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

[Kingfisher]

Welcome back

Atmospheric Music

In a world where humanity has evolved alongside all manner of mythical creatures, Santa Somabra is a sleazy, crime ridden city in the American West; a filthy metropolis caught in a seemingly unending whirlwind of gang wars and criminal activity. Cars whiz past, and gawking passers-by shamble aimlessly down grimy roads, as unseen mob bosses plot to destroy one another. Santa Somabra is a bleak, soulless city, where the strong pray on the weak, and those who have been spat out by civilized society turn when they have nowhere left to go.

The great crime families and ruthless gangs dominate Santa Somabra, with the law enforcement sat comfortably in their pockets –either brought or scared into submission-. Nyxvira Bloodbloom, is the all-powerful Faerie queenpin of the Bloodbloom syndicate, and Somabra’s most prominent crime lord. Having spent over a hundred years carving out her criminal empire, Nyxie’s devious cunning and underhand tactics were instrumental in her takeover of the city, in the wake of the collapse of the Martovanni family.

Those who make it in Santa Somabra do so by leaving all laws and moral codes in the dust, and stomping on whoever they can to climb up another crooked rung in the twisted social ladder.

Three years have passed since the death of the Canoness, and the dissolution of her so called ‘Forlorn Disciples’. Between bloody riots, twisted xenophobia purges, and demonic pacts with otherworldly beings, Santa Somabra was pushed to the point of splintering.

One hot summer evening, a working girl by the name of Joanna Calhoun is found dead in her apartment in downtown Santa Somabra. No more than a day later, a gun-for-hire called Hugh Blackwood turns up on the sidewalk, his head caved in. The one thing connecting these two individuals is their previous affiliation with the Forlorn Disciples, a history which they had both tried to shake off. But Santa Somabra is a cruel and merciless mistress, who isn’t one to let the past remain buried.

The pattern continues, and with each passing week it seems that a larger number of those who have ties to the Disciples are winding up dead.

At first there is little sympathy for the victims, but when the mayor of Santa Somabra, former police commissioner Dennis Murphy, is found dead in his apartment, eyebrows are raised.

Known Nyctari enforcers, and Rat drug dealers come next, followed finally by Cops.

Media attention around the case skyrockets, and the so-called “Somabra Slayer” becomes something of an internet sensation.

Wanting to close the case as quickly as possible, the Santa Somabra Police Department call on the help of everyone they know, from sanctioned officers to private detectives, in order to bring the slayer to justice.

The Year is 2019

The game takes place in a dreary noir setting, incorporating elements of the crime drama and fantasy genres, with the players able to choose from a wide roster of different mythical creatures, or play as a human character. Players may choose to take on the role of any member of society, be it a lowly thug, officer of the law, or a simple shop owner caught up in the struggle of getting by in Santa Somabra.

The growing threat of the Somabra Slayer presents a danger for everyone in Santa Somabra, and extends to every echelon of society. This does not, however, mean that every player must engage in the hunt for the serial killer. Players are free to explore Santa Somabra, and all it has to offer, but the city’s newest psychopath will constantly be lurking in the shadows, threatening to run rampant if they are not dealt with.

The original game can be found here.

Useful bits of information

• Magic is a risky and unpredictable business, with most preferring to use physical means to get their dirty work done. However, a few occult groups exist within Santa Sombra, giving sacrifices to otherworldly beings in return for demonic powers, and the occasional down-on-their-luck gambler will pray to some obscure trickster god in an attempt to fix a poker game. The most common use of magic is in distilled manners, such as placing charms on weapons to increase their lethalness, or reinforcing bank vault doors with protective wards.

• Large mythical beasts (Dragons, Gryphons, giants etc) tend to stick to more rural areas, and are very rarely found in large urban zones.

• Whilst real-life drugs exist in this setting, many fantasy-based illegal substances are prominent in Santa Somabra. Fairy Dust, Demon’s Blood, and Runez are a few examples.

• Whilst dabbling with demonic entities has always been a taboo subject, the Nazi’s use of hellish magics in World War II cemented the world’s view of witches and warlocks as being something to be shunned and hunted.

