to know who I was working for.

Rule number one about working with organised crime: never rat. If I'd ratted, I'd have been the one with a pair of tailor made stone footwear sitting at the bottom of the bay. So I kept my mouth shut, and boy oh boy did they try. Cut me everywhere, stabbed me, even branded my cheek.

Then one of the others caved and suddenly we were all expendable. The sucker tore my throat open and drank me dry, then staked me in the heart and buried my body in a plywood box under the dirt.

I didn't know how long I was out, I only knew that when I came to, I was pissed. Broke out of that box and the dirt like a demon enraged, but by then everything was over. Santoni was dead. Family scattered. City under the Nyctari. I found myself out of work. And also very, very dead but still standing and moving. The only thing that had prevented me from being a sucker like them was the stake in the heart. Turned me into a dead man walking instead.

So I survived the only way I knew how: whacking people. I sold my services as a gun for hire, destroying lives for money like I'd always done, and still do today. People in the undercity know me. I know people.

You be thankful I'm not on a job right now, kiddo. I wouldn't be talking to you otherwise."

| Other |

"Well I guess my personal armaments will do. I got myself an old Thompson, nice little Chicago Typewriter. Classic, that one. I use it every job I got. Other than that, I have myself one of those newfangled pistols, the M9. Dinky little thing but it's accurate. Also got a Benelli twelve gauge pump action too, and a sawn off in a coat. And if all those don't work, I got a pair of knuckles, for the real dirty work.

I know people too. Gun runners, Dust dealers, you name it. The undercity is one place I feel safe in, kid. You make connections, and people will know when you go down. Sometimes people will know beforehand so they can warn ya.

I tell ya, in all my years this city hasn't changed much. Sure the people at the top of the pile of shit are different, but it's still a pile of shit in the end. Can still do the same things to get what you want here, just like the old days. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

"Now you listen, tough guy, you can burn me, hurt me, do whatever you want. But you so much as lay a finger on the people I consider family and I'll see to it that you are cut into pieces and fed to the fishes! Understood?"

| Name/Nicknames |

"Benjamin Franklin Kiddo, but eh, everyone calls me Kiddo. Or Ben. Whichever."

| Race |

"Human, or eh, I used to be. Now I'm a zombie, hehe, funny how things turned out for me."

| Age |

"Hmm, now that's a toughie. I was in the business a while after I left, uh, then I got capped so, hmm, I guess I'm roughly about 109 now. I'm older than Andy by a few, but hey, when did that stop us, eh?"

| Appearance |

"I'm six feet two. With about a hundred and eighty pounds of meat on me. Hey, nobody said I was fit and frankly I ain't. Got brown hair, short, swept back a little. Turning grey too, cus I'm old like that. I'm also as pasty white as the frosting on a cake. Being dead does that to ya, heh heh.

Anyway, unlike Andy, I prefer to dress less, eh, striking to the eye. Got myself a nice brown trench coat, like the one the old guard used to wear. A fedora, dark brown leather, tanned too, with a blue band around the body. Navy blue vest, white shirt, blue tie. Brown slacks and loafers too. Andy says the ensemble makes me look like a policeman but hey, I'm no good guy, I'm just as bad as the rest of 'em. Oh, and I like to have a flower pinned to the chest of my coat or whatever jacket I wear too. Fancy stuff.

I got killed by gettin' shot in the chest, I'll get to that later, but that left me with a nice little connect-the-dots puzzle on my body. Scar over my neck too, from when I got my throat slit before, and I got an eye out from when, eh, I got somethin' put in there. Something sharp and real painful."

| Personality |

"Well, eh, Andy says I'm more a family man than a mobster, and frankly he ain't wrong. In my youth, however, I used to be a real pepper pot, oh yeah, a real fiery action guy type. He and I were like the two sides of the same coin only, he was the calmer, colder side and I was the angry, fiery side. We worked real good together, oh yeah, but more on that later.

When I was younger I was quite hot headed, but now? Do you know of somethin' called tranquil fury, kid? I may be, eh, old and dead but I still got that fire in me, and it's a big fire too. I get angry, ooh you better watch out kid. Like lighting fireworks in a china shop, cause you know things are gonna break and the inside is gonna be a mess, just like how I leave the people that cross me. Where d'you think Andy got so ruthless, eh? He got it from me when he was just startin', that's where, heh heh."

| Bio |

"I lived through the age of the Santoni family. Watched them rise and fall, I did. Back then I didn't know Andy at all, I only heard rumours about him. The last I heard of Andy in the 20s was that he got capped real good doing something he wasn't supposed to. That was when the family fell. I was in my early twenties then. Heard all the stories over the radio.

I got into mob business shortly after. Found myself working as a triggerman for a smaller family, the Martovannis. Back then the family wasn't the titan it is today, they were real small, just barely treadin' the surface of the organised crime world. Papa Martovanni was a, eh, pasta chef, and a damn good one too, but he ran a business on the side sellin' liquor and cigarettes, the illegal stuff. Traded in bodies too, from what I heard. Guy was paid good money in exchange for bringing in blacks from down south or from across the oceans, or yellows from Asia. Anyone that disagreed with Papa, he sent me to deal with 'em, and I got good at it too. Real good. This was the 30s, mind you. America was still buildin' its way to the top.

