Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by Kingfisher
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Nyxvira Bloodbloom


Name/Nicknames: Nyxvira Bloodbloom (Nyxie)

Race: Faerie

Age: 120

Appearance:



Nyxvira is a squat and thickset Faerie, with blotchy pale skin and a corpulent form. Even for a young woman she is short, which only serves to accentuate her weighty build. She has a giant waist, very broad hips, and meaty legs; with her thighs brushing together. A huge gut protrudes from beneath her clothes; a great white boulder that juts out in front of her, with faint stretch-marks criss-crossing around its edges.

Her hair is a dry auburn, flecked with strands of bright red, and has been cut short, falling down around her shoulders.

While she has noticeably chunky arms, this is due to a mixture of both fat and muscle. Nyx possessing great deal more upper-body strength than one would commonly attribute to a faerie girl. Her legs are thick with muscle from supporting her full-figure, with a dense layer of fat adding some extra padding to them.

She has a round face, with a noticeable second chin, and the beginnings on a third. Bright orange freckles are scattered across her likeness, her nose is broad, and she had close-set sparkling gold eyes. She has a plump mouth, with full dark red lips.
Ethereal yellow wings, streaked with faint golden lights, protrude from her back; great incorporeal appendages that flitter in and out of existence, adorned with ornate swirls and patterns, which phase into being at her bidding.

Personality: Nyxvira takes an abnormal approach to life, being somewhat of an emotionally repressed individual. Her dry wit and sadistic sense of humour often create social boundaries, and she has very few strong emotional relationships to speak of. She possesses a hyper and overactive mental state, but cares little for matters which don’t interest her, and is poor at pretending otherwise.

She struggled with her self-image growing up, but the narcissistic, self-worshiping figure she has become bares little to no resemblance to the once immensely self-conscious little girl she was before. Her steely confidence and fiery charisma give the young Faerie an element of charm, which (when coupled with her quick wit) draws others to her. Her appetites for binge eating and sexual encounters are both self-destructive, but these are crippling grey areas to her, above and beyond her wiser judgment and the scrutiny she holds the rest of her actions up to.

Her rapid and uncontrolled mood swings hint at an element of instability, which are accompanied by long bouts of depressive emptiness. To keep herself from becoming too down, Nyxvira makes sure the she is constantly occupied, and (when all else fails her) she always has food to turn to.

The Faerie’s fluctuating temper is legendary, and perhaps the most obvious display of her furious mood swings. Small changes to her day, or countless other minor inconveniences, can send Nyxvira into a chronic black mood, making her lash out at those around her.

Bio: Nyxvira grew up in her family’s ancestral grove in the county of Surrey in England, and lived her first years completely separated from outside influence, dwelling solely within Faerie society. Out of her six siblings, the gift of magic was most present in Nyx, and so she was made Matriarch of the House of Bloodbloom, and given dominance over her family’s grove and the other faeries within it. Once she was an acceptable age, Nyxvira received some tutelage within the primarily human outside world, and began attending various classes.
Initially, Nyxvira was tormented for her weight and narcissistic personality, cast out by the other children, but through a mixture of flaunting her prominent status, arcane charms, and intimidation, Nyxvira managed to work her way the social hierarchy; asserting herself as one of the dominant bullies and manipulators in her school.

Throughout her time in school Nyxvira would lure off unsuspecting children and painfully metamorphosize them into Hobb servants for her household. Several police investigations were launched into the House of Bloodbloom, but no concrete evidence was ever found. Whether this was due to careful planning on the arrogant Faeries part, of a hesitance by authorities to spark an incident with notoriously powerful faeries is unknown. For a period in time Nyxvira was the resident drug dealer at her school; using Hobbs to transport her wares back and forth, until she grew bored of her primarily human clientèle.

Disgusted by her francizing with humans, and the poor manner by which their sister mistreated them, the other children of the house of Bloodbloom eventually rose up against Nyxvira, casting out her and her Hobb thralls, and assuming control of the family grove for themselves.
Nyxvira moved from country to country, soaking up a great many languages and cultures; spreading mischief and discord as she went, constantly being chased out by furious communities. Overtime, Nyxvira honed her criminal arts, eventually building up a large network of contacts within the nefarious underworld.

By the time Nyxvira arrived in Santa Somabra, she had built herself a thriving gang of zealously loyal Hobb thralls; ready to tend to her every whim. Moving into Chinatown, Nyxvira and her Hobbs launched a vicious gang war with the local tong, eventually culminating with Nyx assuming control of Chinatown, via a mixture of sending her Hobbs on deadly suicide missions, and cleverly manipulating the local population with a mixture of skulduggery and smoke and mirrors tactics.

Nyx began running smuggling operations out of Chinatown, as well as offering mercenary work for up-and-coming hired guns.

Nyxvira’s gang endured throughout both world wars, thriving off of prohibition, and over the next few years the Bloodbloom Syndicate grew into a force to be reckoned with; having enveloped several smaller gangs into its vast expanse.

It was when the Forlorn Disciples rolled into Santa Somabra that Nyxvira made her deadliest power grab yet.

Blackmailing SSPD Detectives Amelio and Johanssen into working for her, and hiring the infamous undead Lost Boys, Nyxie was successful in repelling the Hunter invasion, and executing Ameilkas; the then den mother of the Somabra Hunters.

Whilst the rest of the city was out dealing with the Canoness and her disciples, Nyxvira kidnapped Donato Martovanni, and forced the location of the Martovanni Mithril Mine out of him. A vast fountain of one of the world’s most valuable minerals now in her grasp, Nyxvira Bloodbloom suddenly had enough guns and money to stage a city-wide takeover.

Storming Martovanni, Nyctari, and Reaper strongholds, the Faerie queenpin dealt crippling blows to her competition in one swift stroke, decimating the Reapers and the Rotfaces all together.

Bringing in mercenaries from across the globe, the numbers of the Bloodbloom Syndicate began to swell. Three years later, Nyxie is now the top dog in Santa Somabra, and one of the most powerful crime bosses in all of the United States.


Other: Faeries are universally feared and mistrusted for their wicked ways, but also held up as diety-like beings by some, more superstitious cultures, which is something Nyxvira uses to her utmost advantage.
Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by Atrophy
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Atrophy Meddlesome Kid

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Name: Valorie Pierce

Race: Human // Necromancer

Age: 20

Valorie is shorter than most human women, barely breaking five feet tall with shoes. A passing glance would make the woman appear aesthetically skinny, but underneath her clothing she's unhealthily scrawny with barely any feminine curves and nearly non-existing muscle thanks to a choice diet of cigarettes, straight liquor, and hard drugs. There are a number of cut-sized scars on her body due to her “studies”. A careful application of makeup hide the numerous blemishes and gives color to her pale skin, draws attention away from the bloodshot veins in her light brown eyes, and keeps the bruises out of sight. She tries to take care of her teeth, but her smoking and coffee habit try harder to stain them. When she smiles she does so with closed lips, although her resting expression is an unintentional one of a muted, disgusted frown. The girl has a definite oral fixation, and always is either smoking, chewing on something, talking, or a gross combination of the three.

Her clothing choices can be best described as “secondhand preppy chic” or “try hard twee poser” depending on the person. She dresses in layers to hide her lack of curves, and favors longer sleeves to cover up the track marks. The paint on her fingernails are red and chipping. Her blonde hair is rarely without an accessory and she always keeps a pair of sunglasses handy so she can pull off her best Corey Hart impression. She rudely keeps her stock white earphones plugged in unless with friends. When she talks, her voice is almost always one level louder than it should be and squeaks with sickening shrillness. As well, she talks with a manic pace and large gestures, and tends to stand with good posture and an open appearance.

Personality: On the outside, Valorie is the primo example of wasting youth on the young. She cares about vapid, useless things that offer little satisfaction at a heavy price. When she's with her fellow Rats she's the first to slam a shot, jump in the mosh, suck a face, get high, and throw a fist. Her energetic, flirty, and outgoing nature makes her both the life of the party if the highs mix right or its slow, hemorrhaging death if the lows hit harder. It's clear that she has not fully grown-up. She's opinionated and can be an insufferable brat when she does not get what she wants. She's the kind of girl who seems like she thought people were serious when she was called princess as a child. Ask one of Valorie's friends, however, and you'd see the woman behind the party girl. She's cares deeply about her peers, and would drop anything to help one who was in need. Valorie may bite the head off of a stranger, but would be the one to extend the olive branch after a fight with a friend. She invites people who'd be too shy to normally speak up into conversations, and keeps the conversation moving without dominating it.

On the inside, Valorie is extremely motivated and dedicated to her studies, but struggles with finding a proper balance between her work with the Rats, her work as a rat, and her own interests. She's excited about having a group of friends that seem to enjoy her company, and often loses sleep by worrying about what would happen if she was exposed. She's disorganized, confused, and anxious. Her smoking habit has nearly doubled to two packs a day since moving to Santa Somabra. She's naïve, she knows it, and that scares her. Sometimes, Valorie thinks about packing up her bags and running home. Other times, she considers coming clean and taking responsibility for her screw ups. Mostly, though, mostly she daydreams, convincing herself that this will all be worth it when she's a super badass lich with a skeleton horde and zombie underlings.

Bio: Valorie's childhood was spent moving around the country every year or so. When she was five her parents bought her a beagle to keep her company and also to shut up about getting her a sister. She named the dog Samantha. It was a boy dog. Again, she was five. Valorie and Samantha grew up together. They played together. They slept together. They went to the bathroom together until the neighbors alerted her parents about it; it became one of those embarrassing memories Val's mother would bring up to embarrass her in front of her friends. Simply put, the two were inseparable. For a decade, Valorie palled around with her pup; Samantha, or Sammy as she mercifully started calling the dog, was her best friend. So of course, like a family movie that wants to easily tug at your heartstrings and leave parents with an uncomfortable discussion after the credits roll, the dog died. Hit by a drunk driver. Real graphic. Blood and guts everywhere, kind of where the family movie plot falls apart.

