1. Home
  2. Casual Roleplay

[IC] ✨Beyond The Veil✨

Join Status: Apply
Hidden 14 days ago → 4 days ago
Zeroth Post
Raw —
Zeroth




Hidden 11 days ago Post by Tpartywithzombi
Raw —
GM
Avatar of Tpartywithzombi

Tpartywithzombi “Strong women are absolutely unpredictable.”

Member Seen 7 hrs ago



"Built by blood, bound by lies."





The sun bled out behind the horizon, its last breath painting the jagged skyline of Halcyon in bruised red and molten gold. For a fleeting moment, the city seemed still—its towers gleaming like cold glass spires, streets slick from an earlier rain, glinting beneath the fading light. But Halcyon never truly rested.

As the sky darkened, the city awoke. Neon signs flickered to life with a stuttering pulse, casting electric halos across cracked sidewalks. Hot pink, venom green, cobalt blue—colors bled into the night, reflections rippling in puddles like fractured dreams. Steam coiled from sewer grates, swirling in languid spirals around lampposts, clinging to alleyways like restless spirits.

And from the shadows, the real Halcyon emerged.

From behind darkened windows and the low hum of basement doors sliding open, they stepped out. The vampires. Pale silhouettes draped in silk and leather, their eyes glinting like molten embers as they blinked into the neon haze. Hunger curled in their gaze as they watched the bars across the street flick their OPEN signs on, their pupils shifting—narrow, then wide—as the first wave of unsuspecting humans stumbled in for their evening nightcaps. For the living, it was the end of a long day. For the predators, it was the beginning of their breakfast.

Elsewhere, shadows moved—lycans prowling the side streets, their hulking forms cloaked in hoodies and leather jackets, muscles rippling beneath torn seams. Their eyes glowed faintly, scanning the crowds for the scent of blood, of fear, of something to sate the gnawing hunger beneath their skin. A low growl rumbled in a throat. A broken streetlight buzzed overhead. Somewhere down an alley, a scream rose, then cut off abruptly.

Along the curving avenues, beneath archways dusted with moss and forgotten magic, fae waited with sly smiles. Their lips painted like rose petals, their eyes shimmering too brightly beneath the flicker of neon. They held out gilded trinkets, whispered promises of dreams fulfilled, debts erased, pleasures unknown. “One favor,” they’d coo, their voices as soft as velvet and sharp as thorns. “Just one.” Behind their grins lurked teeth. Behind their bargains, chains.

And high above it all, perched on rooftops with long shadows stretching behind them, the Wardens watched. Silent silhouettes against the starlit sprawl, their coats billowing in the breeze. One holstered a pistol at their hip, the metal gleaming beneath a sliver of moonlight. Another tightened a grip around the hilt of a blade. Their eyes swept the streets—calculating, unyielding. Guardians or executioners? In Halcyon, the line blurred.

Below them, the city pulsed—a living, breathing labyrinth of neon and shadow, temptation and danger, predator and prey. Deals will be struck. Blood will be spilled. Lies will be whispered.

A deep, shallow scream echoed through the alleys…

Welcome to Halcyon.

Where the sun sets on innocence.

Where every bargain has a price.

And where the night always collects its due.

13x Like Like 1x Thank Thank
Hidden 11 days ago → 11 days ago Post by Oso
Raw —
coGM
Avatar of Oso

Oso

Member Seen 10 hrs ago

Dominic Blackmoor

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: @Infinite Cosmos Lucian, @deegee Kessler,@Potter Tessa

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________




The warehouse was cold, tonight. Not from the rain seeping through its rusted seams, or the wind that slipped beneath the door and sighed across the concrete, but from the silence. That made it a kind of cold that went deeper than bones. But it was dark too. In the entire vast warehouse, a single light burned above one…specific spot.
Old, yellowed, swaying faintly from a pipe overhead, that light cast shadows that moved more than they should. Beneath it sat a chair, and in that chair sat a man.

Or what was left of him.

He had been bound, wrists and ankles lashed tight with chains, head slumped forward as if in sleep. But there was no rest in the way he sagged, no peace in the mess that had been made of him. His chest was flayed open in strips, raw and blackened in places where something hot had kissed the skin again and again. Fingers missing. Teeth scattered across the floor like forgotten pennies on the ground. His face... torn, partially peeled, brutalized until it barely resembled the man it once belonged to.

But the cut was still there. That aged and worn leather vest that had seen years of wear, tear, and pride. It was tattered, soaked through with blood, but unmistakable.
The Iron Fangs patch front and center, loud and proud, just like Logan always wore it.

Dominic Blackmoor sat across from him, silent, unmoving, his broad shoulders hunched forward on a crate dragged in from the dark. One boot flat against the ground, one arm resting on his knee, the other curled loosely in his lap. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on the body, storm-gold and quiet, the light above painting slow shadows across his beard.

He had been there for a while, and he hadn’t spoken when they first brought him to the body. He just motioned for the others to leave, and out of respect for him…out of respect for Logan, they did so without question. Still, he hadn’t spoken. Not yet.

