[OOC] Welcome to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

[potatochipgolem]

I have got a question, can vampires enter a house that belongs to someone uninvited? Since there was mention of vampires in novels, I thought it might be a trait worth bringing up. @Kingfisher

[Kingfisher]

I have got a question, can vampires enter a house that belongs to someone uninvited? Since there was mention of vampires in novels, I thought it might be a trait worth bringing up. @Kingfisher

@potatochipgolem

They can enter houses without permission. Knew I'd forgotten one of the myths :P

[potatochipgolem]

@Kingfisher :P. Lestat forgives you, I'm already content that at least here they still fry up like a batch of fish crispies instead of sparkling in sunlight.

[Nightwarden]

@Nightwarden Dagmar is very much accepted. Great work BTW! Put him in the characters tab whenever convenient.

@Kingfisher

Excellent - I'm glad you like him. I'd had a hunch there would be a skewed gender ratio, so I did my best trying to even things out.

[potatochipgolem]

I've added a pic that somewhat resembles what I had in mind (kinda) and made some formatting changes. It isn't the best but it is the best Google could provide, so bear with it for awhile, I'm still learning html/BBc code.

[Mystic]

I can't decide if I want to be an innocent person swept up into things beyond their wildest imagination, or a person that's been hardened by the various factions and illegal activity...

[DJAtomika]

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

| Name/Nicknames |

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

| Race |

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

| Age |

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

| Appearance |

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

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

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

| Personality |

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

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

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

| Bio |

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

| Other |

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

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

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

[Rockette]

^{"Lady In Red; 1492, Artist: Uknown."}

Maharet.Roquelaure

---

_{The Lady In Red; Mistress Mekare; Maman Sang.}
Vampire | Ancient of the Nyctari Family | Smuggler of "imported goods."

---

ᴀɢᴇ — _{"but tell of days in goodness spent."}

Based upon initials impressions, 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 vanity into this age.

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 through paintings and visual captures. 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’s almost artful in every slight curl, offset by the steelish azure of her eyes and pale complexion. Sweeping back her fringe exposes the unique bridge of her nose, proud, and complemented by the slight of her brow; akin to something delicate. However, beneath the softness of her wide, bow shaped mouth is the feral monster lurking beneath.

Maharet’s dress sense over the years had 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 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 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 bored 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; only sparked alive by the fleeting life of companions and lingering ecstasies, Maharet knows this. 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. 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.

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 essence 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.

ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ — _{"meet in her aspect and her eyes"}

.Maharet doesn’t have a permanent affiliation with the current Nyctari families line of work, but neither does she aspire to loyalty to the lesser Nyte Kings and their flair of exposure. Yet, since her awakening, she seems to flit between the two, for whatever purpose that cannot be discerned just yet.
.Dues to Maharet's cache that was tucked away with her into slumber, she bears an array of finery and wears, along with that was left over from Maman's many riches and splendors. Due to such inheritance, many individuals come to Maharet oft to search and browse for something different. If one cannot find such treasures on their own, this vampire is sure to have it. Not one for money [she has plenty], Maharet requires a varied sort of "currency".
.Maharet has many vassals and thralls, though she despises the latter word, and has built a net work of finesse to further backbone her imports.
.It's unknown if the vampire lady is involved within the human, and non-human, trafficking ring.

---

[RIengo]

I

[Mystic]

My first application in a very long time! I hope it's okay...

Anthea Pendleton

---

Name
Anthea Pendleton

Alias
Belladonna

Race
Elf

Age
84

Appearance
"Every beautiful rose has it's thorns"

It's difficult not to notice Anthea in the midst. There's a chilling aura about her that seems to make the temperature drop a few degrees wherever she goes. Her raven colored hair and her icy blue eyes only seem to reaffirm her frigid presence. Her flowing hair hangs down to her lower back and is seldom seen in any type of hairstyle. The aforementioned eyes rarely have any sort of warmth in them. In fact, it's said that Anthea's glare is capable of causing death. A silly rumor of course, but the power behind her gaze is true. Her pale skin contrasts sharply with her dark hair, and on occasion, can seem that her skin is radiating a pale, unearthly glow. Her limbs are long and willowy, extending her height to be about 5'9".

She always has some sort of flower in her hair.

---

Personality

Cold, elegant, precise.