The Factions

The Rats- A combination of different street gangs, the Rats have no specialized area, and make their money from selling a wide variety of different guns and narcotics. Notorious for using the vast sewer networks beneath Santa Somabra as a means of moving their goods back and forth, the Rats are only a real threat in the more poverty-stricken parts of the city.

The Nyte Kyngs- An unruly faction of vampires who broke away from the larger crime families, The Nyte Kyngs are a small but vicious gang of nocturnal bloodsuckers, who control the Fairy Dust dens.

The Brotherhood of Rot-A formidable mob-like gang, the Brotherhood was formed after the collapse of the Reaper and the Rotface gangs. With the arrival of the Pale Circle (Powerful Eastern Necromancers) in Santa Somabra, a whole new plague of undeath swept across the city. Intent to spread their sick and twisted concoctions throughout Santa Somabra, the Brotherhood of Rot specializes in poisons and chemical warfare.

The Hunters-Seemingly a group of feral homeless people, when the moon is full the Hunters reveal their true, savage nature. The werewolf community of Santa Somabra tend to stick to the outskirts of the city, only traveling inwards to organize their monthly hunting sessions, where they chase their pray throughout the cracks and crevices of Santa Somabra. After the death of Den Mother, Ameilkas, and her right hand Brunkas, the Hunters have struggled to recover from the crippling losses of the failed hunt.

The Nyctari family-An ancient society of vampric aristocrats, the Nyctari family have existed since the earliest days of humanity. Evolving alongside mankind, the Nyctari have spent an eternity praying on their weaker cousins; using the “inferior” races as thralls to further their malicious goals. In the modern day the Nyctari are a strictly organized crime syndicate, using their dark powers to extend their reach over Santa Somabra. The Nyctari control the red lights district, and the majority of the city’s human (and nonhuman) trafficking operations.

The Bloodbloom Syndicate- Originating in rural Surrey, England, the Bloodbloom Syndicate now has a vast empire which stretches across the continents. Nyxvira Bloodbloom took over the Runez and demon’s blood trades, after the collapse of both the Reapers and the Martovanni family, and has only become richer and richer as a result.

Drugs and narcotics

Fairy dust- A bright yellow/gold powder, fairy dust induces an incredible high, which floods the nervous system with a euphoric flying sensation. Sending the user into a temporary comatose state of unageing, prolonged use of the drug can result in a permanent comma, with the victim remaining in the exact state they were in.

Runez-Injected through the neck, Runez grant the user the ability to unstably shift in and of a corporeal form, and to teleport short distances. Whilst incorporeal the user becomes invulnerable, however there is no way to control when this process happens. Runez junkies are characterized by the eerier tattoo-like marks that spread across their skin after prolonged use of the drug, which have a bright blue hue to them.

Demon’s Blood- A thick, dark red liquid, Demon’s blood is ingested by drinking, or being injected straight into the blood stream for a more potent high. Bulstering the user’s strength, speed, and agility, first time users become practical super soldiers, whilst also experiencing an overwhelming sense of greatness and self-importance. However, over time the prideful sensation is replaced by an intense rage, as users begin to hear the whispers of otherworldly beings in their ears, usually drawing them into a state of extreme paranoia.

Races

This is not a definite list of every mythological race that players have the option of portraying, although if you do wish to play a species that isn’t listed then please run it by the GM first. Humans are also a viable option, and make up the majority of the population of Santa Somabra.

Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them

Creatures of the Mortal Plains

Werewolves-Vicious half-man/half-wolf beasts, Werewolves are few in number, but possess immense animalistic speed and strength, making them a force to be reckoned with. Blessed with formidable senses, Werewolves can track their prey with ease, but prefer to stay away from urban neighbourhoods, mostly due to the fact that the huge variety of potent smells and noises overwhelm them, leaving them potentially vulnerable.

All Werewolves, whether they wish to or not, transform into their lycan form on the full moon. If presented with life-threatening danger, most Werewolves will involuntarily shift into their lycan form. Those who have poor self-control may find themselves transforming into their true forms when angered.

Despised by almost all of Santa Somabra, the monthly raids that the Hunters lead on the citizens of the city has given them a monstrous reputation, and law enforcement agencies well pay handsomely for known werewolves, alive or dead.