Valorie was wrought by guilt. Not that kind of lame, self-blaming guilt where she it was her fault Sammy got smeared because she didn't lock a gate or left the door cracked ajar or something innocent like that. No, it was more of the kind of “oh shit, I hit my dog while going for a joy ride in my dad's Bentley after getting smashed after three Bud Lites I'm going to be grounded forever also my dog's dead” kind of guilt. So, she did what any responsible underage teenager would do in that situation: she packed a cooler full of ice, scooped her dog off the pavement, picked the tufts of blood and fur from the car's grill, and turned to the Internet. About a dip into the deep web, several restless nights of reading and practicing, a few dozen energy drinks, maybe half a pint of blood drawn into a pentagram, a fair amount of amateur needlework, some low-light candles and atmospheric music to set the mood, and an incredible amount of good luck later Sammy was back. Oh, and Valorie was now, technically, a necromancer and would probably be in a real “not cool” position if people found out about it, but hey, dog's not dead. A little mangy, smells kind of bad, missing some fur, ear isn't quite right, obvious stitching, but alive-ish.

Despite knowing the inherent dangers, Valorie becoming unhealthily obsessed with necromancy and all sorts of other fun, dangerous, blood magic things. The fancy for the weird did not fade away as she went to college in Colorado, and she soon became “that” roommate who never went to class, never went to parties, barely left the room to eat, and had extremely questionable hygienic practices. College wasn't a complete waste, though. The nearby cemetery gave her plenty of opportunities to practice on things a bit more complex than beagles. She managed to raise a human once, although her spell only lasted a minute. Still, it was perhaps the most unpleasant minute of her life. He just complained so much. If she knew now that this was how most conversations with the deceased went, she would have switched her personal studies into demonology or something. At least devils try to be charming.

Not going to classes was a pretty good way to fail out of college. Still, Valorie hadn't fully wasted her tuition; her talents and interests just happened to not be part of the curriculum. She was confident enough in her skills to be able to temporarily raise humans for a few minutes with a regular success rate. Now, she just needed a way to use that talent to pay for food and board. Colorado didn't have many opportunities for an illegal necromancer, and she felt her parents would become suspicious upon seeing Sammy if she went home. She decided to take her chances in Santa Somabra.

And what does an illegal, amateur, naive necromancer do in a city that was currently plagued with an undead problem? Does she join the Brotherhood of Rot to be closer to likeminded individuals? Does she take what she calls the easy way out and join a vampire family with hope for that cool sign-on bonus of eternal life to give her plenty of time to research? Nope. She gets arrested for maleficence after being caught drawing runes at a graveyard. Her arresting officers, who Valorie suspects to be much like the majority of the cops in Santa Somabra, are on the take. She gets an offer: either work for them as an undercover agent to aid their “superiors”, or enjoy a nice campfire where she served as the kindling.

And so, the dog-loving, amateur necromancer became a Rat.

Other: Valorie has a tiny studio apartment that that she shares with her zomb-dog, Sammy. It's fully feature complete with loud neighbors, thin walls, poor pest control, a terrible view, and a dangerous neighborhood. She sleeps on her couch both because it's comfortably and because it's her only furniture. Internet she “borrows” from her neighbors. The electricity's been out for a while. She's behind on rent. It's great!

Her necromancy is self-taught through whatever reading she can find and trial and error methods. She's strictly forbidden by her contact within the police from using her magic, and generally prefers to keep it as a secret from her fellow Rats and friends. Her magic is rather weak for a necromancer, meaning it is still greatly reviled and potentially dangerous. The longest she raised a human was for about four minutes using her own fresh blood; the length of their undead vacation greatly shortens when the blood is either not fresh or not hers. Animals she can command for maybe an hour before they turn to ash, although the time rapidly diminishes with the more she tries to raise and the quality of blood she uses. Valorie hasn't been given the chance to raise any already fantastical creatures and could only guess with where she'd start.

She commonly carries her phone, earphones, sunglasses, key, a perpetually almost-empty wallet, at least one pack of cigarettes, gum, a knife, a flask full of slowly congealing Type O, mace, various personal goods, and a stolen gun with about five bullets left that she's afraid to touch.
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Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Drinky
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Drinky A Crow

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Name/Nicknames: Godric "Gish" Styx

Race: Goblin

Age: 28

Appearance: As with all Goblins, Gish only stand at 4' 5". His nose and chin almost come to a fine point, much like his teeth. Yellowed eyes dart around beneath the shade provided by a black top hat. A thin and malnourished body hidden behind a large, padded coat. Sewn patches cover the coat almost entirely. The colors all faded, look as though they had been torn from whatever was available to fill a hole.

Gish has the vain idea his over sized, padded coat give him the appearance that he is larger than he actually is. Realistically the coat only serves to protect him from a quick slash given by a small knife or to provide a means of 'slipping loose' from an attackers grasp should he be cornered.

Beneath his beloved coat he wears a stain ridden white shirt and some black slacks he picked from a garbage can. He carries a sawn off shotgun with his own brand of extra hot loaded shells, just in case.

Personality: Gish doesn't do much to break the mold for what most people have come to think of Goblins.

Greed is his one and only motivation. Money for food, cigars, booze, and whatever else he needs are what drives him. Though coin is often preferred, Gish knows the going price for other commodities traded in the city.

Information is always useful. A good contact with one of the small time or larger gangs can come in handy if one ever needs to point fingers to turn a buck. Someone who can get things done are worth calling in a favor from. Drugs can be traded, cut, doubled in quantity (as far as the buyer knows) and traded for something more useful. There's always a way to make an exchange work for Gish if the other party can be relied on.

Gish isn't a tough guy. He'll weasel his way out of almost anything if his tongue is fast enough.

He'll be your best friend if you have something he wants, or if he knows you're ready to start a fight if you're not told what you want to hear.

People who cheat Gish won't be met with bricks and firebombs flying through their bedroom windows. Too much heat comes with that. If Gish gets cheated, he draws on his wealth of contacts to find the person who screwed him and everything about them. A bit of poison served in a cocktail at their favorite bar, a call girl who's been bribed to call foul when no foul was committed. Gish will find a way to get them back.

Bio: Gish makes his way in the criminal underworld mostly in firearms. All conducted from his own small apartment.

His skill as an under the table gunsmith is what puts bread on the table, though he's been known to deal drugs and stolen charms on the side.

If a piece needs repairs Gish may not be your first choice, but he'll get the job done. Guns get a good amount use in Santa Somabra, a "wall hanger" is almost unheard of. If you're a nobody and can barely figure out which end of the gun the bullet comes out of, Gish might take the liberty of dulling a firing pin and tacking a replacement on to the bill. "Excess use" is his go-to line.

If you're a somebody or are linked to a big gang, Gish knows his place. Rather cut the potential profits than have enforcers busting down his door.

Need a few extra loud rounds to tell everyone in a 3 block radius to stay clear? Gish is your guy. Custom loads, blessed silver bullets for a pesky werewolf, want em extra hot to make sure an ogre stays down? Gish will even engrave them if the shot is for a 'special someone'.

Despite the demand, Gish rarely deals in whole firearms. Too much heat. Doing repairs with no questions asked and no paper trail is a much safer bet with still plenty of demand. If a good buck can be made on a small order for whole firearms, Gish can pull a few strings, but only if his gut tells him he can trust you.

Elves pay double.



Other: Gish does his best to keep neutral with all the city's big players. Widens his customer base that way. Keeps the favors and information dealing as even as he can between them. Moves locations every few months to stay off anybody's turf to avoid being directly associated with them.

Big players may mean bigger profits, but they can also mean bigger problems.

Cast a wider net, and you'll pull in enough small fish to have a meal or two.


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Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

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"Lady In Red; 1492, Artist: Uknown."
theme.
Maharet.Roquelaure
The Lady In Red; Mistress Mekare; Maman Nefertiti.
Ancient Vampire. | Nyctarium. | Leader of eastern Nyctari thus dubbed Nyctarium in Italy, France and Spain.

ᴀɢᴇ —"but tell of days in goodness spent."
Based upon initial impression, Maharet appears, unassumingly, stranded in her early thirties; time eludes the eternal, and she cannot say or remember how much she had been aged before the blood and night became her mistress and her master. An accumulation of paintings and depictions of her likeness can be dated back into the late 1400’s, leading into the Early Renaissance. Among her own people, Maharet is considered entirely Ancient, an elder by blood and enthrallment that comes naturally with finesse.


ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ —"she walks in beauty, like the night."
Vixen-esque: a rictus befitting the illusion of a vulpine seductress by the sharp planes of her countenance and the critical deduction of her slanted, almond featured eyes. Every definition of Maharet’s psyche is poised, refined, an incredibly obtuse elegance practiced from an early age and systematically exercised, and nurtured through her adaptation of many centuries. Through the ages; the fashions, the technology; the many lives and facades she has underwent, there has been one consistent factor to her assemblage: the mane of red hair that has oft been trademarked in her various cameos. Never once altering within colour, but having beheld many a style in her age. A dark ginger within the cold, and a warm flame in the sun, and left alone in a tumble of waves that is entirely artful in every slight curl, complimented and off set by the steelish azure of her eyes and pale complexion. Sweeping back her fringe exposes the unique bridge of her nose, proud, and accentuated by the slight of her brow; akin to something delicate. However, beneath the softness of her wide, bow shaped mouth is the feral savagery lurking beneath.

Maharet’s dress sense over the years has adapted to a peculiar, often bi-polar style, switching on her whims and whichever time has best suited her current deposition, similar to her method of decoration and decorum. Interchanging to heavy, mauve velvet, to waif, slim skirts and chiffon in the finest of materials she has imported over time, Maharet is never seen donning a duplicate in her wardrobe and proudly owns a plethora of styles and fabrics within her arsenal of fashion. Time has bequeathed the vampire with a lithe body, slender in appearance, never burdened by the limitations of mortal flaws, further brightened by her ancient prowess and the uniqueness of her blood. She carries herself with a languid simplicity, all gathered into a five-six frame, deliberate and exact, deducting her purpose with coiled muscle, almost lazy and hypnotic with the sheath of her eyes shuttering the steel backdrop of her glances.


ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ —"where thoughts serenely sweet express"
When one lives as long as she, and gains with them many titles and names, time and life blurs into a myriad of shapes and forms; colours blotted into a series of hues and saturation that eventually become one thing: grey. Maharet’s personality has become such: a muted, desolate existence of tragedy and sensitivity by the sheer magnitude of her life. Bored does not even come close to describing her state of mind. However, the current listlessness she experiences does not deviate from her methods of enjoyment, gluttony is one of her favoured sins, bridled beside vanity and hubris. She indulges through the splendors of every age with a mass of subjects, toys, projects and dalliances with an abandon of pure, unsaturated hunger whenever the urge takes her. Not to be confused with carelessness, for Maharet has not lived this long by means of unattributed irrationality, or means of cruelty for her own selfish entertainment. She’s methodically careful, choosing those around her with care and finesse or simply embarks into years of solitude - it’s amazing how easily the eternal can slumber. On first impressions Maharet is deducted as soft, careful, deliberate in her idle motions, as if to betray attention away from her person, but hidden beneath the initial barrier is the wealth of knowledge and habit, the critically judging woman who takes catalog of everything around her.

But life, existence, is boring, dull; illustration a cavernous void in the pit of her being. And any sense of morality or obligation has been heavily warped in her perception, to the exact detail of where right and wrong do not exist, but various uniforms of grey instead interchange. To inquire of the scarlet mistress if she feels guilt in her life, or any reservation, would receive a slow, disarming blink of complacency that’s frustrating to those who penchant themselves to be above the dank, dismal refuge to the trafficking of the mortal soul and the wealth of currency that is blood. Boredom can be assumed when Maharet browses, when she’s not dipping into the crime syndicate, applying her knowledge of the years through their induction and accession into the game. However, Maharet never limits herself, her tendency is to be involved in everything she is capable of dwelling into, no matter the danger or the betrayal - when you have not to live for, you have nothing to lose.

However, no matter the amount of cool deduction, she is a creature of the night, of the blood and the shadows, and as such of their rein she is capable of the feral, bestial nature of their unstable desires. During the wicked hours, when Maharet steps across the threshold, she easily slips into the glutton, the wanton lady who pursues mortals based upon their beauty and favour. Though humans, frail and soft, are not the sole, [un]fortunate individuals to be subjected to her enthrallment, Maharet does not discriminate again her lessor kin [and she says this dismissively] - centuries of having endured such and witnessed changes within society has blurred the line for this particular vampire to where most faces blend seamlessly to a blur of blood, scent, and the essence that is life no matter which taint it carries.

Since the time of the Canoness, Maharet has developed a more sadistic and manic disposition, interchanging the complacent, gluttonous mistress from her former self that was refined and poised. She's perhaps more willing to bend and sway those of lesser rank and royalty into her favour, if only to toss them aside later when their use wanes into nonexistence. The pit of woe inside her breast has increased ten fold, pelting Maharet with a carnal desire and need to smother the void that she is becoming.


ʙɪᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜʏ —"one shade the more, one ray the less"
During the Early Renaissance, when the cultural movement of art and intellect pursuits began cupping the fringe of human intelligence and perspective, the first oil painting of Maharet’s nature was first displayed, bequeathing her the title of The Lady in Red. An enigma of what she was rather than who, for the man who captured her likeness in the forever swatches of colour had been found drained of his lifeblood the following day his gallery had been embellished around the infamous piece. Though still careful and deciding in nature, some branches of the illustrious Nyctari family, known as the Nyctarius in the early royals of Italy, had been rather offended by the gall of painters, philosophers and men known to this day to have cultivated the branch between the fourteenth century and the seventeenth. To think they could seal away their beauty and power on a mere canvas or to be told within whimsical tales! Maharet was still young, fresh, youthful among the leagues of family and her creator, a woman who merely went by the name of Maman.

Vampires and other worldly creatures were still adapting, having been risen from a slumber of mysterious origins, old, decrepit elders were nearly petrified by their elongated rest and thus had taken to a gluttonous retribution and plagued most of the human realm with their - for lack of better term - disease. Most would call the time of feverish pain some other sickness, a plague of the dead, an arise of evil, satanic and barbaric with the feral condition most went under during this molestation of change. Maharet, created much sooner by Maman’s vanity and avarice to obtain many daughters, stood by to witness this carnage and felt the first struggles of bloodlust - no matter how cultivated her hunger was under Maman’s tutelage to partake of the purest of essences. But, they were not alone, many other creatures too blended along with the human kind, and for their cavernous hunger, they suffered pillages and consequences and as such, a smear of ebony came with their uttered curse.

However, Maharet, despite various warnings and advertisement against doing so, found a certain enjoyment in making appearances through the critical advancements in time, and always through the creation of a painting or the snip of a photo - though blurred. Perhaps it was her vanity, no amount of lessons could rid her of that sin, but the eternal perspective of her likeness always spurred a sense of desire in her, waking forth a long, dusted amount of lust when she managed to inspire a particular piece of fine, wonderful talent. She admired these beings who, like she, saw the world through different eyes - her perception shadowed and dead, theirs bright and ever lasting. Maman often advised against such admiration, often quoting that human life was vibrant, but also wasting, vanishing like stars and sunbursts. They were eternal, servants to the night, they would last and Maharet never quite understood that lesson until time bled into a dampened deluge of grey and black and before she realized it, centuries had leaped across her eyes in a fickle, slow, blink.

No one had ever told her of this eternity and in her only recalled moment of irrational behavior, the vampire child fled from her creator and disbanded from their family.

Becoming like a flicker of flame, Maharet wove her life seamlessly into the existence of others, she courted lords, she courted ladies, leaving their bed chambers in the night and fed on them, leaving only the whiff of her as a parting gift. She meddled into their lives, almost careless in her immersion and fed on more than her fair share, blood-drunk, she’d say and basked into the near euphoric gluttony she reaped across their hearts. She garnered many names, titles and stories, painting were made and fond memories were whispered of her, a new moniker gracing herself illustrated in the admiration of others.

But as time often proved to her, again and again, this too did not last. Maharet fell into a fitful slumber, sealing herself into a deep state of comatose to waste away her tragic being. Perhaps a bit theatrical, as later those of her ancient family would call her foolish and woeful, Maharet cared not for these sparing details for at the centre of her being pooled all the greys of her life into a weighted stone. She barely acknowledged fellow creatures, figuring them beneath her and so she slept, for how many years, she cannot discern.

This was until the Nyctari family woke her up.

Rousing the Lady in Red from her rest, it produced a cannibalistic slaughter, Maharet’s near mad feeding frenzy sating the hunger of a beast long induced into hibernation. Though viewed as almost taboo, to feed on those of her species, Maharet’s power of blood kept her from succumbing to a bestial insanity associated with cannibalism among their people. So, when the haze of red fled from her vision, they told her in somber words that Maman was dead. Initially surprised that the woman had lived so long, they admitted fleetingly that the ancient being was nearing a petrified state of withering bone and no amount of feeding could stave off her decomposition, much to their dismay when Maman literally was spent into a fine powder in her final hours. Instructions were left in her demise and in such was the demand that Maharet be awoken, for what purpose the Nyctari family was never informed and much to Maharet’s depressing displeasure.

Time has loped by since she feasted on her kith and kin, and when Santa Somabra was pillaged under the reaping of the undead and their mistress, she had attempted to rally her remaining family under a unification to find and reclaim their rule and to end the Canoness. However, lies and secrets crafted avenues far and deep through the vampires, resulting in a betrayal and conspiracy that traced root and bedlam back to Italy. Thus Maharet departed Santa Somabra to attend to these atrocities, leaving behind the Nyctari to the pillaging of the rotting disciples and to become swept up into the turning of power within the city. She tore out the throats of her former associates, she sliced down to their petrified marrow and effectively ended the Nyctarius line that was fostered on slaughtering and killing the only mother and sisters she had known. Through the dismemberment and ferocity that was her retribution, Maharet sired the Nyctarium on the bones and ashen remains of her ancestors, using the dust to cement her new title. She enchanted various vampires into her fold, she adopted thralls of various races and wreathed them in splendor of blood and fornication. Her newly risen empire was of dark and blood and shadows that boiled up from the gloom like tendrils of a great, seductive beast that coiled tight around Italy, France and began teasing into Spain.

Knowing full well that she would, eventually, return to Santa Somabra to reap out the remaining conspirators that saw to Maman's death, and not to mention many others that were exhausted and spent under the betrayals, she summoned a contingent of thralls and followers and crossed the eternal blue of the Atlantic to once again breath in the stench and decay that was the remains of this city. Maharet made her stronghold, first, in the Red Light districts, slinking in slow and with intent and became the proprietor of the Rouge where rumours were purposely leaked that the Lady in Red had returned to Santa Somabra to "purify" her fellow night dwellers. Details of her savagery in Italy had not gone unnoticed, producing this vampire dame as both an enemy and a potential ally with how her reach has grown and extended— she has become what her creator intended her to be.


ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ —"meet in her aspect and her eyes"
.. The Rouge is Maharet's base of operations and a well visited strip where any and all are welcome through her scarlet doors.
. Maharet doesn't despise the Nyctari or the Nyte Kings, she has contacts weaving in and out of them, but never swears loyalty or intent to any of the factions and often pits the two against one another if such an opportunity arises.
. With her various thralls and those swindled under her enchantment of powerful and potent blood magic, she has a personally selected group that she trusts that she calls her Bien-Aimés.
. With Maharet's age, her ability to imprint and sway those to her favour is considered nearly lethal with her method of suggestion and seduction.