Anthea has perfected her poker face decades ago, thus showing very little emotion throughout her life. She's a very calculating individual, able to use her high intelligence to subtly manipulate people for her personal gains. She has no remorse whatsoever, and is capable of taking someone's life without batting an eye. Combine that with her perfectionism and contacts in the underworld... Anthea is a powerful criminal.

Although it may seem to some that Anthea is incapable of feeling any sort of emotion, that's not the case. Anthea actually used to be a very emotional person, but her entire life has hardened her.

Some kindness peers through her cold exterior every so often. But is it genuine? Nobody knows.

Biography
Born as Anthea Martovanni, Anthea is the only daughter of one of the biggest mob bosses in Santa Somabra. Although her father adored and doted upon her, Anthea was exposed to crime at a very young age. One would think that being accustomed to violence would desensitize her to it, but Anthea was a very sweet and gentle child. She never agreed with her family's customs. Being the daughter of such a powerful and dangerous family, she was ostracized from people and never had a friend. Until she met Levin Pendleton.

Levin was the one person who Anthea could count on as a friend. Eventually, the two fell in love and got married. It was at this time that Anthea attempted to cut her ties from the crimimal world to pursue a normal life with Levin.

But it's not that easy to get away from the various mobs. Due to her past connections, Anthea was unable to truly put her past behind her and was involved in occasional incidents with the various factions. Levin was killed by the Rotfaces, murdered in place of Anthea.

After the death of her loved one, Anthea returned to the criminal world, this time with a purpose: the crush the Rotfaces, and all of the other factions that have pursued her when she was trying to be peaceful.

Even with her father wanting to advocate for her, Anthea still lost the trust of Martovanni family. Determined to be powerful, she worked her way up the ladder until she reached her high level position now. It seemed like Anthea would step into her father's shoes in the near future.

Until Razghul Elfchewer messed up her plans. Currently, Anthea is trying to remain on his good side. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. She'll take back that mob soon enough.

Other
Anthea is skilled with botany. Her alias Belladonna comes from her use of flowers to kill people.

[XSilentWingsX]

Sorry I haven't gotten my character app up yet (I'm working on it, I promise)! I'm working this children's camp this week and it's eating up most of my time, but I should have it up some time tomorrow for sure.

[Kingfisher]

@DJAtomika Approved! Was worried we were going to get overrun with Werewolves, so its good to see some variety. Feel free to post Andy in the character tab whenever. Love the little details about how Santa Somabra has changed over the years, really fleshes out the setting.

@Rockette Maharet is approved. Nice to get a good dose of sophistication in amidst all the thuggishness. Put her in the character tab whenever.

@RIengo Skeleton detectives are the best kind of detective.Brass is approved.

@Mystic Anthea is approved! Very interested to see how things play out between her and Razghul.

Sorry I haven't gotten my character app up yet (I'm working on it, I promise)! I'm working this children's camp this week and it's eating up most of my time, but I should have it up some time tomorrow for sure.

@XSilentWingsX

DW, there's no rush :) Real life takes priority.

Righty ho, I'll get working on an introductory post to the IC tonight.

[Lexicon]

Awesome looking characters so far. Expect Myranda Tavellan, anothe SSPD detective by the end of this week.

[Kingfisher]

Awesome looking characters so far. Expect Myranda Tavellan, anothe SSPD detective by the end of this week.

@Lexicon

Looking forwards to it!

First IC post should be up by the end of the evening.

[RIengo]

I

[Kingfisher]

First IC post is up. Let the games begin!

[Nightwarden]

I'm debating on what note I should begin Dagmar's misadventures. I'm curious to see how he'll interact with the rest of the cast.

[Kingfisher]

I'm debating on what note I should begin Dagmar's misadventures. I'm curious to see how he'll interact with the rest of the cast.

@Nightwarden

The Forlorn Disciples have gone into Santa Somabra and started breaking things/people, so that could always be his start point, but its entirely up to you.

[Nightwarden]

@Kingfisher

He's less a combatant, more of a tactician. However, I'm sure he revels in discord and calamity, so we'll see. (He's probably people-watching and pelting the participants with peanuts.)

[Kingfisher]

@Kingfisher

He's less a combatant, more of a tactician. However, I'm sure he revels in discord and calamity, so we'll see. (He's probably people-watching and pelting the participants with peanuts.)

@Nightwarden

I had noticed that, so it could be dealing with the aftermath of the attack. Perhaps manipulating people who've now lost their homes, for the shits and giggles?