---

Elves-Tall and graceful, these humanoids generally resemble –what most would consider to be- extremely attractive humans, but with pointed ears. Possessing a lifespan several times that of a human, the Elves have evolved alongside mankind, with most communities housing a fair balance of Elves and humans.

Considered by some to be father-figures to humanity, and by others to be elitist fascists, attitudes towards elves vary depending on the community.

The sub-species of Elf are;

Ljósálfar- The great and noble Light Elves. Creatures of beauty and excellence, the Ljósálfar are the undisputed masters of White Magics, and are renown for their warmth and regality. Make no mistake, though, Ljósálfar are just as likely to stab you in the back as any other species. They’re just a lot more spectacular about it.

Dökkálfar- These grey-skinned creatures dwell in caves and tunnels, slinking through vast underground cities as they hone their weapon crafting skills. The Dark Elves inhabit the deepest, darkest holes and burrows of the earth, and rarely mingle with other races, except for in extraordinary circumstances. The Dökkálfar construct vast networks of factories and sweatshops within the bowels of their underground cities, where slaves toil away in an endless production line, creating weapons and armours by the dozen.

Wyrmblood- Born of a union between elf and dragon, Wyrmblood’s are hated and despised by both Light and Dark elves. The Wyrmblooded elves have perhaps the greatest understanding of magic of all elves, and it is that which makes them both feared and reviled. Most Wyrmblood’s have telltale bright red hair, but some have been known to possess sharp draconic claws, and even scales in rare instances.

---

Orcs-Brutish, rough-looking, creatures, Orcs have an appearance considered monstrous by most humans. Tall and hunched, with great tusks and sickly green skin, Orcs often find themselves filling the roll of enforcers in the criminal underworld. It has taken society many hundreds of years to allow the Orcs to dwell within their midst, and it will be hundreds more before they become properly accepted.

Having become known for being lazy and prone to violence, many Orcs find it difficult to shake the scummy reputation that the worst of their species have given them.

Goblins-Small, gremlin-like creatures, Goblins have huge pointed ears, stubby limbs, and knife-like teeth.

Considered to be dishonest and heartless, Goblins are regarded as untrustworthy rodents-like creatures by most of Santa Somabra.

Ogres- Ginormous beasts of monstrous proportions, these creatures tower above the other races. Ogres love two things; Fighting and Eating, and tend to be immensely strong and fat. Most Ogres are extremely dim-witted, although there are some intelligent Ogres. A few Ogres have been known to have multiple heads, each one possessing its own personality.

Generally considered little better than mongrels, Ogres are accepted as a necessity in terms of security work, but are rarely welcomed into non-Ogre communities, with a few exceptions.

Creatures of Tartarus- The Plain Of Shadows

The cold and desolate dimension which scrapes away at the edges of creation, Tartarus is the home of black magics, and the malevolent beasts which are born of the shadowy union between flesh and darkness.

Vampires- Dwellers of the night who feed on the blood of the races they deem beneath them, Vampires possess superhuman strength, keen regenerative abilities, and the ability to travel at speeds unachievable by humans. Permanently frozen at the state their body was in when they became a vampire, these nocturnal creatures are seemingly impervious to ageing, or dying of age-related ailments. Elders of vampric society have lived long enough to develop potent blood magic, being able to imprint their will upon those susceptible to suggestion; gathering their own harems of thralls who are fiercely loyal to their dark masters.

Whilst not, as the stories would have you believe, vulnerable to garlic or running water, the sun’s rays are lethal to all vampires –forcing them to operate exclusively during the night-. It is rumoured that those of exceptional faith can ward off these blood-suckers with icons of their respective gods, but this is most likely just hearsay.

Technically considered a disease, official law enforcement guidelines state that Vampires should be hunted with extreme prejudice. Despite their enhanced capabilities, most smart Vampires tend to keep their dark secret guarded, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. Despite this, the Nyte Kyngs openly flaunt their vampirism.

Wendigo- The twisted union of man and beast, Wendigo’s are the monstrous children of savagery and barbarism. Like all creatures of Tartarus, they are associated with blood-drinking and cannibalism.

Fear Gorta- The phantoms of hunger and famine, Fear Gorta are the harbingers of blight and destruction. The Fear Gorta disease is one which can infect all known species, and riddle a bloodline with feral, flesh-eating offspring.