Then, two decades later, when I've been working for the family for ages, who shows up but the legend himself. Andy diMaggio, and he'd seen better days, whoo boy. By then, Papa's empire had expanded to accomodate the better part of Somabra's growing Downtown district, and he was lookin' for some new muscle to help him keep things under control. So I, eh, took Andy in. I offered him a job under Papa, said somethin' about, you know, eh, keepin' the faith. He bought it, of course, but there was somethin' different about 'im, something that had grown within him after he died thirty years ago. Of course, it might've just been him bein' sad over being a zombie, but I could be wrong.

For fifteen years we worked together, me and him, tearin' up the Somabra strip like nobody's business. We were bonafide triggermen alright, and by the fifties and sixties we were as close as close could get without either of us bein' a queer, heh heh. By then, though, I had myself a dame. Love of my life, complete with two kids! I was already lettin' Andy do most of the work so I could have some time with my family, but two years of that and I realised I had to get out. So I talked to the Martovanni head. Papa had passed away about a year after Andy came in, so leadership was now under his son, Porfiri Senior. He told me that sure, I'd been around for ages and now that I had a family I was free to go, under the protection of too, so I had a lifeline in case things went south. I bid a fond farewell to Andy and we parted ways. He stayed with the Martovannis for a while, and I moved. I took my dame and my kids and went upstate, to Washington. Settled down there, made peace.

That wasn't the end of things, however.

A while later, maybe, eh, in the mid eighties or nineties, I can't remember, my dame passed away. She'd gotten old, bless her soul, and her years of smokin' had gotten to her. Lungs as black as the ashes she became after she was cremated. By then my kids were out of state, hell they were already out of college and workin', makin' their own families. It left me, an old goon, alone and unwanted. So I did the only thing left in me.

I went back to Santa Somabra.

Biggest mistake of my life.

As soon as I got back and settled down, I got contacted by the Martovannis. Said that, in the time I'd moved out, someone had put out a hit on me. A hit, in that day and age, could you believe it? Of course I got scared, I tried to defend myself, but in the end, what's an old man do against an attacker who's fifty years his junior?

The hitman, I can't remember who he was, ambushed me when I was coming home from buying groceries. Guy attacked me with a knife at first, shoved it through my eye, that's how I got this scar here. I fought him off and tried to run, but he chased me down with a shotgun. Cornered me in an alley with no escape. I got a chest full of buckshot and a cut throat for my troubles. That ended me real quick.

I was buried in Somabra City Cemetery, in a small marked grave on the edge of the whole place, thanks to the family. Some of the old guard had found out about my death, found my body and they put me in a box and into the dirt, where I belonged.

Or, at least, where I thought I belonged.

I stayed dead for all of twenty years, I found out later. I never remembered dyin', actually. I remembered gettin' shot, and everythin' fading to black. Then it felt like an eternity of black, floating in a sea of nothing 'n tryin' to get my bearings. After that, suddenly, I felt myself become solid again. I felt the box against my hands, crumbling into mulch in the dirt around me, but I felt seventy years younger! I scrambled out of my grave like a shot and woke to a changed city. Of course, comin' back from the dead was a shocker, moreso when you realise your body's kinda gone pale and you look like death.

I poked around the old city, the Undercity, lookin' for my old contacts. Eventually I found one in Paul Santos. This was 'fore I got embroiled in the city again, see, and he told me that Andy was still around. I never did have the heart to see him again, so I skulked around in the shadows, doing odd jobs.

Then, out of the blue, I got approached by a lady. A fellow undead, just like I was, but she was a looker, hoo boy, lemme tell ya, gazongas for days! Anyway, she had a proposition for me: be a triggerman for her and in return I could have a comfortable life back or be put back in the ground. I couldn't refuse so sure I said yes. It was only later that I found out I was workin' for that skank, the Cannoness. It was after I bumped into Andy at the power station.

Now, eh, I'm back in business, back together with my best partner. And we're gonna tear some shit up."

| Other |

"Unlike Andy, I ain't so old fashioned. I prefer the newer weapons, like them semi-automatic pistols and machine guns and assault rifles and stuff, but I can't help but do some things the old way. I keep myself armed with a .44 Magnum Special, one of those huge hand cannons. Keep it with me at all times, even got my name engraved on the side of the barrel. Was my old gun, actually. I'd been buried with it, as a show of faith by the Martovannis. Other than that, I keep an AK-47 too, and a Benelli M1014 automatic shotgun. Heavy arms, but they're reliable and easy to keep.

I've got contacts too, just like he does. Most of the Undercity network knows who I am, more by reputation than anything else. But where Andy earned his by respect, I earned mine through fear.

And now that I'm back, my reputation's on the line. People here know about me, see, and with Andy, the two of us were the most dangerous men in the city for fifteen years straight when we were cruisin'. I'd hate to let that sorta thing go in this day and age. These newfangled crime bosses need a show of good ol' fashioned mobster rep. That'll show 'em how to really run things."

"You listen to me, punk. I've seen more death than you could ever imagine. Now, if you don't want to be a part of that history, back off."

| Name/Nicknames |

"Christopher Francis Hurk. Lotta people just call me Hurk though."

| Race |

"Werewolf. Y'think the guys would've caught on, and I think they have, but they're cool with it."

| Age |

"34."

| Appearance |

"I'm five nine, with dark woody brown hair, scruffy and messy. Light gray eyes, mostly from my turning. Skin's...normal white man colour, if a little tan. Got some callouses on my knuckles from dirty work, scar over my nose too.