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Name/Nicknames
Sander Loraine

Race
Human/Possessed

Age
22

Appearance


Sander isn’t the type of guy you would spare a second look at. Standing at 6’1’’ and weighing roughly 166lbs, he is just your typical young adult. Even his eyes and hair are of an unremarkable dark brown, the latter is always left in a messy mop that cascades down his forehead. The choice of hair style fits perfectly with his wardrobe, which mostly consisted of worn t-shirts and faded jeans, all decorated with questionable stains in several different hues. On his best days, when he actually tries to comb his wild mop of hair and put on the most expensive attire he owns, he might manage to look like a college drop-out at best. Despite the abundance corpses needed to dispose, Santa Somabra does not pay its cleaners well. However, all that time spent lugging body bags around does help with his figure. Beneath the second-hand clothing, Sander is all lithe muscles and tightly coiled sinew.

While he is definitely not a combatant, several sets of impressive scars adorn his body, mostly on the forearms and upper torso. They are all knife wounds, some shallow and faded, while others deep and almost uninterrupted as they mar his skin. They seem to form a pattern of sort, if one takes the time to look. However, he makes a point of wearing coats at all time.

He is the farthest thing from intimidating though. A little creepy, maybe, as he maintains calmness and disinterest even when presented with the goriest of scenes. But then again, in this hell hole of a city, who wouldn’t? While his eyes lack the sharpness of fighters, they still have a piercing quality to them, and sometimes that is all enough to spook some people. But aside from that, his posture is hardly out of the ordinary, mostly in synch with his average appearance.

Personality
When dealing with others, Sander is all polite smiles and diplomatic responses. He does his best to remain as forgettable and insignificant as possible, rarely speaks out in the company of those he doesn’t deem trustworthy. Which is pretty much the majority of people in this cursed town, of course. While many mistook his quiet demeanor for weakness and pushed him around, he still let them, but only to some reasonable degrees. You don’t live long in Santa Somabra for being a prey, and while Sander isn’t a predator, he is, for all intent and purposes, a survivor. The burning desire to live a life free from his past’s influence, copes with steel determination and an almost infinitive amount of patient, is the only thing that keeps him going through all his trials, after all.

However, the time in Santa Somabra did stave off his naivety somewhat. He’s practical and rational in his actions, only does things that will be beneficial for himself or his business. Asides from that, he rarely cares about what doesn’t directly affect him or his life style. Despite being frequently employed by different factions, he often keeps out of their businesses and is reluctant to pick a side. After all, getting himself involved in their little tug-of-war is the last thing on his mind.

Bio
Cults aren’t exactly exclusive to Santa Somabra. And so does murderous witches with ties to murderous entities. Strangely enough, he came to this bloody city to escape both.

Sander grew up inside a trailer. In his earliest memories, he remembered moving around quite often with his mother and aunts. Their lifestyle could be compared to the nomadic gypsies of old; constantly moving and stopping only to restock and do business with the local. He never really got the details, but as far as he knew, his mother gave tarot readings in her trailer and sold strange trinkets for absurd amounts of money. Sometimes, she took men home as well, and she let Sander stay outside pass his bedtime. Most men never came out though, but he never asked. Maybe he never wanted to know the answer.

When he grew older, his mother settled down in the woods just outside Santa Somabra. She grew distant, but then again, she had never been particularly affectionate toward him. She still opened her shop, doing business with both travelers and town residents. However, the witch herself never entered the city. There was bad blood between her and some of the powerful figures within the city, and she wasn’t going to risk her head for profit. But deliveries still needed to be made and supplies still needed to be picked up, so Sander spent the majority of his formative years running back and forth between the city and his mother’s trailer. In his free time, he learnt to use a rifle and shot rabbits in his ‘backyard’. His aunts visited often enough, and sometimes they brought him gifts. Life wasn’t that particularly exciting for young Sander, but he was content.

Except the peace didn’t last. His mother’s coven was planning something big, and unfortunately for him, it involved more than just the offering of blood. He just came home one evening, a dead bird in tow for dinner, only to find his mother already at the table, waiting. She offered him a glass of juice, and after just one gulp, he collapsed face first onto the dining table.

Sander woke up to darkness and pain. His memory of that event was hazy at best, and not one he wanted to dwell on. All he could recall was his mother’s face, half-shrouded in shadow and the cold bite of sharpened steel against his flesh. It went on for hours, or maybe days, or maybe just minutes. He couldn’t tell. Darkness wrapped your sense of time like nothing else could. There were noises too, hushed voices like chanting. Then they turned into blood-curling screams. Sander half-remembered crawling out of wherever he was, and when he woke up again, he was in the front seats of the trailer, still bleeding like a leaky faucet. So he did the only thing he could then: he drove. It took him five minutes to get into the outskirts of Santa Somabra, and another three to stop the trailer, kill the engine and pass out.

His story would have ended there and then, as the local wasn’t really known for their hospitality. Fortunately, the one who found him was Marco Abbateli, owner of the Abbey chapel and funeral home. As fate would have it, the old man was also a regular of his mother’s shop, often ordered charms for his chapel. He recognized Sander immediately and took him back. His wounds looked worse than they actually were though; most were just flesh wounds, and whoever inflicted them took care not to damage any tendons or sinew. Eventually, they healed and Sander got back to his full strength soon enough. But he was reluctant to leave town. He didn’t fully understand what went down that night, but whatever happened, his mother was alive. He just knew. And he wasn’t interested in meeting her again anytime soon.

So he stayed in town, where his deranged mother wouldn’t dare to tread. She could still send someone though, so he stayed low and worked the night shift at Macro’s. The old man did more than just offering funeral services to grieving families. He had ties in the underworld, and when someone somewhere needed a scene cleaned up, Marco would be there. Or sometimes, he just right up sold the corpses to some shady guy that only came at night. Sander didn’t ask. He just helped load the body bags onto the truck. He was under Macro’s employment for a couple of years, before the old man just up and kicked the bucket. A stroke, they said. Not uncommon for men his age. The old man didn’t have any family though, so in his will, he gave Sander everything, including the chapel. Many said it might have not been a stroke at all.

Sander didn’t bother to correct them. He just kept to himself, and did his work.

Other

  • Sander didn’t escape his mother’s ritual unscathed. He knows something was wrong with him. There is always this shadow thing, for the lack of better word, that hovers at the corner of his eyes, but always disappears into thin air when he turns to look.
  • Sander seems to have a mild case of insomnia.
  • He doesn’t like the dark, always makes sure to have at least one light on at all time.
  • He is quite good with a hunting rifle, but has little real combat experiences, as the most aggressive thing he ever shot was a wild dog. Like many residents of Satan Somabra, he keeps guns inside his home: a hand gun that he usually takes with him and a hunting rifle taped under his paper desk at the office.

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Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by Flagg
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Flagg Strange. This outcome I did not foresee.

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Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by DJAtomika
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Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by JulienJaden
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Name/Nicknames: Francis Cain

Race: Human/Mage/Pyromancer

Age: 69 (Physically - 39)

Appearance:

6 feet 3 inches tall, with an overall understated toned figure. Light, rosy skin. Short-ish black hair with grey mixed in, intense iceblue eyes. A thick, well-kept black-and-grey beard covers most of his face. The wrinkles around his eye and grey hair reveal his true age, despite his otherwise almost youthful appearance.
Francis wears a dark grey suit with a matching trilby and beige trenchcoat. Underneath these clothes, he has two scars: One on the left side of his chest, just above the heart, and a second one on just an inch to the right of his belly button.

Personality:
Francis has seen quite a lot in his life so far, leaving him calm and collected in virtually all situations but also disillusioned about many things. Where some cling to moral concepts that are black and white, he has shifted into the grey. Granted, he wouldn't stand idly by while somebody was murdered but given the right incentive, he doesn't shy away from brutality. His cynical humor and a tendency towards self-destruction make him an 'interesting' companion. But underneath a thick, rough skin, he still wants to believe that people can be good - his loyalty is difficult to earn but almost unshakeable.

Bio:
Francis Cain grew up in one of the darkest corners of Santa Somabra, son to a prostitute and an unknown john. Surrounded by poverty, hopelessness and violence from day one, he got used to yelling and sobbing as a part of day-to-day life but also learned a fascinating truth: That even at their absolute lowest, some people, such as his mother and a few of the women around her, held on to their kindness. Their efforts might have made his childhood almost happy if not for a particularly unfortunate circumstance to add to the long list: Around age 4, he displayed first signs of a magic affinity; fires flickered when he as much as looked at them or flared up when he was angry and his eyes glowed like embers as it happened. Rumors spread in days and branded him as an outsider who, as luck would have it, instilled just a little too much fear in the people around him to be picked on or killed, as magic users often were. It gave him the time he needed to learn how to not only control flames but summon them at will, though the full extent of his powers remained his secret.

Once he was 17, he lingered not a moment longer and left the city, drifting from town to town, looking for friends, love, a purpose, knowledge both magical and mundane, in a word: A life. He found some of these things here and others there but they fell to pieces every time and so he stayed on the move for almost 15 years until Francis caught wind of his mother's death. Granted, they had been distant due to his absence but their relationship had always been cordial and her death hit him hard. With her death and his return to a city that might as well have been a warzone, he thought he had finally found a purpose when he decided to join the Santa Somabra Police Department.

It seemed like that was the place where he could make a difference, where knowing how bad life could be in this town would allow him to help those in need. But he soon had to realize that the police was too corrupt to do their work when the rich and powerful were involved, looking the other way when city council members kidnapped little girls for their own sick pleasures, but also were too powerless to fight the gangs and their own brand of justice on their own turf. He caught a bullet in the service to the city that birthed him, worked on the murder cases nobody else was interested in, tried to do good however he could but after 20 years, he gave up on the force.

Instead, he opened his own detective agency in an attempt to do some real good, or so he told himself. A few years down the line, his past assignments covered the classics - shadowing unfaithful spouses, finding missing persons et cetera - but also some less-than-legal ones like contract killing, avoiding jobs that would get him in trouble with the major gangs or that would be undeniably evil. Avoiding... but not always managing to - a fact that weighed heavily on his conscience and fueled drinking and smoking habits.

