[CHAR] Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

[Kingfisher]

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.

[Atrophy]

Name: Valorie Pierce

Race: Human // Necromancer

Age: 20

Appearance:

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.

[Drinky]

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.

[Rockette]

^{"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.

[RedDusk]

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.

[Flagg]

Kurtz

Name: Kurtz

Race: Human/Wendigo

Age: ?

Personality

Quickly, far too quickly, the roof under his feet was running out. The edge loomed closer.

Haggerty's heightened senses could smell the man- no, whatever he was, he wasn't a man- chasing him. Flowery cologne, just barely masking the reek of spoiled meat.

The roof ran out. Haggerty leapt.

Streets and alleys yawned out below him like dimly lit canyons, and for a delirious moment Haggerty spun and took in the city around him. High rises with windows blazing. Cars like ants crawling along Delerth Avenue. The Y train clattering down elevated tracks. The moon full and orange, glaring down at Santa Somabra like the eye of an angry titan or god.

Then he crashed through the skylight of the building opposite. He landed hard on a wooden floor, planks crunching beneath him.

A woman screamed, there were gasps and murmurs.

Haggerty looked around. Apparently he had interrupted a dinner party. Seven of them, well dressed. Nice apartment, richly appointed. There was a woman next to him struggling to her feet, covered in glass from the shattered skylight, covered in blood.

The Urge hit Haggerty hard. A gusher, so close. How could he not? A man rushed over to help the woman up. Haggerty paused. He knew he needed to run. He knew what was chasing him. But...

Haggerty lunged at the woman, shoving aside the man who had come to her aid. The rest of the humans ran, some shrieking, some dialing frantically on their phones.

Haggerty paid no attention. He licked the woman's glass-and-blood covered arm for one long, lascivious second before sinking his teeth into her jugular and draining her in four quick gulps.

Life surged through his limbs. Let the bastard try to take him now...

On cue, there was a heavy thud and crunch of broken glass next to where Haggerty knelt over his now bloodless prey.

Haggerty dropped the corpse and stood, facing his former pursuer. They were still for a moment as they assessed each other.

Haggerty was tall, lanky and thin, pale in complexion and baring long fangs. His face, framed by long black hair, was covered in the tattoos of the Nyte Kings, his eyes were crimson-and-black pits.

The other man was short, thickset, shaved bald. He wore thin rimless spectacles and an expensvie three piece suit. His royal blue tie matched his pocket square. He was smirking, as though the scene around him was very mildly entertaining.

"Hello William," he said, "I believe you have something that belongs to my employers."

Haggerty laughed, a low gurgling sound as blood sputtered down his chin. "You're fucked, Kurtz. No one can on take a full fed King, not even a... whatever you are."

The other man shrugged and stepped forward, "Give me the pendant, William."

Haggerty swung at Kurtz, who batted the fist away with an almost lazy slap. The vampire snarled and dove at him.

The fight lasted three minutes, two and a half minutes longer than it would have had William Haggerty, Nyte King, not been freshly fed. It ended with the vampire splayed across the half-collapsed dinning room table, a finely wrought dagger protruding from under his ribs. Kurtz was leaning over him, clutching the vampire's head.

"Foolish to steal from us, William," said Kurtz, grabbing the necklace that lay around the vampire's neck and pulling it off with a snap. Kurtz let go of the Nyte King, tucking the pendant into his jacket. Haggerty twitched and gasped.

"Even more foolish to stand and fight. There are leeches in this city I would think twice about crossing..." said Kurtz, pulling his knife from the vampire's side, "...but you are not one of them. Goodnight, William."

Kurtz picked up a leg from the broken table, studied it a moment, then smiled faintly as he plunged it through the wounded Nyte King's chest.

William Haggerty shrieked and writhed as he melted into ash.

Bio:

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

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

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

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

[DJAtomika]

Andy Fontaine DiMaggio

"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."

Benjamin Franklin Kiddo

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

| Name/Nicknames |

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

| Race |

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

| Age |

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

| Appearance |

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

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

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

| Personality |

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

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

| Bio |

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

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

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

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

That wasn't the end of things, however.

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

I went back to Santa Somabra.

Biggest mistake of my life.

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

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

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

Or, at least, where I thought I belonged.

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

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

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

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

| Other |

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

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

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

Christopher Francis Hurk

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

| Name/Nicknames |

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

| Race |

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

| Age |

"34."

| Appearance |

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

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

| Personality |

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

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

| Bio |

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

| Other |

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

[JulienJaden]

Name/Nicknames: Francis Cain

Race: Human/Mage/Pyromancer

Age: 69 (Physically - 39)

Appearance:

Image by Charles Hildreth.

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.

[Medusa]

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.

[Lexicon]

"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))

Appearance

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

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

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

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

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

Personality

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

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

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

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

Biography

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duty and Justice, the Swords of Vigilance

Elven Death Mask, the Face of Vigilance

The Guns of Vigilance

[HisforHugs]

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:

The Alchemist's Court

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

She would not forget.

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.

[HisforHugs]

Double post, damn you cache!

Feel free to delete (appeal to superior power here).

[Zombiedude101]

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.

[Kingfisher]

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.

[Meiyuki]

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.

[Wernher]

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.

[Dev3117]

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.