Undead- Reanimated by the most shunned form of magic, Necromancy, the undead are rotting husks of their former selves, forced to shamble through their miserable un-lives. Whilst mindless undead do exist, players will take control of sentient undead, who’ve managed to obtain their freewill, or were raised as being free willed to begin with.

The lowest of the low, Undead are almost universally rejected by all but the most benevolent of society.

Creatures of the Fae- The Plain Of Souls

The Fae is a dimension of ethereal forests and luscious fields of pure magic. These creatures use neither black nor white magic, and instead dabble in a school of magic completely unique to them, known as “Fay Magic”.

Faerie- The sovereign lords of the Fae, Faeries are malevolent tricksters and magic users. They have been known to kidnap the children of other species, and morph them into brainwashed hobb servants. Faeries have large golden eyes, and can conjure ethereal wings into existence at their bidding.

Hobb- Dull, lumbering beasts devoid of independent thought, Hobbs are wrought from the flesh and spirits of other creatures, and are sewn together to form the fanatically loyal minions of their Faerie overlords.

Brownie- Small, mischievous sprites, Brownies resemble small children, but covered in moss and fur. They are notoriously boisterous and perverse, delighting in obscene revelry.

Creatures of Zhuthunih- The Searing Nether

Demon- The children of sin and hellfire, demon’s know no language other than depravity. They are beasts of the bloodiest nature, who feed off of the folly and misdeeds of mortal men.

Fiendling/Nether-Brood- Fiendlings are mortals who have consumed the blood of demons, or spent an elongated period in the vicinity of demonic taint. They resemble a sickly mishmash of demonic corruption and their original species, usually boasting cloven hooves or ram-like horns. The Fiendling is the halfway point between man and monster, and constantly battles with the dark voices that plague their psyche.

The Districts of Santa Somabra

-Dawn Peak Heights-Wealthiest district in the city, Nyxvira has an apartment here

-Palassa's Song-Second wealthiest district in the city, primarily light and dark elves live here though wealthier members of the lesser races also call this district home

-Tranquil Valley-Another wealthy district with a more diverse demographic, many poorer folks dream about owning a home in Tranquil Valley

-Little Lupine-Pretty self-explanatory, werewolves and alcohol everywhere

-Chinatown-Pretty self-explanatory, used by multiple criminal groups to move huge quantities of drugs

-The Narrows-The dirtiest, nastiest slums in the entire city, some vagrants refer to it as "crime school" and most sane people avoid this area like the plague. The Most infamous and scummy section of the Narrow is "Drabstreet".

-The Red Light District-Sex, drugs, and more Sex. The Nyctari have various strongholds dotted about this district, which is practically drowning in whores and dust dens; catering to all kinds of exotic fetishes.

-Los Tres Muertos-Where the dead live, also the best ice cream in all of Santa Somabra can be found here

-Wyvern Rock-Mainly home to orcs and goblins

-Miracle Square-A posh community where the mystically gifted ply their trade

-Deadlight Hills-A middle-class district where the living and the undead can be found together

-The Burned Block, formerly known as the Silver Expanse-A once prosperous and beautiful district destroyed by the Great Fire of 1985

-Southwind Park-A remnant of the Silver Expanse catering to upper middle-class and wealthier citizens, the Hotel Imperius is located here

-Silver Hills: Gated community in which only residents may enter and to be one, the community council must veto you. Zero crime rate and all in all, the most 'Pure and Good' untouched by evil place in the city. In appearance, at least.

Character Sheet

To begin with, each player may submit one character sheet. Once they have ‘proven’ themselves (by engaging in roleplay, being active OOCly etc) they may apply for a second character. You may play up to three characters.

Name/Nicknames:

Race: (The species of the character you wish to play)

Age:

Appearance: (Short, physical description of your character/picture/both)

Personality: (A couple of paragraphs to describe how your character behaves, and what drives them)

Bio: (A brief synopsis of what got your character to this point, and where they fit in to Santa Somabra)

Other: (Any other notes, pieces of information, etc that you wish to include)

[Rockette]

Would you rather we just post our characters here or send them to you first for verification?