Unlike the guys I work with, I prefer more casual clothing. I normally prefer wearing a turtleneck sweater most days, with jeans and work boots and full fingered gloves. Got a little brass locket my dad left me too, it's on a collar I wear around my neck. Got a little bracelet too, small thing, wooden cubes that spell my name around my right wrist."

| Personality |

"I'm an alright guy, I guess. I get very protective of my friends, especially people that have stuck by me even though they know what I really am. I like the friends I've made over the years, and I'd hate to see them leave.

I also love my good ol' fashioned rock music from, like, the 80s and 90s. I love hanging out with my friends, having a meal or a drink, long walks in the park to admire nature, um, the sound of the ocean too. If I'm on a job, I'm dedicated, although things do distract me a bit easily."

| Bio |

"I was 17 when I was turned. I was out with my father on a hunting trip when, one night, I was pounced on and mauled liberally by one of those big angry fuzz monsters. He fought it off with a silver knife, but by then I'd had the werewolf curse in my blood. He didn't care. He took care of me, locked me in a meat locker during the full moons, and when he passed away he left me with his locket with a picture of our family in it. Our mom passed on early in my life, when I was still very young. She went of breast cancer, and when she did, dad broke inside. I guess that was why he spent so much time with me.

After he went though, I kinda lost my way in life. Santa Somabra was a big city, still growing at the time, but I didn't feel any...connections with it any more. That was when I chose to enlist.

I was sent to Afghanistan on my first tour. Spent eight months there, fighting turban-headed extremists hellbent on removing the good guys from the equation over there. And every month, for one night I had to go AWOL because of my curse. Back then, it wasn't much of a problem; people didn't ever think there would be werewolves in the military, and in that warzone our rest was rightfully given. No one paid any mind if a soldier disappeared in the night, as long as they were back in their beds by morning. That's what I did, and I lasted my whole deployment surviving with my curse.

It was during my third tour in the Afghan provinces that I met Anthony Alonzo. Awesome guy, first real best friend I ever had, and the first man I told about my curse. He didn't mind at all, as long as it didn't bother anyone or kill any of our own men. After that tour was over, I'd spent about five years in total in Afghanistan, and frankly I was aching to go home. With Alonzo in tow, of course. By then we were...something more. Not sure how much you're gonna judge me about that, but Alonzo and I were together when we got back to Santa Somabra. He moved in with me and stayed with me the whole time.

Looking for work after my five years of war was hard, especially with the stress and twitchy fingers from all the fighting I had to do. Thankfully, Alonzo knew a guy who knew a guy who hooked us up with the Martovannis as guards. We were given a nice, hefty pay packet every month to wander around their opulent mansion, day or night, or to stand at the gate to receive visitors. Me and him, we did that for a few more years, thought I'd be stuck as one of them for life. Wasn't the case though. That was around the time we met Andy DiMaggio. Scary bastard, for a zombie. Me and Alonzo, we helped the guy out. Brought power back to the city, found his old friend too. Then we were given the task to help them with their werewolf problem.

Now, the Hunters. Those guys, I didn't care for, even with my own curse. That night, even as I was struggling to hold back my curse, I went out with the boys one last time.

That was when my lover died. Sacrificed himself to save the rest of us from a gruesome, horrible death.

After that night, I felt like dying. I was broken inside, without a reason to continue living. Then I saw that Andy and his friend Benjamin had separated from Bloodbloom after their "contract" was done. They'd gotten paid in full, then made their own bodyguard agency, whole nine yards. They started recruiting some of the better operators and free-lancers in Santa Somabra, and me with nothing better to do with my life, decided to join them for one last hurrah."

| Other |

"I'm the most modern of the regular bunch, so I happen to have and use some modern weapons. Beretta M9 pistol, was my sidearm in the army and it's served me ever faithfully since. Got myself an AR15 too, the commercialised one since American gun laws prohibit civilians from owning automatic firearms. Also have a Taurus revolver, part of the "service issue" that came with working for the Boys."

Despite looking like a long-eared human in her early thirties, Narcissa Veclis is quite old for an elf. Signs of her true age are easy to spot if one knows where to look. Without a doubt, her hair is the most obvious indicator. Her once red locks are now the color of newly-fallen snow, and the she-elf tends to wear her hair short. She occasionally braids it tightly to her head for important events or whenever she needs to impress someone. Narcissa is also rather tall, standing at about 6'2" and has a slender build with no curves to speak of. The only exception to this is her wide hips, an unwelcome gift from her mother's side of the family. However, Narcissa's body is still toned and fit thanks to years of training with her uncle, her time as an SSPD officer, and her ongoing war against the criminals of Santa Somabra. Her toned physique grants her a wiry strength and agility far beyond what most people would expect from an elf her age.

While still possessing the otherworldly beauty inherent in all elves, Narcissa's face has recently acquired crow's feet and frown lines. The wyrmblood rarely bothers to cover these blemishes. She's 500 years old and her movements are growing stiffer with each passing year. Why hide the obvious?Regardless, Narcissa's skin is only slightly darker than her hair, which makes her look almost wraith-like and ethereal. This impression is only heightened by her cold, unforgiving gray eyes. Humorously, the light elf woman has dainty feet for someone with such an ominous appearance.