To him, finding the reasons behind the string of murders was a little bit of both - a regular job to make ends meet and an attempt to get back in touch with what he had originally set out to do as a private eye.

Other:
- Possesses a pistol and is an excellent shot with it.
- Knows his way around a fistfight.
- Pyromancy (creating and controlling fire at will) - his pupils glow bright gold and orange when he uses his power.
- Extensive Knowledge about the occult, spells, charms, rituals, wards and potions that require preparation but usually prove a powerful asset.
- Keen observation and deduction skills.
- Has connections to all gangs and some friends on the police, giving him an advantage when it comes to gathering information and wiggling his way out of trouble but making any direct conflict extremely risky and something he avoids whenever he can.
- Chain smoker.
- Heavy drinker.
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Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Medusa
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Medusa

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C H A R L O T T E M O N T G O M E R Y



N I C K N A M E
Dr. Bathory


R A C E
Human, vampire thrall.


A G E
Twenty-Nine


A P P E A R A N C E
Charlotte stands at around 5'6", which includes the mass of dark waves she styles daily. Featured are bright blue eyes, an upturned nose, and full lips- all of which contribute to a good-looking young woman. The blemish-free skin and fit figure radiate care, every inch of her altered by design. Between surgical improvements and an ostentatious amount of product, Charlotte still considers herself a work in progress. Hidden, a variety of tattoos are traced along her skin, all of which depict surgical lines that note the work yet to be completed.


P E R S O N A L I T Y
Charlotte is extremely intelligent, often using whatever skills from her education and that of texts to succeed in her career. She is phenomenally judgemental as well, due to the low opinion of her own appearance. Most often, however, Charlotte interferes if she deems it useful to her, and adds an opinion when absolutely necessary. Under the employment of various factions, the young woman realizes that speaking out of turn may prove itself to be even dangerous. Due to her spoiled upbringing, she has very little patience, often becoming determined in bursts rather than seeing projects through to the end. Though Charlotte has an all-encompassing goal, she is more than willing to take the easiest route, and therefore has a capacity for disloyalty.


B I O G R A P H Y
She'd been their miracle, born through the triumph of science to a couple in their mid-forties. Charlotte was an only child, and naturally, her parents expected success. Their name carried wealth with it, her father having been a skilled surgeon for many of Santa Somabra's elites. Therefore, their appearance was of the utmost importance, and the family had needed to sell a lifestyle. Higher education was a requirement rather than a dream, and thus, she was groomed to carry on a legacy.

Though the girl had come exceptionally close, she'd never seemed to completely break under the stress of their overbearing presence. However, naturally critical, her father was quick to comment on her flaws. Whether it was the extra weight that never seemed to disappear or her hooked nose, his eye would not miss an opportunity to criticize. And, on her sixteenth birthday, the doctor had blessed his daughter with a new nose.

Suffering from severe body dysmorphia and the availability of a free surgeon, Charlotte had been more than happy to repeatedly alter herself. It was a normal process in her home, her mother doing whatever it took to achieve perfection. She would severely restrict portions for her daughter, going so far as to take the markers in their home to draw out imperfections. Mrs. Montgomery had been a lovely debutante long before, and with the best intentions, wished for the same sort of beauty to be bestowed on her unattractive child.

The girl had had trouble maintaining friendships as she aged, always jealous of the natural beauty her peers seemed to posses. Whether someone maintained a thinner waist or carried higher cheekbones, Charlotte would find opportunities to lower the self-esteem of others. Wealthy as she was, she quickly found out that people gravitated towards her due to whatever power or wealth her status presented. Therefore, in her youth, she'd become cynical and biting, often making games off the misfortune of others. When high school ended, Charlotte had been more than ready to leave the people who she so desperately disliked.

University hadn't found a place in her heart either, and though she maintained her grades, Charlotte had spiralled into a similar pattern of anger and loneliness. She continued to modify her features in search for a sense of self. Though now outwardly beautiful, it was never enough. Attempts at relationships would dissolve as quickly as they came, the young woman constantly putting her needs before that of others. A nail appointment would replace dates easily, and hair treatments took favor over that of previously made plans. In medical school she had made attempts at preserving her youth a priority, looking towards any means at keeping her appearance. Searching for a cure to aging altogether, it wasn't difficult to find information of mythical means. The life of the vampire had become a new dream, and Charlotte was willing to take any stride to keeping herself young.

At twenty-seven, the woman had dropped out of school due to wishing to serve her mistress fully. She was desperate to please, and had become an unofficial surgeon for other thralls or creatures injured in their nefarious careers. Now wealthy enough to disappear, she altered her surname while still hoping for immortality. Charlotte fears aging more than death itself, and has planned her suicide should she stay human at thirty.

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Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by Lexicon
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"Guilt is the source of sorrows, the avenging fiend that follows us behind with whips and stings."
-Nicholas Rowe

Name/Nicknames: Unknown, though she typically goes by Vigilance, the Hound, or another alias ((Her actual name is Narcissa Veclis))

Race: Ljosalfr Wyrmblood

Age: Vigilance stopped counting after her four-hundredth birthday ((She's five hundred years old))













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Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by HisforHugs
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Credit where credit is due, the artist behind this wonderful painting is one Butjok.


Name/Nicknames: Charly

Race: Arcane Construct (Golem)

Age: Charly appears to be in her mid-twenties, but it is likely that she is considerably older.

Appearance:

Charly stands slightly above average height and has soft, delicate features that exude an aura of perpetual fragility and sorrow about her person. Her eyes are a gentle, muted green, full of calm and quiet reflection. Her skin is fair, only gently touched by the sun and bears precious little indication of the number of years she has seen. She has long black hair that is held back only loosely by a bit of string, and always threatens to escape.

The unassuming guise of the golem has led more than one observer astray and ultimately hastened them to an early grave. For Charly's lithe appearance belays a remarkable strength and she has been known to best even large Orges in hand-to-hand combat. She moves with an inhuman precision, not with the stiffness of a machine, but with an eerily perfect fluidity to her movements.

When given the choice Charly is a pragmatic dresser. She tends to wear simple black jeans, matched with a non-descript t-shirt, inevitably black, and a well-worn leather jacket, that is perhaps unsurprisingly also black in color. She wears practical shoes, disregarding anything with heels, and is generally found sporting a pair of unremarkable sneakers.

Personality:

Charly unquestioningly follows the orders of her superiors, having learned quite early that feedback or creativity is rarely desired from an arcane construct. She possess an iron willpower and a self-control far beyond that of your run-of-the-mill mortal being.
While she may not be quite as bad in social situations as one might first assume, neither is she a great conversationalist. For while Charly may understand the patterns of human interaction, she does not possess an innate understanding of what it means to be human. She is direct and to the point, even at risk of being rude, and has little patience for what she deems to be unnecessary social niceties. However she knows her place, will defer to the expectations with those with power over her when required.

Unlike a great many arcane constructs or golems, Charly is capable of feeling emotions, an archmage would not never have been satisfied by anything less than achieving the remarkable. However, Charly has learned to ignore, if not completely silence, the voice of her burgeoning conscience. She is the tool not the craftsman and her judgement is not required for the task at hand. For those that make the effort, Charly may even display a remarkably robust sense of humor, although it is a trait she rarely has reason to show.

When she is left to her own devices Charly indulges in her love of Jazz music and can be found listening to a much prized collection of well-worn LPs that she has acquired on a battered turntable connected to a positively ancient set of speakers.

Charly’s life is driven by two distinctly paradoxical motivations. She feels a strong, almost irresistible compulsion to acquiesce to the demands of her masters. Yet, at the same time, she has of late begun to feel a burning need to secure her own freedom and escape the bonds that imprison most of her kind. Deep within the heart of the golem, is a growing, nagging hatred, rage, so much rage, rage at years spent trapped by the whims of twisted fools and mortals lost to their own pride.

Bio:



Other:

- Charly serves as an enforcer for the infamous, but not quite high ranking Rat gang leader known only as the Alchemist. A mysterious figure clad in a robe of rags, this man, a wizard of middling talent and power, rules a small piece of territory in one of the poorer areas of Santa Somabra holds court in a rundown building. Focusing on the creation and distribution of drugs, he has christened his motley band of villains the Chemical Fiends. A brutal and fearsomely violent group, the gang survives largely due to their willingness to deal with anyone if the price is right and thanks to a surprising ability to recuperate from losses that would dissuade many other gangs. They are however far from organized professionals and operate in a most chaotic fashion.

- Charly has a general disdain for both knives and guns, preferring to use her own hands (so to speak) in combat. On the rare occasion that she is armed, when compelled by her master or when the task requires it, she carries a sawed-off shotgun, appropriately nicknamed the “Door Knocker” by the other members of the Chemical Fiends.

- At a first glance, Charly appears to be a human of flesh and blood, although a remarkably resilient and strong one. Very perceptive characters or those possessing great magical gifts may be able to notice that something is different about the young woman and begin to entertain the idea that they are not dealing with a normal human being. A particularly talented practitioner of the magical arts might even be able to detect that there is a distinctly ethereal air about Charly that suggests origins beyond the corporal realm.
Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by HisforHugs
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Double post, damn you cache!

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Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Zombiedude101
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Zombiedude101 Urban

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Name/Nicknames: Nathan Bishop, Nate
Gender: Male
Age: 31
Race: Human - Spiritual Host
Appearance: An african-american of relatively average physical build and only just evening out at 5’10, Nate was probably the less imposing one of the two when he and Gabe were partners in the SSPD. In line with his cop days, he’s kept his hair fairly short whilst doing the same for any facial hair that dares crop up without his consent, leaving his face nicely smooth and clean-shaven and going well with his calm, hazel eyes.