[Kingfisher]

Would you rather we just post our characters here or send them to you first for verification?

@Rockette

CS's that are pending approval go in the OOC, then once they've been accepted you can move them over to the CS tab.

[Atrophy]

Here you go, boss. Lemme know what I broke.

Valorie

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.

[Kingfisher]

Here you go, boss. Lemme know what I broke.

Valorie

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.

@Atrophy

You have no idea how happy it makes me to finally see someone playing a Rat.

Doubly approved! Exactly the kind of sleazy character I love reading. You can move her into the CS tab whenever is convenient.

[Cat Sidhe]

I'd be interested in taking this setting for a spin! Give me a few hours to compile a character sheet, and we'll see where this goes.

[Kingfisher]

I'd be interested in taking this setting for a spin! Give me a few hours to compile a character sheet, and we'll see where this goes.

@Cat Sidhe

Nice! See you in a few hours.

[Medusa]

I can't believe I named her Dr. Bathory

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.

[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."

The Lost Boys are back.

But hey @Kingfisher, I've got one more CS in the works. Gonna need you to give it a onceover once I'm done.

[Cat Sidhe]

Got eeeeeeverything but a face claim and a backstory. Hope I'm not keeping y'all waiting!

[RedDusk]

Are you still accepting? I'd love to have a spot on this.

[Atrophy]

@DJAtomikaLook, not to give you any pressure or anything, but if your character is a shirtless, greasy saxophone player singing sweet, sweet 80s ballads or a young Kiefer Sutherland then I might becoming your bestie. Just saying.

[Rockette]

@DJAtomika - Oh my, nice to see my banners are continuously used!

@Medusa - My vampire mistress could use more thralls for sure.

[DJAtomika]

@Rockette Your banners are, like, the bomb for my dudes.

@Atrophy Y'know I've actually never done a face claim for either of my guys, but hey, I think my third guy might just be a younger Kiefer Sutherland.

He just might be. I think he is. XD

Seeing as how I imagined Benji to be a mobster Rodney Dangerfield.

[Drinky]

Gish

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.

[Tiberious]

I am interested. Ill drop a CS when i wake tomorrow morning.

[Kingfisher]

Andy Fontaine DiMaggio

<Snipped quote>

| 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

<Snipped quote>

| 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."

The Lost Boys are back.

But hey @Kingfisher, I've got one more CS in the works. Gonna need you to give it a onceover once I'm done.

@DJAtomika

Andy and Kiddo are accepted. Of course.

Charlotte, tons of wip but in a rush rn. Would someone be interested in a vampire's thrall? Lmao

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

Cherry

R A C E

Human, vampire thrall.

A G E

Twenty-Five

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

WIP

B I O G R A P H Y

WIP

@Medusa

I like what you've got there so far.

Gish

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.

@Drinky

Accepted! I'm a huge fan. Can't wait to see what Gish gets up to. Feel free to put him in the CS tab.

I am interested. Ill drop a CS when i wake tomorrow morning.

@Tiberious

Until then. *Tips hat*

[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.

---

All right-y, there she is. I believe I can play this Maharet more effectively now.

[Kingfisher]

&

^{"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.

---

All right-y, there she is. I believe I can play this Maharet more effectively now.

@Rockette

Glad to have our red woman back. Feel free to put her cs in the character sheet tab.

[Lexicon]

Vigilance

Inspirational Image

"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 or some other alias ((Her actual name is Narcissa Veclis))

Race: Wyrmblood Ljosalfr

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

Appearance

Despite looking like a human woman in her early thirties, Narcissa Veclis is quite old for an elf. Signs of her age are easy to spot if one knows what to look for, though her hair is the most visible indicator. It's the color of newly-fallen snow, and the she-elf keeps it short so it stops just above her jawline. She will occasionally braid 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 willowy build with few curves to speak of. However, her body is still toned and fit thanks to years of training with her uncle, her time as an SSPD officer, and her obsession with waging a one woman war against Santa Somabra's lawbreakers. The light elf also has wide hips, a gift from her mother's side of the family, which she finds vexing beyond words. While she obviously can't stand toe-to-toe with an ogre, the bounty killer called Vigilance has a wiry strength and agility that has served her well over the years.