When embracing her "work persona", Narcissa dons a suit of form-fitting leather armor made from cured ogre hide, which is capable of stopping several bullets before rupturing. It's also mildly flame resistant. This black-dyed armor was made especially for Narcissa by a dokkalfr living in Santa Somabra's Red Light District. Supposedly, the she-elf bounty killer liberated the craftsman's daughter from the Gilded Cage, a notorious whorehouse owned by the Nyctari family. Whether or not this event actually occurred is debatable, though the elf known as Vigilance is rumored to have a long-standing feud with the bloosuckers. At any rate, this set of hand-crafted armor includes a chestpiece, gorget, bracers, gloves, belt, leggings and boots. The dark elf, who may or may not have been the renowned Mankar Deslandra, also reached out to a friend and procured a black linen cloak for his daughter's savior. Coupled with her twin pure iron swords, which belonged to her late uncle, and her dual pistols, Vigilance radiates an aura of deadly poise and self-confidence capable of making even the boldest thugs nervous. Of course, the elf doesn't go anywhere without her trusty silver flask dangling from her belt.

Perhaps the most terrifying aspect of Vigilance's "uniform" is her death mask, a ceramic veil cast in the shape of an elven skull. Traditionally, both light and dark elves place these masks over the faces of their deceased kinsmen to prepare them for the afterlife. Wearing one at any point prior to death is considered offensive and tasteless. Narcissa doesn't give a flying goblin's ass about such superstitious nonsense anymore. Whenever she's acting on behalf of the Bloodbloom Syndicate or prowling the streets in search of prey, her face is covered by a death mask.

Amusingly, Narcissa can often be seen wearing non-brand t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers when she's not slaughtering her way through Santa Somabra's underworld. Only her mistress, Nyxvira Bloodbloom, can command the ljosalfr to wear anything approaching formal attire. Last but not least, Narcissa's low-range soprano voice has an archaic English accent, and she often peppers her speech with antiquated words and sayings.

Unlike most elves, Narcissa isn't necessarily elitist, though this isn't because she thinks the lesser races have something worthwhile to offer. She still believes dark and light elves are superior to everyone else. As a wyrmblood, however, the bounty hunter has been persecuted by her own kind, including her mother, since she was young. She's seen how far elves will go in the name of keeping their blood pure. This has forced her to admit that most of her people are intolerant, pompous, and cruel at the best of times. Furthermore, Narcissa is smart enough to acknowledge the accomplishments of others despite her belief that an elf could've done a better job. Still, the constant fear of prejudice and rejection has warped the way the she-elf interacts with others. She doesn't trust people. Trust leads to complacency, and Narcissa knows she cannot afford to let her guard down for even one second. That's how you wind up face down in a gutter in the Red Light District.

Now, several years after the tragic death of her lover, Myranda Tavellan, the ljosalfr called Vigilance has decided to try opening up again. Within reason, of course. Unfortunately, it's not going particularly well.

Part of the problem is the elf's very presence seems to give off an air of glacial indifference and unfathomable loneliness. Not many people want to spend time with someone like that. Her tendency to drink and smoke to excess whenever she's depressed doesn't help her situation at all. Unfortunately, Myranda's death also soured Narcissa's already pessimistic worldview, and what passes for the light elf's sense of humor reflects this change. Her jokes are cutting, sarcastic, and occasionally vicious. In addition, Vigilance appears to lack any empathy whatsoever for the many people she's hurt while pursuing those unfortunate souls wanted by Santa Somabra's criminal elite. Many people believe the elderly ljosalfr is an unfeeling, heartless monster. She'll loyally serve whoever is willing to give her the most money for a job while simultaneously killing as many drug dealers, slavers, and hired guns as possible. Along with anyone else that gets in her way. After all, what better way to cleanse the city that took Myranda from her than from the inside? At least, that's what she told herself when she swore an oath of fealty to Nyxvira Bloodbloom three years ago.

Truthfully, Narcissa is constantly wrestling with the overwhelming guilt brought on by the Great Fire of 1985, a disaster she caused that left an entire city block in ruins. Over 200 people were killed, including Myranda Tavellan, and the Somabra Clock Tower was burned to the ground. The light elf copes with this by drinking, smoking, and trying to convince herself that she returned to Santa Somabra to redeem herself. How? By destroying the formidable gangs running amok in the streets. By slaughtering the most treacherous and monstrous individuals she can find. By offering up 200 blackened, corrupted souls as penance for the innocent men, women, and children she killed. Of course, seeing her activities as a righteous crusade is much more appealing than facing the painful truth. Narcissa wants to die. She returned to the place where her last chance for a better life perished in hopes of dying a hero's death.

Narcissa was born on March 5th, 1519 to Althea Veclis and a dragon masquerading as a ljosalfr near the city of Truro, Cornwall. Narcissa's childhood was unpleasant to say the least. After her husband left one night without warning, Althea began drinking heavily, and she blamed Narcissa for the loss of her lover. Her favorite insult to throw at her child was "wyrmblood," a slur referring to Narcissa's mixed parentage. Beatings were frequent and often ended with Althea sobbing into a bottle while Narcissa lay bleeding on the floor. Unfortunately for the elven girl, her mother maintained a small farm beyond Truro's outskirts so visitors were few and far between. Besides, who wanted to deal with the town drunkard and her timid, red-haired daughter? There were times when Narcissa felt trapped, like a princess in a fairy tale, and she desperately wished someone would rescue her.

Shortly after the light elf's 100th birthday, everything changed.

A ljosalfr named Celebron Rommath, a merchant from eastern Cornwall, came to visit Truro under the pretense of selling high-quality bolts of cloth and spices to the cityfolk. In truth, he was actually following a rumor. A rumor about a young elven girl with hair the color of an open wound. Red hair was a sign of impure blood among elves. Specifically, that dragon's blood flowed through that particular individual's veins. Upon arriving at the Veclis farmstead, Celebron was horrified to see Narcissa out in the fields, helping her mother with the animals and crops. All half-elves were abominations, but the gifts possessed by wyrmbloods made them incredibly dangerous. Celebron knew he had to act.