It should have taken time to recognize him with the way he was mangled and covered in his own viscera. But Dominic hadn’t needed much. He’d known before they told him…before the body was even cold. Somehow he could just feel it. The ring still clinging to what was left of his hand was just the verification. The proof of what he already knew, what he was so fucking afraid would be true.

Logan Delaney. His second. Dominic’s “Red Right Hand”, as he always called himself.
His brother in every way that mattered.

Dominic reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out an old cloth. It was faded and worn smooth at the edges. He unfolded it slowly, then leaned forward with a patience that didn’t match the ache burning behind his ribs.

There was a smear of blood just below Logan’s eye. Dried, dark, and thick.
Dominic touched it with the cloth, wiped it gently, then again…moving in careful circles.

“You were strong,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely more than a breath. Not even really a whisper.
“I know you fought. I bet you made them pay for every second.”

He wiped a bit more from Logan’s cheek, though the damage there was too deep for cleaning to matter. Still, he tried.

“I should’ve been here,” he said softly, the words sinking like stones in his soul.
“I should’ve known.”

There was no vampire stench in the air. No sour, floral rot. No magic clinging to the walls like old perfume. Whoever had done this wasn’t one of them. Dominic could’ve smelled it from the door. This wasn’t a kill for hunger. This was cruelty, pointed and personal. This was someone sending a message.

It was the third time this year a wolf had been found like this.
The third stolen from them, the third one desecrated, buried without answers. But this one... this one carved deeper. Logan had been a part of every plan, every war, every dream. He had kept the Irons steady when Dominic faltered, had seen to the youngbloods, had laughed loud and thrown fists when needed, always the last to leave and the first to bleed. There was no one more loyal.

Dominic swallowed hard. He hadn’t cried since the night he ended his father’s reign of terror and assumed his place as Alpha. But now, in the stillness, his eyes burned and blurred, and a single tear slipped down the side of his face.

It fell onto the cloth, but there was no acknowledgment of it…he didn’t even stop wiping.

“You hated when they called you soft,” he said after a while.
“But you were, old man. You cared more than you let on…always did.”

The words caught in his throat, twisted there, stuck between sorrow and rage. His hand trembled, just slightly, as he wiped another smear of blood from Logan’s brow, then brushed his hair back behind one ear.

“I see you, brother,” he whispered.

He sat there for a long time after that, just breathing. Just... being.

Then he reached down, took Logan’s hand in both of his, and slowly slid the ring from his finger. The weight of it in his palm felt like a final word. He stared at it for a moment, then turned it over and slipped it onto his own hand, where it settled against the thick bone too tight but exactly where it belonged now.

“Your hunt is over,” Dominic said, his voice raw now, gravel and thunder held back by force of will.
“Time to rest.”

He stood.

Carefully, with reverence, he reached down and unbuckled Logan’s vest, peeled it from his ruined frame, and folded it with both hands, pressing it flat against his chest as if the weight of it might keep him grounded.

He turned toward the door.

The metal groaned softly as it opened, and the scent of rain spilled in from outside. A shadow crossed the threshold. A woman stepped in, her hair was pulled back tight, face drawn and red-rimmed, jaw clenched to keep from breaking again. She wore her cut over a dark hoodie, and her eyes were burning red from the tears.

She met Dominic’s eyes, and something in her face cracked.

He said nothing, just stepped forward and rested one large hand on her shoulder. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t pull her in. Just let the weight of his touch settle there like a promise. She was a youngblood, new to the pack.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly.
“I hope you know that.”

She nodded once, her eyes brimming again.

“But we can’t mourn. Not yet. It’s not time. We’ve got work to do.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. So he spoke again… This time, she would have to speak.

“How many people know?” he asked her

“Just you,” she said. “me...and the newbloods who found him.”

“Keep it that way. At least for tonight. I want to be able to tell Tessa myself.”

He paused, glancing back at the body one last time, his jaw tightening.

“Get Kessler and Lucian here. I need them. He would’ve wanted them here.”

She hesitated, then turned to go.

“And,” Dominic added, voice barely audible,
“have them bring a bottle of Walker… Red Label.”

There was silence, but her nod stood as promise.

“It was Logan’s favorite. He deserves one last drink.”

The woman left, and Dominic Blackmoor stood alone again, a bloody and folded vest in his hands, a storm at his back, and a quiet rage in his chest that burned hotter than hell itself.
14x Like Like
Hidden 11 days ago → 9 days ago Post by Tpartywithzombi
Raw —
GM
Avatar of Tpartywithzombi

Tpartywithzombi “Strong women are absolutely unpredictable.”

Member Seen 7 hrs ago

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: The Ravens Nest •
Time: Dusk
Interactions: None
Mentions: None


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


The low growl of the motorcycle echoed down the rain-slick streets, blending with the neon hum of Halcyon’s restless night. Her leather boot adjusted itself against the peg bar as her fingers gripped around the bars tightly. Pulling up against the sidewalk, Vex kicked her leg over the seat as the heat of the engine warmed her leg.

Wiping her hands on a rag, grease and ink staining her fingers as she stood outside the Ravens Nest, her tattoo shop that was nestled between a boarded-up pawn shop and a flickering dive bar. The last client was long gone, the machines silent, the air inside thick with the lingering scent of disinfectant. Her employees managed the shop during the day but Vex far preferred the evening shift. It was quite.