Her face, while possessing the same otherworldly beauty found in all elves, has started to show signs of aging in the form of crow's feet and frown lines. The wyrmblood rarely covers these blemishes. She's 500 years old and her movements are growing stiffer with every passing year. Why hide the obvious? At any rate, Narcissa's skin is only a shade darker than her hair, which gives her an ethereal, almost wraith-like appearance. This impression is only heightened by her cold, unforgiving gray eyes. Oddly enough, 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 two to three bullets before rupturing. This black-dyed armor was made especially for Narcissa by a dokkalfr leatherworker living in Santa Somabra's red light district. Supposedly, the she-elf warrior saved the craftsman's daughter from the Gilded Cage, an infamous whorehouse owned by the Nyctari family. Whether or not this event actually occurred is up for debate, though Vigilance is rumored to have a long-standing feud with the bloodsucking criminals. She has never once accepted a contract from the Nyctari over the course of her career. Regardless, this set of hand-crafted armor includes a chestpiece, gorget, bracers, gloves, leggings and boots. The dark elf, who may or may not have been the legendary 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 once belonged to Bardolan "The Grim" Veclis, and her dual pistols, Vigilance radiates an aura of deadly competence and self-assurance capable of unnerving even the boldest thugs. Of course, the elf doesn't go anywhere without her trusty silver flask hanging from her belt alongside these tools of destruction.

Perhaps the most terrifying aspect of Vigilance's "uniform" is her death mask, a ceramic covering 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 trials of the afterlife. Wearing one at any point prior to death is considered extremely foolhardy and tasteless. Narcissa doesn't give a flying goblin's ass about such superstitious nonsense. Whenever she's acting on behalf of the Bloodbloom Syndicate or prowling the streets in search of prey, her face is covered by this death mask. Humorously, Narcissa can often be seen wearing simple t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers when she's not busy slaughtering her way through Santa Somabra's underworld. Only her mistress, Nyxvira Bloodbloom, can command the ljosalfr to wear anything close to formal attire.

Finally, Narcissa's low-range soprano voice has an unusual, almost archaic English accent, and she peppers her speech with antiquated words and sayings.

Personality

Unlike most elves, Narcissa isn't necessarily elitist, though this isn't because she's convinced the lesser races have something worthwhile to offer her people. She still believes dark and light elves are superior to everyone else. As a wyrmblood, however, the bounty killer has been persecuted by her kind, including her own mother, since she was a child. 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 the First Children are intolerant, arrogant, and cruel at the best of times. Furthermore, Narcissa is smart enough to acknowledge the accomplishments of others despite her belief that an elf probably could've done a better job. Still, this fear of prejudice and rejection has warped the way the ancient she-elf interacts with those around her. In short, 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.

However, after the death of her lover, Myranda Tavellan, the ljosalfr called Vigilance is trying to open herself up again. It's not working particularly well.

Part of the problem is the elf's very presence seems to give off an air of glacial indifference and unfathomable loneliness, though she endures as best she can by drinking and smoking whenever life becomes unbearable. Regrettably, the death of Myranda also soured Narcissa's already pessimistic worldview, and what passes for the light elf's dry 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 fools wanted by Santa Somabra's criminal elite. Many believe the elderly ljosalfr is an unfeeling, heartless monster. She loyally serves whoever is willing to give her the most money for a job while simultaneously killing as many drug dealers, slavers, and thugs as possible. 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 fighting to convince herself that she returned to Santa Somabra in hopes of redeeming herself. How? By destroying the formidable gangs running amok in the streets one member at a time. 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 destroyed. 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 hope for a better life perished in hopes of dying a hero's death.

Biography

In 1519, Narcissa Veclis was born to Althea Veclis and a dragon disguised as a ljosalfr outside the city of Truro in 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 her daughter for her beloved's departure. One of her favorite insults 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 come rescue her.

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

A ljosalfr named Celebron Rommath, a traveler 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 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 aghast to see Narcissa out in the fields, helping her mother with the animals and crops. Was the woman mad? All half-elves were abominations, but the so-called gifts bestowed upon wyrmbloods by their draconic heritage made them impossibly dangerous. Celebron knew he had to act.