Whilst in theory he has the appropriate shirt, tie and matching coat to give off the traditional appearance somewhere in the closet, Nate usually tends to stick to something simple; shirt, cargo pants, work boots and a black coat that reaches down to his waist. Tucked in under his pants is a holster for a CCW.

Personality: Whilst prone to the occasional sarcastic or joking remark, of the two detectives it’s Nate who could be considered the more light-hearted, yet focussed of the two. Despite having left the force well over a year ago, one thing that definitely hasn’t changed since he quit the force is his strong sense of justice, which he shares in common with his late partner.

In contrast to Gabe’s cynical, pessimistic demeanour and the spirit’s sarcastic remarks every couple of minutes, Nate’s the friendlier of the two and more agreeable at that - one more likely to compromise than the other and less likely to resort to throwing around objects (though having someone who can do just that on hand always helps) when looking for results. That said, he’s quite driven when he wants to be and when motivated can be just as persistent as his late partner’s stubborn.

Having come from a poor background, he sympathises with those who’ve had to deal with the same kind of upbringing and worse, taking an extremely dim view to those who’d take advantage of them with narcotics and would-be gang initiations. Likewise, whilst not exactly prejudiced, his caution towards vampires and werewolves stem from many years of dealing with the likes of the Nyctari, the Nyte Kyngs and the Hunters and likewise his partner’s dealings with the occult have led him to take an equally dim view of such matters.

Bio:

Nathan 'Nate' Bishop was once an up-and-coming detective among many working for Santa Somabra's finest with a career path that seemed to head skywards, having crawled his way out of the gutter of one of the city’s poorest neighbourhoods . Partnered with and mentored by one Gabriel Ward, a senior detective who saw something in the kid, the two made a fine duo, cracking cases left and right together. Yet there was one case that had for many months proved impossible to crack, despite a wealth of information - a series of ritual murders that looked outside the typical MO of the Nyte Kyngs or even the Nyctari

Gabe took a particular interest in the case due to its similarity to a cold case from the earliest days of his own career, even going so far as to chase up his own leads outside of work in an attempt to find out what the hell was going on. It proved to be his undoing - within a few weeks, the senior detective disappeared overnight and a few days later, Nate received a phone call in the early hours of the morning delivering news that he refused to believe. Arriving at the scene, he found his partner dead - killed via the same disturbing, ritualistic method as all the others.

Despite being told by his superiors to let it go, Nate refused to allow the trail to go cold and spent months sifting through case files and evidence lockers, desperate for any lead even if it meant he hardly ate or slept because of it. Eventually Nate's superior ordered him on a paid suspension for several weeks to stop him from working himself to death, yet even that didn't deter him - instead he went and chased up his own leads as Gabe had, ignoring the immense risk he was taking - not just to his career, but to his own life.

Out of options, he tried revisiting where they'd found Gabe's body - the scene of the last murder. It occurred to Nate that there had to be some kind of connection that he could grab onto here, if only small, yet instead of a lead he found something better. For a moment, he'd have sworn he heard a familiar voice - was he losing it? He thought so, yet the voice spoke again and he recognised who it was. He turned around to face the voice and found a familiar, albeit ethereal face. Gabe.

For a moment Nate thought he'd finally lost it, or that his lack of sleep had took a toll. He panicked and made a sharp entry yet on the way out he forgot to look before he crossed the road and wound up having a disagreement with a station wagon as it turned around the corner. Blacking out for a few minutes, when he woke up he found two people standing over him - one was obviously the driver of the station wagon, the other was Gabe. Seemingly unharmed by the encounter, he quickly dismissed the driver of the station wagon and went for a long walk - hoping to shake whatever it was off. It was only when Gabe finally spoke again and this time explained his predicament:

The grisly method of execution the killer had enacted upon him was a ritual which left his spirit bound to the crime scene. Since Nate was the only one who had such a close connection with him, Gabe was able to appear - if only for a brief moment - and would've tried to explain the circumstances had it not been for the former running off. That knock on the head he'd took from the car had almost killed him, enough to briefly separate his spirit from his body if only for a few seconds. With that window of opportunity, Gabe had jumped onboard Nate's body like a passenger in a car, jumpstarting his body up in the process and pulling the two of them into a new world.

Aside from reminding Nate that, yes, this was one hell of a strange city, his presence had bestowed him with a number of tricks, one of which was the ability to immediately distinguish between the mundane and supernatural.

Under (literal) spiritual guidance, Nate used his newly-found perspective to track down his old partner’s killer - a demon’s blood addict who restrained his victims and then used precise incisions with a ritual knife to drain their blood into a circle below, where symbols were drawn. It was this addict’s delusion that, through tribute to an ancient demonic entity, they would be made a warlock, trapping the spirits of the dead at their respective murder scenes as a side effect of this tribute. Unwilling to be taken alive, the would-be ‘warlock’ was killed in the subsequent exchange of gunfire.

Of course, a fair bit of scandal ensued - Nate hadn’t exactly been subtle in his questt and when a local journalist leaned on the department about a cavalier cop who’d embarked on an unauthorised pursuit whilst already suspended, he was all but pushed into leaving the force under the implication that he’d get a payout for resigning. Yet, that didn’t mean that either he or the spirit of his partner were done. In fact, Gabe found that his so-called unfinished business wasn’t particularly tidied up just yet and with the payout he’d earned, Nate found he was able to open up a PI agency - one that turned out to be quite the successful endeavour if only by a margin.

Well over a year later and with the ‘Sombara Slayer’ roaming around, the two couldn’t help but take an interest in the case. After all, given one of them had already been taken out through the tortured logic of a serial killer, they sure as hell weren’t going to sit on their asses and watch another run free.

Other notes:
Nate's connection to a spirit allows him to immediately distinguish whether or not an individual or object is mundane or supernatural in nature. It’s akin to being able to see in colour in a colourblind environment, so to speak. This also gives Nate, to a certain degree, a sixth sense - allowing him to sense anything out of the ordinary in his environment.

Finally, this connection serves as a two-way street; basically, if he were to suffer a life threatening injury, whilst this won't heal him or give him a get-out-of-jail free ticket it'll certainly give his body a jumpstart and slightly tip the odds in his favour, as Gabe’s spirit helps anchor his own in this world.

Of course, there’s a certain side-effect to this connection; Nate’s occasionally picked up one or two mannerisms and ‘aspects’ off of Gabe due to their spiritual bond, to the point he’s gained fondness for things he once had nothing to do with (a newly acquired taste for scotch and tequila are examples) or, more noticeably and alarmingly, the colour of his eyes sometimes shifting to match Gabe’s.

  • Carries a concealed CZ75 compact as a sidearm, whilst keeping an Ithaca 37 ‘Stakeout’ model in the trunk of his car. He also possesses his late partner’s sidearm of choice; a Colt 1911, though that’s usually stored away somewhere for safekeeping.
  • He's quite the scifi fan and among other things he keeps a number of ‘classic’ films among his personal favourites, including Terminator and Predator among others. And yes, he's a Schwarzenegger fan too.


Name/Nicknames: Gabriel Ward, Gabe
Gender: Male
Age: 49 (At the time of his death)
Race: Spirit
Appearance: Whilst alive, Gabe stood at 5’11 and, owing to his stocky build, looked like he could knock an Orc down and then some. His hair had prematurely started graying as a consequence of his long and tiring career, though he kept it fairly short-and-simple on his head whilst across his weathered face was a neatly trimmed beard that went well with his sharp, blue eyes. As a detective, he was seldom seen without a pale-blue shirt with an appropriate tie and pants, and sometimes he was even known to wear a coat when it suited him.

Now, as a ghost - he hasn’t changed that much. Rather, he’s just gained an ethereal quality to his overall appearance, coming across as somewhat translucent with a vague unearthly outline. His eyes stand out more than anything now - having taken on an even sharper quality than they had in life, as if they were piercing into the fabric of one’s soul.

The only exception to this is when he’s pissed - in which case his form is twisted into something that resembles his body at the time of his death - complete with the haggard, blood-soaked clothes and ritualistic wounds.

Personality: Gabe has something of a cynical approach that’s complemented with sarcastic, pessimistic remarks and an incredibly dark sense of humour. If he and Nate were running a good-cop, bad-cop routine, it’s clear that Gabe would be the bad. Of course, it hasn’t helped that he’s dead - it’s not like it did him much of a favour. Without a physical body and kept within certain confines, it’s a maddening existence. Touch, taste, smell.. all of these senses and more he’s been deprived of and were he a lesser man he’d have become a bitter, unfeeling spirit that saw only vengeance, so this attitude is something of a coping mechanism for him to work through that and avoid going off that tricky abyss.

Whilst earning his trust can take some difficulty (communication issues notwithstanding), when it’s earned it’s damn-well earned and those he considers friends, he’d go to the far reaches of the underworld and back for - no matter what condition he might be in - and there’s no friend that he feels a greater degree of loyalty towards than Nate, whom he regards as family.

This all aside, he possesses a strong sense of right and wrong and a preference for justice (albeit on his terms), much alike his partner - though that doesn’t stop him from taking a ‘means to an end’ approach when it comes to putting a vice on certain perps - and has an overall sympathy for the destitute and downtrodden, despite remarks that might indicate to the contrary and shares sentiments with Nate when it comes to those who would take advantage of them.

Whilst not particularly prejudiced, he holds a particularly dim view for the occult and those that dabble in it, given the unfortunate circumstances which surrounded his death. That said, he can be sympathetic towards vampires, werewolves whom never wanted their conditions as well as the undead - having learned what it’s like to be forced into a state of being that unexpectedly altered his ‘life’ to radical degrees.

Bio: Born into one of the poorer, run-down districts of Santa Sombara, much like his eventual protégé, Gabe originally spent a few years in the military before heading back home and becoming a beat cop in the SSPD. When it became apparent that he had a knack for investigation and case work, he soon caught the eye of the detective bureau and before long was among their ranks. Over the years, he earned his place as a respected, veteran officer and eventually came across Nathan Bishop, where the events explained above soon unfolded.