After being invited into the house for the midday meal, Celebron made a few casual, insulting remarks about Althea's home, hoping to provoke Narcissa into using her powers. It worked. The enraged light elf girl nearly set the stranger's head on fire. As Celebron ran screaming from the house, Althea, who'd always known what her daughter was, ordered Narcissa to leave and never return. The truth was out, and it was only a matter of time before the elves living in Truro decided having a wyrmblood living so close to the city was a terrible idea.

The year was 1619, and a terrified Narcissa was forced to abandon her home as a mob of pitchfork and torch-wielding elves descended on her mother's farm. Althea's last words to her daughter were, "You will never find peace here in Cornwall, my little halfbreed. Find a ship bound for the New World, stow yourself somewhere onboard, and go to Jamestown. Seek out my brother Bardolan. Tell him...tell him you're his niece, and I am certain he'll take you in. Now go before I decide to offer you up to this rabble." Reeling from the unexpected loss of her mother, the frightened wyrmblood tried to hide in the woods near the farm, but Celebron and his followers pursued her. The hundred-year old light elf struggled to reach the small port of Newquay, and then hid herself aboard a fishing vessel called The Princess. The irony wasn't lost on the miserable child as she sobbed quietly amongst the barrels of pickled herring in the cargo hold. She may have escaped from her mother's house, but at what cost? Narcissa was still considered a child in the eyes of her people. How could she possibly survive this?

The voyage across the sea was difficult, but Narcissa finally reached the bustling settlement of Jamestown, Virginia. After spending a week wandering the streets, she stumbled upon the smithy run by her uncle, Bardolan "The Grim" Veclis. She told him what had transpired in Cornwall, and the elderly ljosalfr wordlessly took her into his home. He then promised to take care of her to the best of his ability before returning to his forge. Once she'd recovered from her journey and felt capable of dealing with her situation, Narcissa began helping her uncle with his work, learning a little about the blacksmith's trade in the process. She also discovered that Bardolan was one of the few remaining elves who knew how to shape true iron, which was also called blue or pure iron. Capable of cutting through almost anything, excluding mithril and other rare metals, pure iron was impossible to manipulate without the proper technique. Luckily for Bardolan, he'd trained with some of the finest weaponsmiths and swordmasters in the world.

Three weeks after Narcissa's 110th birthday, her uncle took her aside and told her there was something he needed to show her. Bardolan guided his niece to a small chamber at the back of his house, which he normally kept locked, and opened it, revealing what appeared to be a training room with various true iron weapons hanging from the walls. "It is time, blood of my blood," the old elf said, his dark green eyes shining with delight. "For me to teach you how to defend yourself. Like me, you do not possess the gift of magic, which separates us from other ljosalfar. Also, you are a wyrmblood, which means others of our kind will always try to hurt you. I refuse to let this happen to my sister's daughter. It is time I began teaching you the Caramag, the Wind Song."

Thus began a challenging and rewarding phase of Narcissa's adolescence. Under her uncle's less-than-forgiving gaze, the ljosalfr woman practiced the fifty intricate movements of the Caramag for at least six hours every day. Initially, she used wooden sparring swords Bardolan had made for this exact purpose some time ago. By the time the first snows fell in the winter of 1764, the she-elf was executing The Goat Leaps Skyward and The Hand Falls Silently with twin blue iron blades. For the first time in her life, Narcissa felt like she was in control of her own destiny.

And then what came to be known as the American Revolution began, and the elves living in Jamestown did what they always did in difficult times. They blamed anyone whose blood wasn't pure for the chaos engulfing Virginia. Thankfully, Bardolan had anticipated this, and he'd secured a place for himself and Narcissa aboard a caravan heading west. The two light elves spent the journey studying the Caramag as well as discussing the finer points of elven history and lore. This was, without a doubt, one of the happiest times in Narcissa's life. The caravan finally reached the ramshackle town of Last Meal in Utah on a rainy morning in 1785. Mainly comprised of refugees, vagrants, and mercenaries, the settlement was filthy and nearly lawless, but it was far removed from the bloodshed of the Revolutionary War.

Time marched relentlessly onward and, unfortunately, in the year 1800, Bardolan came down with a nasty case of pneumonia that refused to go away. Fearing for her uncle's life, Narcissa did her best to keep the fire in their meager hut lit, and she even resorted to using her powers so she wouldn't have to leave Bardolan's side. One night, the fire went out and Narcissa could not light it again. Her pyromantic talents refused to obey her desperate commands. A few hours later, Bardolan "The Grim" Veclis passed into the afterlife. Narcissa was too poor to afford a death mask for her beloved uncle.

Struggling to keep her head above water by doing odd-jobs for the townsfolk, Narcissa kept up with her training even as the world around her continued to change. A month after the Civil War started, Last Meal had grown to such a ridiculous extent that people began clamoring for its name to be changed. Last Meal was far too prosperous now to bear such a pitiful moniker. After a great deal of useless arguing and several brutal fistfights, the name "Santa Somabra" was chosen and that was that. A new age had begun.

At some point during this tumultuous period, Narcissa developed a taste for potent drink. And women. Perhaps it was her way of coping with Bardolan's death. Perhaps she was just tired of dwelling on her past mistakes and failures. Perhaps oblivion was preferable to the drudgery of her day-to-day life. Either way, the 346 year old elf was simply going through the motions until she met a blonde ljosalfr on the run from some troubles back home in England. Her name was Myranda Tavellan, and she was the most beautiful woman Narcissa had ever seen.