After being invited into the house for a 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 ablaze. 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 run away from 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 that you're his niece, and I am certain he'll take you in. He must. 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, but at what cost? She 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 several hungry nights 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 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 coping 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 and pure iron. Capable of cutting through almost anything, excluding mithril and other rare metals, pure iron was almost impossible to shape without the proper technique. Luckily for Bardolan, he'd trained with some of the finest weaponsmiths and swordmasters in the world. And he'd learned a great deal.

Three weeks after Narcissa's 110th birthday, her uncle took her aside and told her there was something he wanted 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 destroy you. I refuse to let this happen to my sister's daughter. It is time I began teaching you the Caramag, the Wind Song. The greatest legacy of those who came before us."

Thus began an incredibly 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 year 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 fate.

And then what would come 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 already secured a place for himself and Narcissa aboard a caravan heading out 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, wanderers, 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, no matter how hard she tried, Narcissa could not light it again. Her gifts refused to obey her desperate commands. A few hours later, Bardolan "The Grim" Veclis passed into the afterlife. Narcissa was too poor to even afford a death mask for her beloved uncle.

Struggling to keep her head above water by doing odd-jobs for the people of Last Meal, Narcissa kept up with her training even as the world around her continued to change. A month after the start of the Civil War in 1865, 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 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 high-quality drink. And women. Perhaps it was a 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 her current state. 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 person Narcissa had ever seen.

The courtship between the two was somewhat awkward, especially since Myranda initiated it, but they eventually became lovers. Of course, they never openly expressed their feelings for each other, because they knew how those around them would react. Still, between Narcissa's limited knowledge of smithing and Myranda's uncanny knack for obtaining 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 their atypical skill sets? The Laughing Maiden was never particularly popular, but it provided the two light elves with the money necessary to prosper in the increasingly treacherous city of Santa Somabra.

Everything 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 once a group of vampires calling themselves the Nyctari showed up, demanding protection money since the Laughing Maiden was technically in their territory. Despite Myranda's knowledge of her draconic blood, Narcissa managed to avoid using her pyromantic talents as she drove the bloodsuckers off with the Caramag alone. Things seemed to be looking up for the two ljosalfar.

In the winter 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 the state of their hometown, the two women decided to join the Santa Somabra Police Department, swearing to each other they'd never let something like this happen again. Initially, the couple did fairly well, though their relationship became somewhat strained as more and more cops began working for the criminal guilds and syndicates taking over the city. Myranda saw nothing wrong with looking the other way if it meant the twosome could 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. Also, a strange gulf started to grow between the two light elves, which only prompted Narcissa to resume drinking and take up smoking. The couple would sometimes spend entire nights not talking 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 warrior 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. That was how she got her fix. Enraged and hurt by this betrayal, Narcissa was stunned when Myranda threatened to tell the entire SSPD that she was a wyrmblood if this wasn't kept quiet. Narcissa had done a decent job of keeping her heritage hidden from the other officers. Did her superiors know? Yes, but she'd done her best to limit the number of people who were aware of her abilities. If the rank-and-file knew then there was a good chance her career with the SSPD would be over. Seeing how totally the city had corrupted 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 an entire block and the Somabra Clock Tower, creating a region of the city known only as the "Burned Block." Over 200 people perished and Officers Veclis and Tavellan were assumed dead, though almost all 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 possibly atone for what she'd done. A possible solution came to her as she recalled something Bardolan had said to her years ago. "The ancient ljosalfar swordmasters believed that if you made a mistake then you had to pay for it. No matter what." Perhaps that was the solution? Santa Somabra was sick, and getting sicker all the time, as gangs and the corrupt authorities they controlled ran roughshod over the innocent men and women trying to make a living. At best, the commonfolk were destined to be extorted and used by these lawbreakers. 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. Maybe then she would know peace. Or at least be able to sleep again.

Using her few remaining contacts in the city, Narcissa quickly established herself as a skilled 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 simply couldn't be helped. As time wore on, however, 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 never told anyone why. The memory of the Laughing Maiden burning left a sour taste in her mouth that resurfaced whenever she saw a member of the Nyctari.