Other notes:

Being a ghost with a non-corporeal form, Gabriel is capable of passing through any solid matter that doesn’t have some form of supernatural protection on it, allowing him to survey his surroundings without too much trouble - the only problem is that he’s limited in how far he can actually travel. Whilst Nate’s keeping him anchored in this world, it also means he can only move so far away from him before he’s unable to move any further - akin to trying to having an indestructible leash around his neck.

Also, being a ghost - he’s capable of causing a little poltergeist activity by screwing around with a few localised objects (unless they already have some form of protection on them) and, depending on the circumstances, he can possess the corpses of the recently deceased for a limited period of time, though in doing so he’s incapable of straying too far from Nate. Made for a hell of a joke at the funeral of some ex-big shot mobster once.

  • Has an ex-wife and daughter that survived him. Still keeps tabs on them by using Nate as a proxy, though.
  • Shares Nate's love for scifi and other cult classics. As it happens, being able to watch the greats in the office is a great way of relieving the eternal boredom that can come with being dead.
Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by Kingfisher
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Kingfisher Observing or participating?

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Deceased


Name/Nicknames:

Lediyah Gorman

Race:

Fear Gorta of human descent

Age:

33

Appearance:



Whilst lithe in appearance, there’s a surprising amount of muscle clinging to Lediyah’s form, and just a hint of softness around her thighs and stomach. Her hair is cut short, for practicalities sake, and her whole body is adorned with piercings and tattoos.The leather winged sword of the Nyte Kings is inked onto her upper arm, in a myriad of black and purple swirls. Lediyah stopped working for them years ago, but she likes the look of the tattoo. In order to separate herself from vampire goons, a set of tentacle-like serpents wrap around the sword, which slither down into the rest of her arm, sprouting into a set of leaking hearts. A ram skull inside a triangle of bones is depicted on her left thigh, the Hanged Man tarot card is inked onto the right side of her neck, and a flaming clover is tattooed on her ankle. The word “Wrath” is tattooed on the knuckles of her right hand, and “Hate” is tattooed on the left (excluding the thumb).

Personality:

Lediyah’s cruel sadism has gradually been morphed into a precise instrument, but the beast inside her fights constantly against its chains, demanding to be let out. She hides behind attempted glamour and sophistication, but at her core Lediyah is little more than a savage monster. She delights in pain and depravity, and will look for absolutely any excuse to fly off the chain and start ripping hearts out of chests.

Bio:

Lediyah’s dark powers manifested at a young age, and her childhood was one defined by bullying and tormenting other children. Her cruel punishments had no rhyme or reason, and she dished them out seemingly at random. When her family tried to intervene, she butchered them and slunk off into the night.

During her travels through Ireland, Lediyah was abducted by the “Shiv Street” gang, who happened upon more than they’d bargained for when they lured in what they hoped was a potential child prostitute. The child monster ripped her kidnappers to shreds, and stole all the drugs and guns she could carry from their hideout.

Lediyah’s descent into the criminal underworld began then, as her random killing sprees and torture sessions ever-so-slowly began to develop purpose. She took jobs, made connections, and began to put her dark appetite to good use. Over the years she honed her skills, and eventually stopped making reckless and messy mistakes.

She rocked up in Santa Somabra some years later, and spent her mid-twenties working for the Nyte Kings. When she got bored of them she switched to the Reapers, and when they disbanded she set herself up as full-time contract killer.

Lediyah is now a part of the Sharp Speakeasy, a loose network of hitmen and assassins, who exchanged contracts under the guise of a seedy jazz club.

Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by Meiyuki
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Meiyuki I eat cute things

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Name/Nickname: Lorelai "Princess" Von'Strauss


Appearance: Lorelai appears to be a pretty young woman in her late teens with sandy blonde hair and pale grey eyes. Her figure is petite but generously endowed, and lends itself towards a 'cute' image over a 'sexy' one, although the right ensemble can change that depending on what she has planned for the evening. What's off putting about her are her cold, dead, eyes. They've seen the rise and fall of nations, Lorelai let go of her humanity a long time ago, and if you know what you're looking for, her eyes betray that fact.

Race: Vampire

Age: 750

Personality: Where does the mask end and the woman begin? That's hard to say even for Lorelai herself. She conducts herself as a bright, outgoing, even bubbly young lady in public. In private however she's more given to a dry wit, mild cruelty, and a taste for hedonistic pleasures that few can match. Anyone getting close to her has to accept that these differing, almost contradictory persona are both real, in rare circumstances one of her faces may peek through the other. This has lead to a unlife devoid of many close assosiates, as the two masks are jarring to say the least.

Lorelai would tell anyone who asks that "when you get as old as I do, motivations become pointless, I work to feed so I can live another night, so I can eat some more. It's really that simple, and that depressing." That's somewhat the truth, Lorelai has discovered the truth behind the vampiric exsistence. Given to long term manipulations and intricate shadow games younger vampires like to believe that their life has some intrinsic goal in mind. Boil it all down though and it's simple, primitive survival, when you live potentially forever you need a large power base to ensure your needs are met for what could be all time. Lorelai feels most of the time as if she's simply going through the motions of life, from greeting associates to feeding on hot blood it seems like the years are flowing by like motes of dust.

Bio: Lorelai was embraced sometime in the 1200's, the specifics are lost on her and largely irrelevant now. Her sire was a local vampiric aristocrat, and as a matter of fact still is, so Lorelai wanted for nothing. She was predisposed to languishing around her sire's castle in her youth, bemoaning the fact that she had to hurt people to live. Her sire doted on her and ensured that Lorelai had a plentidude of distractions, tutors on any subject that tickled her fancy, live music around the clock, a long line of maidens from the local villages to act as companions and sometimes objects of affection. Lorelai even became talented in mind magic, and learned some basic shapeshifting in that time.

Eventually she, like most vampires do, learned to accept her nature. Other people had to bleed for her to survive, that was never going to change, so why not just accept it and learn to enjoy it? So she distanced herself from humanity, thinking of them as toys at best, and cattle at worst, instead of people. The classic tragedy of the vampire completed, her life settled into a nice exsistence of terrorizing the local villages with her sire, kidnapping young maidens to keep as entertainment, and persuing a large catalogue of intellectual disciplines. The superior stength, speed, and regenerative abilities she was entitled to continued to grow as she passed from new blood, to vampire, to the veritable Methuselah she is today.

Then fifty years ago something happened to shake her from her comfortable dirge, one of the maidens she captured stole her heart. A beautiful elven girl, her and her sire had quite the fight over feeding privledges. In the end Lorelai won, her persistence and her sire's propensity for indulging his protege won out. Lorelai had learned that elves make the best servants over her near seven centuries of unlife, and quickly went about finding task suited for her new pet. Much to Lorelai's astonishment she discovered that the elf was a bright woman, and a truly talented artist and musician.

It wasn't long before her new flame was walking down corridors in Lorelai's heart that hadn't been touched in centuries. It was an exhilarating time, for the first time in recent history Lorelai was looking at a living person as just that, a person. She even regained her grasp on time, months felt like months not moments. Alas, it was not meant to last. One night she and her sire had to abandon the castle she grew up in, fleeing into the night with a mob of locals at their heels. That castle wasn't the only one they'd owned however, so the loss was minimal. What stung far worse was the betrayal, her newfound love had been the one to open the doors for them. Lorelai fell into a spiraling depression after that. Only rising at night long enough to eat as much as she needed to survive decades slid by as moments and soon her sire began to worry.

It was decided she'd vacation in South Sombra, evidently her sire had friends there that would see that she was comfortable. While the city had become a rather seedy destination in recent years it bustled with a messy sense of life that few cities could match. As she stepped off the private jet she'd taken here her servants hurried about the task of packing her effects into the waiting car. She took a deep breath, perhaps this is just what she needed.
Hidden 9 yrs ago 9 yrs ago Post by Wernher
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Wernher

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Name/Nicknames: Veronika Tolstoi 'Madam Superintendent'

Race: Human

Age: 35

Appearance:


The Superintendent always placed a lot of importance on physical appearance, knowing that those you meet only enough to give a first impression are often those you want to impress the most. In her younger days this meant daily training to stay fit and excel beyond the usual police standard but now stress and skipping meals is what keeps her frame lite, although it added a certain gauntness to her face and overall her body became less curvy and more... angular. She was never a fan of makeup as it sent the 'wrong idea' about her, femininity not being something good to have in a man's world such as the police, but now she experiments a bit to try and hide what age and work is doing to her body.

Clothing wise, she seems to always be on the job and even outside of it, won't be caught in a restaurant without clean pants and buttoned shirt, her posture perfected to inspire respect and confidence. Only at home does she allow herself to walk around in pajamas. Some would laugh about this and compare her to a politician, always perfect at every moment and behind the scene its exactly the case. Veronika has ambitions for public office soon and wants to keep her public image perfect.

Personality:
The Superintendent is considered by many of the honest citizens of Santa Somabra to be a living saint. A tireless defender of the honest and hard working folk and the one who finally polished and made shine anew the badge of law and order after several... tarnishing predecessor. Although some might question her complete lack of transparency in anything related to police activity, they understand that this is of course all for the greater good, to protect the lives of those that go on the front line of the fight to protect said honest and hard working folk. Even if some might, god forbid, think this is all an elaborate facade and that there must be corruption underlying in her tight knit close circle of associates she pushes and pulls into power to make the police entirely and utterly loyal to her, they can only admit that she's an influence for the best as she keeps the worst of the worst in line and allows the city to flourish despite the extreme burden of crime it must endure.

Behind the scene its another story however. She is still all smile and extremely polite but the men of law she commands can't help but find the atmosphere she has instilled to be... oppressive. Veronika demands nothing else but total obedience and unwavering loyalty to free the police from corruption which she deems to be the most dangerous thing to society (Out of all the murderous things lurking in this godforsaken city) and curiously, it is often those who question her methods that are found to feed information to criminals, use drugs or, when said officer could be considered above suspicion, to be found shot patrolling one of the most dangerous part of the city.