The courtship between the two was somewhat awkward, especially since Myranda was much more open about her sexuality, but they eventually became lovers. Of course, they never expressed their feelings for each other in public, because they knew their fellow Santa Somabrans wouldn't understand. Still, between Narcissa's limited knowledge of metalshaping and Myranda's uncanny knack for finding copious amounts of cheap alcohol, the two elves made enough money to survive. Inevitably, they decided to open a small bar. What else could they do with such atypical skill sets? The Laughing Maiden was never particularly popular, but it provided the two light elves with everything they needed to prosper in Santa Somabra.

Life seemed to be going well for the lovers until Prohibition hit in 1920, though Myranda was convinced they could easily turn the Laughing Maiden into a restaurant. This turned out to be a difficult proposition. Especially when a group of vampires calling themselves the Nyctari showed up, demanding protection money since the Laughing Maiden was in their territory. Myranda knew Narcissa was a wyrmblood, and there were no patrons in the Laughing Maiden during this unexpected visit. Despite these factors, Narcissa managed to avoid using her pyromancy and drove the bloodsuckers off with the Caramag alone. It wasn't enough, unfortunately.

In the spring of 1945, the Laughing Maiden was burned down, and nobody was willing to admit they'd seen anything out of the ordinary. It didn't take a genius to realize the Nyctari weren't going to tolerate two elves working in their domain free of charge. Desperate and angry at how corrupt their hometown was becoming, the two women decided to join the Santa Somabra Police Department, promising each other they'd never let this happen again. Initially, the couple did fairly well, though their relationship became somewhat strained as more and more cops began working for the various crime syndicates. Myranda saw nothing wrong with looking the other way if it meant the couple would stay wealthy and safe. Narcissa, on the other hand, refused to condone this, and she became known as one of the few officers that couldn't be bought. Over the next few years, a strange gulf started to grow between the two light elves, which only prompted Narcissa to resume drinking and take up smoking. The lovers would sometimes go entire nights without speaking to each other.

It all came to a head in 1985 when Officer Veclis got a tip that a Demon's Blood deal was going down in an abandoned warehouse near the Somabra Clock Tower.

The light elf policewoman was stunned to find her lover there, shaking down a Bloodbloom Syndicate hobb in hopes of getting every last drop of Demon's Blood he was carrying. Myranda was an addict. Narcissa realized now why her partner had been so willing to "look the other way" whenever the gangs were involved. It was how she got her fix. Enraged and hurt by this betrayal, Narcissa was shocked when Myranda threatened to tell the entire SSPD that she was a wyrmblood if she didn't keep quiet. Narcissa had done a decent job of keeping her heritage hidden from the other officers. If the rank-and-file knew the truth then there was a good chance her career with the SSPD would be over. Few elves would be willing to work with a halfbreed. Seeing how totally the city had twisted Myranda was too much for Narcissa to bear.

For the first time in years, her temper got the better of her.

The Great Fire of 1985 destroyed the prosperous Silver Expanse and the Somabra Clock Tower, creating a region of the city now known as the "Burned Block." Over 200 people perished and Officers Veclis and Tavellan were assumed dead, though most of the bodies recovered from the scene were burned to a crisp. In truth, Narcissa fled Santa Somabra, repulsed and guilt-stricken by the carnage she'd wrought. No matter how far she ran, however, Narcissa couldn't escape her memories. Dreams of blue flames, Myranda's screams of pain, and the stench of burning flesh filled her nights and made it impossible to sleep.

In 1995, the elf returned to Santa Somabra and began thinking about how she could atone for what she'd done. A possible solution came to her when she recalled something Bardolan had said to her years ago. "The ljosalfar swordmasters of old believed that if you made a mistake then you had to pay for it. No matter what." Santa Somabra was sick, and getting sicker all the time, as gangs and the corrupt authorities they controlled ran roughshod over innocent men and women trying to make a living. At best, the commonfolk were destined to be extorted and used by these lawbreakers. At worst, they would suffer an unspeakable fate once their usefulness ended. Unless somebody did something.

Finally, Narcissa decided it was time to act. She was going to offer up the souls of 200 criminals as penance for causing the Great Fire of 1985. It was the only way she could think of to "pay off" the debt she owed. Maybe then she would know peace. Or at least be able to sleep again.

Using her remaining contacts in the city, Narcissa established herself as a proficient bounty killer with a penchant for breathtaking swordplay and a decent understanding of short-range firearms. At first, she killed criminals for anyone who could pay her. Even other criminals. Sometimes, she just killed because she could. She tried to avoid harming innocents or pissing off anyone important, but there were times when it couldn't be helped. As time wore on, she gathered more and more information about her various employers. Every major player in Santa Somabra could make use of a competent hired gun, and Narcissa was exceedingly competent. The only group she refused to work for was the Nyctari, though the ljosalfr refused to tell anyone why. The image of the Laughing Maiden burning still haunted Narcissa's dreams.

And yet, for all the drug dealers and pimps she butchered, Narcissa's guilt continued to drain the pleasure from her days. Truthfully, she felt worse and worse with each contract she completed. The awful memories of her past misdeeds were now joined by a host of nightmares revolving around the atrocities she committed on behalf of Santa Somabra's criminal element.