And yet, for all the drug dealers and pimps she butchered, the guilt and memories of her past continued to plague Narcissa. And these memories were now joined by a host of new nightmares revolving around the atrocities she'd committed on behalf of Santa Somabra's criminal element. She felt worse and worse with each contract she completed. Something had to give.

After completing a lucrative job for the Reapers in 2015, Narcissa bought a custom-made elven death mask from a mortuary near Crooked Alley. Donning this covering 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. Yet, there were also stories about how she saved the daughter of Mankar Deslandra from a brothel or left baskets of food for the orphans living in the Narrows. Some things never change.

When the Martovanni Family and the Reapers fell in 2016, Narcissa had already sent 150 corrupted souls into 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 realized just how dangerous the faerie queenpin 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 from now on. The faerie accepted, and Narcissa appears to be completely loyal to her new mistress. Of course, she's actually trying to find a way to kill the bloated faerie bitch.

The year is now 2019, and the light elf from Truro, Cornwall finds herself standing beside Nyxvria as her favored enforcer and bounty killer. As 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 that was born from the union of a dragon in a mortal form and an elf. 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. In fact, several people have died horribly mere moments 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 so Narcissa Veclis, as well as any elf of mixed parentage, tends to keep the details of their upbringing private.

Unfortunately, being a wyrmblood adds an extra challenge for those with a draconic parent to overcome. The "gift" bestowed upon all wyrmbloods by their non-elven mother or father is essentially emotion-based pyromancy. These elves gain the ability to direct flame whenever they're experiencing intense anger, sorrow, and so forth. The only real limitation, beyond the necessity for strong emotion, is that the fire being controlled has to already exist. This is why Narcissa always carries a lighter with her. No wyrmblood can conjure fire from nothing. Another interesting facet of this unusual capability is that any flame manipulated by a wyrmblood turns a brilliant shade of blue. As soon as the emotion fueling the elf fades, however, the wyrmblood's gift will recede until it's brought forth once again.

Still, the ability to summon walls of teal-colored fire, send darts of blazing agony hurtling towards one's foes, and surrounding yourself in a fiery aura are all within the grasp of those with draconic blood. It's also worth noting that all wyrmbloods are born with blood red hair.

-Caramag, "The Wind Song": The Caramag, which means "Wind Song" in the ancient elven tongue, is something special and rather unusual. Created many millennia ago by ljosalfr born without any connection to the mystical arts, this technique is comprised of fifty movements and can be done with either a single sword or two blades. While originally conceived as a way to give those with little or no magical talent an edge over their enemies, the Wind Song eventually transformed into something more. It became an excellent method for training the next generation of light and dark elven swordmasters, skilled and adroit warriors focused on making their blades an extension of themselves. Bardolan the Grim was one such apprentice and, during his youth in Greece, he was taught the fifty movements of the Caramag by a gifted swordmistress. Before his death in 1800, the elderly ljosalfr passed on everything he knew to his niece, Narcissa Veclis.

While the she-elf can now use swords in ways most people cannot imagine, the Caramag doesn't grant anyone the ability to deflect bullets or slash tanks apart. It does, however, give someone like Narcissa the ability to cut off limbs and part flesh with all the ease of tearing 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 huge 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 adversary, but it also acts as an executioner's cut. All of the fifty movements are like this, granting those who practice the Caramag unparalleled control of the battlefield as long as they can reach the enemy. Sadly, with the advent of firearms, the Caramag has fallen into disuse, though there are small groups of elven swordmasters scattered across the globe to this day. Some have even begun to adapt the Wind Song to handle foes armed with long-range weaponry.

-Elven Senses: This may not seem like much compared to her wyrmblood abilities and understanding of the Caramag, but Vigilance also possesses the keen senses of a mature ljosalfr. She can hear the sound of someone's heart beating on the other side of a wall if she concentrates. It's also nearly impossible to poison the she-elf, because Narcissa can taste whatever toxin has been placed in her food or drink after one mouthful. If her tongue didn't alert her to the venom's presence then her nose would. All elves have superior senses compared to the lesser races, and those dwelling in Santa Somabra tend to rely heavily on their innate gifts. Failing to pay attention tends to have unpleasant results.

Duty and Justice, the Swords of Vigilance

Death Mask, the Face of Vigilance

The Guns of Vigilance