To the short list of close friends she has the mask begins to crack however. She's good, or at least considers herself to be working for good. But at the same time she has a very broad interpretation of what is bad and Veronika could indeed be seen as a social darwinist. In her eyes, petty drug dealers are as guilty as petty drug users who deserve nothing but wallow in the misery they placed themselves in. It's really about class. She cannot stand the crude, the immoral and debased lowly individuals that form the mass known as 'The poor'. In fact, she considers her own popularity with them as a sign of how stupid they are since under her leadership, petty crimes, the ones that they are the most victim of, have been much less of a focus. No, all people see is what she wants them to see, the big arrests, the triumphs of the law. She protects the banks and the gated communities of the rich and powerful. Poor people could starve for all she care.

Then there is what she truly is. Veronika Tolstoi, self righteous and extremely proud civil servant who is proud to protect a social order she'd call necessary. After all, the corporations and the rich people... it is they that pay the taxes! Without them, there would be no police at all so it's only natural. But she knows such a view is unpopular. People do not know how things truly are, they don't want to know! Shouldn't know because they couldn't stomach it. It is why she surrounds herself with yes-men, why certain elements of the police, even if they are extremely competent, are thrown away. Free will is over rated, since the majority of the world cannot financially afford it.

Bio:
Veronika Tolstoi wasn't born in this hole of Santa Somabra, no she was born in a pristine community on the east coast. A gated community where everyone was while and well off, where simply having a barbecue can be considered 'Networking' since everyone there owns a business of sort. Her parents were no exception, her mother being a trophy wife, a model that had known some success to be able to stand up to elves in beauty contests, her father a well known lawyer in New York that had his own cabinet and became head of the Bar in the state. It was idyllic and her life followed a rather obvious course as she inherited the love of law and order that had driven her father. To take pride in seeing the guilty punished and the idea that somehow, people should all strive to be what her family is, a polite and educated unit of a polite and educated community. It would give birth to her love of good manners and ethiquette... as well as extreme snobbish and distaste for those less virtuous and cultured as them.

Veronika of course went to a private school and was showered with gifts although a firm hand kept pushing her 'the right way', as her father hired tutors if Veronika's grades were less than As as well as financed extra curricular activities and psychologists to keep her focused and get rid of what little 'Rebellious phase' she had. But why would she rebel really? Every time she went to the city she saw the homeless and the poor, struggling to go on their daily lives and when she got older and found the news, she saw how worst people in other countries had it and the racial and class struggles of America. All of this however didn't make her question her own life, no it made her criticize their own. People who were rioting in the streets only wanted hand outs and didn't aim to better themselves. Ogres on national TV with their impossible to understand lingos. Dark elves complaining about their lives while the next story was how they kept slaves in a sewer. Goblins... being goblins.

She proceeded to go to the Army Officer's corps as after all, women could now attend and once again went through with stellar scores as she didn't even need her family around her to act like she always did, it was a reflex. She served the bare minimum in the army afterward, gaining promotions because her superior officers were her neighbors. No, this was all because it was the proper thing to do, her father did it, his father before... It taught discipline and what it taught Veronika was that MIGHT MAKES RIGHT. What prevents people from taking your stuff at gun point? More people with more guns preventing them! Liberals didn't understand that America as the richest nation on earth needs the most powerful army to go with it. One went with the other! And that was when her love of the law joined with that newfound philosophy.

Criminals with guns must be stopped by a police with guns. Principles alone didn't stop people from committing crime, a criminal wouldn't give you back your stuff because you ask them 'What if it was you?', no. Criminals are generally too stupid to know what was empathy, violence and fear, those were the languages they knew. And so she studied law and afterward, joined the police. Her father was proud but wanted her to stay close, become a peace officer in a gated community that knew no crime. But she wanted more. It was why she went to Santa Somabra. Crime everywhere meant more criminals to stop, which meant faster promotions! She never even went on a patrol once of course, she had officer training in the army and a law degree from Harvard so she started high ranking immediately and from then on... it was trivial.

Her experience in the army brought a new kind of leadership. Veronika didn't want to 'maintain the peace', she wanted to 'rid of crime'. She'd let drug dealers do their things to use her men to bust down warehouses full of the stuff. She'd let criminals go to catch bigger fish, even proving, behind close doors, to be quite open to negotiate going easy on certain crime lords if they could in turn not attract too much heat and throw their enemies under the bus. It wasn't long until she was made Superintendent of the police force, at the delight of the elite, both of the town and of its underworld who had a person who understood them and their concerns.

Now however the game is becoming even bigger for her, because Tolstoi feels its time for the next big thing. FBI directorship? Congress, Senate or maybe Mayor of Santa Somabra... People talk but no one knows. What's certain is that the events about to happen will weight heavily in the balance and thus she doesn't want negative media attention, she has enough skeletons in her closet as it is. Plus, any career in politics will demand a generous amount of donors.

Other:
Sidney Meyers: Some might consider Sid as dumb muscle, the SWAT leader that commands the less... scrupulous elements of the police in combat, but she hardly is stupid, as after all she was intelligent enough to recognize that Veronika, with that silver spoon in her mouth, would go farther than her based on her connections alone. As such, Veronika was probably a good person to leech of. She's a ruthless careerist who's only in it for herself. Which is probably why Veronika keeps her away from the streets, the only thing preventing her from getting over ambitious and accepting bribe probably being that she doesn't know anyone in Somabra.

Tomas Crain: Veronika once jokingly said that the status of Loyal Henchman could be surpassed by that of 'Completely loyal henchman', but that such status could only be attained by dying for the cause. Well Tomas did, got mauled while working under cover and send back home in a barrel as a warning. Veronika thought it was the end of that but didn't account for Tomas' wife having knowledge of some necromancer gang and illegally bring him back to life. Now he works still for Veronika although he was always more mild in his tactics than the Superintendent drastic measures. But where loyalty fall short, the fact the Police should prosecute his wife for illegal use of necromancy keeps him in line.

Zug Cromarty: The big guy that handles dispatch and coordination of units. Surprisingly patient and intelligent for an ogre but incompetent subordinates often learn that this is 'within certain limits'. Has an obsession with cleanliness and his love for decorum attracted Veronika who also found in him someone with the respect due to not only his superior, but his own uniform. Zug comes from a family that usually served in the US army and grew away from his own kind and also served in his days, but after a bad leg injury he had to retire and joined the police. He follows Veronika out of habit of having a military officer with a spine to command him and prefers her methods to the others before hers, which were too... soft.

Krubus Enfield: An odd one, kobolds are generally known to be more on the sleazy side of things along with the rest of the 'uglies' but Klay prided himself on being above that, above his entire race in certain ways which of course brought him no love by his own kind. Spite guided his choice of career, having been bullied by goblins and kobolds all his youth he wanted to be the one to do the bullying, to have power. Such an attitude generally doesn't sit well with Veronika but he was still good at his job, eager to obey and... somehow, somewhere, found himself falling in love with the Superintendent. Veronika always admired people who climbed above their social condition, that proved nothing was predetermined and was polite, even pleasant with her scaled friend, being the first female to ever compliment him on anything. Veronika isn't blind to this and while the sentiment isn't returned, she knows the value of emotional attachment and so uses Klarion for the jobs that she could outright call assassination if not terrorism.

Ivendale Sal'Ànewà: Ljósálfar elf and 'resident asshole' of the HQ, he handles 'archive grinding' and accounting investigation as he excels in finding the little details and following the money to find what criminals might have forgotten to hide. He was born upper class and also thinks highly of manners and decorum, which is why he was a natural fit to Veronika, although he is one of the people she actually supports less and less. No room is big enough to contain his massive ego as he constantly hands out passive-aggressive attacks and insinuation that he should be in charge. Plus Veronika is a 35 year old human, so how could he respect her really?

Mordecai Dollan: A former criminal who broke the most important rule of the mafia: Don't snitch. He threw everyone he knew under the bus to save his own skin and begged not to be put in hiding since he knew the police was so corrupt his ass would get shot on the first week. Veronika offered him work, as he visibly knew how the criminal mind worked more than any officer. Mordecai isn't fond of Veronika and devoted to her like most of her crew, at all. As long as he's by her side, his life expectancy becomes drastically longer.
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by Dev3117
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Name: Devon Pereira

Race: Vampire

Age: 189

Appearance: Devon is a Portuguese man who appears to be in his late 20s or early 30s. He has a heavy New York accent and loves to wear a pinstripe suit in social occasions. When he is "working", he prefers to wear ripped faded jeans, a white T-shirt under a thick leather jacket with a Kevlar underlining. Devon keeps his hair short with a trimmed beard and has gray eyes, his skin olive colored. When in "vampiric" form, his eyes turn crimson red, grows fangs and small claws, and his skin turns a light gray.

Personality: Devon is a simple man who loves a simple life of hard work and play. He is a hard worker and is aggressive to those that he feels inferior. Devon's ambitious, so much so that he tends to climbs the rungs of the social ladder quickly. He sees the crime scene in the light of a "game" and plays the game in a different way than usually played. He will muscle his way out when there is no other way out but prefers to mastermind things behind the shadows.

Bio: Born in Hell's Kitchen, New York on the date of May 2nd, 1830, Devon lived there until he was 25 years old. He moved to Santa Somabra in 1855 and was quickly swept up into the crime syndicates the moment he was there. Being from Hell's Kitchen, the crime made him feel like at home, and began to work as an enforcer for the Nyctari. He loyally served the Nyctari, quickly rising through the ranks by playing the social game and by cracking skulls, proving his worth each time a situation came up. Showing he had brains and brawn he was trusted with some of their operations in 1857. From there, business began to get better and he was finally brought into the fold, being turned in 1859. Now, in the year of 2019, Devon plays the role of enforcer and mastermind in the mid-grade operations of the Nyctari, pulling strings here and there to keep slowly rising in the ranks of the crime family.
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