After finishing a lucrative job for the Reapers in 2015, Narcissa bought a custom-made elven death mask from a mortuary near Crooked Alley. It was time to stop feeling guilty and start embracing the woman she was becoming. Otherwise, she wouldn't survive. Donning the death mask and calling herself Vigilance, the light elf did her best to cast aside her old self completely. The dreams still tormented her, but she tried not to dwell on them anymore. If she was going to redeem herself then the past needed to stay in the past. Whenever she felt overwhelmed or depressed, the ljosalfr drank or smoked until everything went numb. Vigilance became a known and feared name amongst the criminals of Santa Somabra, transforming the nearly 500 year old light elf into a veritable boogeyman. There were also stories about how she'd saved the daughter of Mankar Deslandra from a brothel and left baskets of food for the orphans living in the Narrows. Obviously, these charitable acts received much less attention than her bloodier escapades.

When the Martovanni Family and the Reapers fell in 2016, Narcissa had already sent 150 corrupted souls to the afterlife. She even helped guide several influential Martovanni loyalists to their final destinations over the course of the Canoness affair. However, once she saw how much power Nyxvira Bloodbloom amassed after conquering the fallen family's territory, Vigilance fully appreciated just how dangerous the faerie was. It was time for a bold move. Besides, it was one of the Bloodbloom Syndicate's hobbs that had provided Myranda with her Demon's Blood fix. Narcissa approached Nyxvira and offered her an oath of fealty, swearing to only work in the best interests of the Bloodbloom Syndicate. The faerie accepted, and Narcissa appears to be completely loyal to her new mistress. What better way to lull the obese queenpin into complacency before gutting her like a trout?

The year is now 2019, and the light elf from Truro, Cornwall finds herself standing beside Nyxvria as her favored enforcer and bounty killer. While Santa Somabra tries to weather the storm unleashed by the Somabra Slayer killings, Vigilance wonders if she's doing the right thing. If she's ever done the right thing. Because, if she's completely honest with herself, the list of differences between Narcissa and the people she hunts seems to be getting shorter and shorter. When does the woman dedicated to hunting monsters become one herself?

-Wyrmblood: What does it mean to be a wyrmblood? This term is generally used to describe a child born from the union of an elf and a dragon in mortal form. It's also a nasty insult since questioning the purity of an elf's blood is akin to shouting "Bomb!" in a crowded movie theater. Startling and completely unacceptable. Over the years, numerous people have died horribly after demeaning the heritage of a dark or light elf. To be a halfbreed is to be an abomination in the eyes of elven society. Therefore, it's not uncommon for elves with impure bloodlines to avoid discussing the details of their upbringing.

Unfortunately, being a wyrmblood adds an extra challenge for a halfbreed to overcome. Each one possesses a formidable gift, which is essentially a type of emotion-based pyromancy. These elves gain the ability to direct flame as long as they're experiencing intense anger, sorrow, and so forth. The main restriction, beyond the need for a strong emotion to be present, is only an existing fire can be manipulated. No wyrmblood can conjure flame from nothing. Another interesting facet of this unusual ability is any fire controlled by a wyrmblood turns a brilliant shade of blue. As soon as the emotion empowering the elf fades, however, their talent gradually recedes.

Still, summoning walls of teal-colored flame, launching darts of blazing agony at their foes, and surrounding themselves in a fiery aura are all within the purview of those with draconic blood. It's also worth noting that all wyrmbloods are born with bright red hair.

-Caramag, "The Wind Song": The Caramag, which means "Wind Song" in the ancient elven tongue, is both remarkable and unusual. Created many millennia ago by ljosalfr born without a connection to the mystical arts, this technique is comprised of fifty "movements." Each one is meant to emulate an animal, gesture, or some other natural occurrence. The only major limitation is the movements must be performed with one or two swords. Originally conceived as a way to give those lacking magical talent an edge in battle, the Wind Song eventually transformed into something more. It became a method for training the next generation of light and dark elven swordmasters, talented warriors obsessed with perfecting their bladework. Bardolan the Grim was one such individual and, during his youth in Crete, he was taught the fifty movements of the Caramag by a dokkalfr swordmistress. Before his death in 1800, the elderly light elf passed on everything he knew to his niece, Narcissa Veclis.

While the she-elf can now use edged weapons in ways most people cannot imagine, the Caramag doesn't allow her to deflect bullets or slash tanks apart. It does, however, give Narcissa the ability to slice off limbs and tear flesh with all the ease of ripping paper. Each movement of the Caramag is capable of killing someone if it's used in the proper context. For instance, The Goat Leaps Skyward is a high jump followed by a vicious downward chop, which is driven by the momentum gained during the initial leap. This movement not only allows the swordmaster or swordmistress to close the gap between themselves and their adversaries, but it also a devastating executioner's cut. All of the fifty movements can be used in various ways, granting those who practice the Caramag unparalleled control over the battlefield. As long as they can reach the enemy. Sadly, with the advent of firearms, the Wind Song has fallen into disuse, though there are still several swordmasters scattered across the globe. Some have even begun to adapt the Wind Song's movements to handle foes armed with long-range weapons.

-Elven Senses: It may not seem as impressive as her pyromancy and knowledge of the Caramag, but Vigilance also has the keen senses of an adult ljosalfr at her disposal. She can hear the sound of someone's heart beating on the other side of a brick wall. It's also nearly impossible to poison her, because Narcissa can tell if there's anything unusual in her food or drink after one mouthful. If her tongue doesn't alert her to the lethal substance's presence then her nose will. All elves have superior senses compared to the lesser races, and those dwelling in Santa Somabra rely on them a great deal to survive. Failing to pay attention in this city usually has lethal consequences.

Charly stood aloof from the Rats that sat gathered in the basement of the decrepit building that the Alchemist and his gang had claimed as their own. Three stories of what had once been a fashionable brownstone in the heart of Santa Somabra had been reduced to a collection of empty beer bottles, assorted garbage reclaimed as seating, peeling wallpaper, and all that was needed to produce a sizable amount of the narcotics which had poisoned the city over the decades and twisted it into a dark shadow of itself. On a couch turned throne in the middle of the room sat the man known only as the Alchemist, an infamous leader of a most infamous band of Rats, the Chemical Fiends. Drug pushers, thieves, and murders one and all, led by a middling magician with a gift for the alchemical arts, and widely considered to be one of the vilest gangs under the banner of the Rats to stalk the streets of Santa Somabra.

"Who’s the girl?" One of the gathered thugs said with a sneer, his voice carrying above the electronic music that droned from an expensive (and therefore stolen) sound system. He cast a disdainful and less than chivalrous look in Charly’s direction, offering the well-practiced smile of a true scumbag. "I thought standing orders were not to bring floozies around the product."

The Alchemist looked up from the array of foul connotations and vile narcotics gathered in front of him with a slight frown on his brow, unhappy at the unexpected interruption. He sniffled, blowing his nose in a handkerchief that seemed to materialize in his hand. Adorned in rags with his face hidden beneath a mask of cloth painted with the visage of a demon, and wearing a tricorne hat, the Alchemist looked like some sort of pauper villain. Charly watched every motion of the robed figure, knowing full well that trouble was brewing. Unmoving she waited for his cruel temper to erupt and began to consider what he’d have her do this time.

"Ah, you mean Charly," the Alchemist answered, smiling as if laughing at a secret joke. "Careful brother, she’s a gift from Telvus, so don’t touch, she’s beyond you and your ilk."

"That old fool? What’s he got to do with her?" The thug replied with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"That my brother is not for you to know," the Alchemist said as a deep frown took hold over his features. "From where did this sudden curiosity arise? Are you questioning me?"

"No, of course not! Sorry boss," the unfortunate Rat muttered in a low, apologetic voice, cowering like a dog and slinking away to a corner of the room.

"Frankly, I’m more offended that you would disparage Telvus so," the Alchemist continued with a satisfied grin, lazily returning to the
chemicals and arcane ingredients gathered in front of him. "You forget, he was quite the talent once, feared by all, before addiction left him weak and addled, consumed him from within. The last great archmage of this forsaken city, and not a man you’d cross if you wanted to remain among the living."

Telvus, the named still burned to hear, awoke the golem from her own thoughts, and rekindled the hatred that burned inside of her. It filled her mind with unwelcome memories that tasted of fire and smelt faintly like kindling slowly being consumed by flames. Charly felt the pull of the ethereal chains that bound her, the last betrayal that the archmage had inflicted upon her soul, and she nursed the hope of one day finding her hands wrapped around his neck, watching what little life remained leaving his retched body.

"Whatever you say boss-man," another of the Rats interjected. A neon upstart dressed for a night of raving, with a face that Charly could not recall, he was one of the newer additions to the gang, unimportant cannon fodder. This Rat, unlike his comrade, spoke with fresh vigor and a hint of rebellion, the strength of youth at its prime. "Then what’s she doing here if she isn’t a decoration, oh wizard? You going soft on us old man? You some exception to the rules now? This waif supposed to be one of us, a servant of the Chemical Lord himself?"

Biding her time, Charly resisted the idle urge to send the loudmouthed thug sailing into the unfinished brick wall. She had learned quickly that her new employer (a much preferred term to master and one she had been quick to adopt) did not take kindly to independent action from those in his employment. She had paid dearly for her last dalliance with freedom and now she simply wanted to do what the Alchemist commanded and to stay on his good side, far from trouble.

"You wound me brother, do you think I’d keep for my own a servant as weak as you? Do you truly believe that I, of all people, have forgotten the law of our land," The Alchemist replied, his voice now carrying a deadly edge of threat. "Unlike you the rest of you miscreants, she’s of the dependable sort. She’ll break your bones if I ask her to, leave you a pile of broken bones in a puddle of blood, and it won’t cost me so much as a pretty penny."

"Bullshit, that wisp of a girl couldn’t hurt me if she tried. You know, I'm already tired of you, your magic mumbo-jumbo and this dump."

Laughter escaped from the Alchemist’s pale lips, a hint of wild madness apparent, "Try then my brother, test her strength, but do not blame me when you face your doom." Waving nonchalantly at Charly, the Alchemist gestured at the source of his current displeasure, "If you please Charly, a demonstration, and don’t mind the carpet I’ve been meaning to have it replaced."

---

To fearful murmurs and terrified gazes Charly wiped the blood and viscera off of her knuckles with a dirty rag, standing over the shattered remains of her challenger with an unchanged face. The gathered Rats had grown pale and sat in shocked silence, entranced by the carnage they had just witnessed, all save the Alchemist, who laughed and laughed, rolling across the couch on which he lounged, practically convulsing in a fit of mad laughter.

Charly had learned to hate the familiar sound of his laughter, almost as much as she hated the Alchemist himself, and almost as much as she hated Telvus, the source of all her sorrow. Yet, what did it matter? These foolish things of flesh and blood were dying, slowly, and with each passing moment. She had time on her side and she would have her vengeance, even if it took a hundred years.

She would not forget.