Her shaggy blonde hair clung to her jaw in damp waves, pushed back beneath a cracked pair of aviators resting on her head. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the cherry flaring red as she took a long drag, eyes glowing feral yellow beneath the shadow of the neon sign above. Tattoos snaked down her arms—blackwork,old scars inked over, stories woven into skin. Some hers. Some not.

Tonight, the city felt different.

Maybe it was the way the sky hung low and heavy, like a bruise waiting to break. Or maybe it was the way her chest tightened every damn time she looked at the empty stool in the corner of the shop—the one Bear used to claim, boots kicked up, smart ass grin sharp as a knife.

Bear.

Her best friend. Her brother in arms. Her ride-or-die. Gone now. Dead because this city always took more than it gave. His laughter haunted the cracks in the brick, the creak of the shop’s back door. She hadn’t moved the helmet he left hanging by the register. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

She flicked ash onto the sidewalk, her lips curling into a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes.

“You’d be pissed if you saw me sulking like this, huh?” she muttered under her breath. The smirk spread on her lips, her blacklip stick staining the butt of her cigarette as she lifted it back to her mouth. She took another long drag before flicking it onto the ground crushing it under her boot.

Somewhere out there was a beer with her name on it. Perhaps she would even find a bruise, a bloodied lip, something to remind her she was still alive. Vex reached for the door handle giving it a slight tug to ensure it was locked up. There were no bookings this evening which never bothered her. She was normally so stacked with clients she rarely left the shop.

Pulling out her phone the screen lit up.

3 missed calls.
Dom
“Vex, Where the fuck are you.”
The text message appeared on her screen.

Letting out a drawn-out sigh, her eyes unbreaking from the screen she pulled a fresh cigarette to her lips, lighting it up as the cherry sparked its vibrant red. Her yellow eyes watched as if the words would just disappear if she stopped looking. The trail of smoke from her cigarette danced around her.

Her eyes lingered for a moment longer before she slipped the phone into the back pocket of her ripped jeans, her thumb lingering a moment longer over the screen before killing the call.

She swung one leg over the gleaming black beast beneath her, the motorcycle’s chrome catching the last burn of the setting sun. Leather creaked as she settled into the seat, her fingers curling around the handlebars with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly what kind of trouble they were steering toward.

With a flick of her wrist, she dragged her aviators down over those wild yellow eyes, hiding the quiet storm beneath. The faintest smirk ghosted across her lips as she kicked the ignition.

The engine snarled to life—a deep, throaty growl that vibrated up her spine like a promise. She revved it once, twice, louder, a challenge thrown into the night. And without another look back, she peeled out of the lot, tires spitting gravel, the roar of the bike drowning out the ghosts chasing her.

She needed a fucking beer…
16x Like Like
Hidden 11 days ago → 9 days ago Post by princess
Raw —
coGM
Avatar of princess

princess

Member Seen 6 hrs ago



____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Warehouse in the outskirts of Gutterbane • Time: Dusk

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: @Ithradine Luther

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________




____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


The scent hit her first.

Metallic, thick, and drowning her senses, clawing down her throat. Instinct twisted her stomach long before she had pushed open the heavy doors, the quiet crunch of shattered glass beneath her boots suddenly deafening in the silence.

Dusk bled through cracks in the warehouse ceiling, spilling weak light onto a scene ripped straight from a nightmare. Dozens of bodies hung suspended from the rafters like grotesque puppets, pale limbs swaying gently. Their skin held the waxy sheen of death, and their face stared out with wide, glassy eyes that seemed to bore into hers in greeting. Tubes ran from punctured veins, dark tendrils snaking downward into vats that glittered obscenely, brimming with ruby liquid that shimmered under the fading daylight.

Angel stood rooted, hands flexing at her sides, the floor beneath was slick under her boots. Her blue eyes flashed faintly crimson in primal response, rooted to her spot. Her lip quivered almost unnoticeably as she finally took one step forward, leather jacket whispering against her body as she drew her blades, twin shards of gleaming silver reflecting what little light remained.

"Oi, love. Should be a quick one for ya — local tip says there’s a rogue squatter holed up in an old bottling warehouse down in Gutter South. Place’s a dump, full of rust and rats. Should be right up your alley, yeah, Sicily baby?"

She stepped closer, her gaze lingering over the sight of a nude body on the ground. The man was twisted unnaturally, sprawled in a crimson puddle of his blood. Waxy skin stretched over hollow cheeks, eyes blown wide and frozen in a look of terror, mouth still parted mid-scream. He was already drained, staining the concrete floor in thick arterial ribbons.

Grigg's voice buzzed in her ear like a gnat, the sound of his voicemail replaying in her mind once again.

"Client says he’s gone mental. Sippin’ from mortals without a license, real messy work...Anyway, clean it up, make it loud if you like, I don’t care. Long as he’s dead by dusk."

Her jaw clenched, and her brows furrowed. "Lying piece of shit." she muttered icily, as if the corpse had personally offended her. The world around her blurred as fury swelled in her chest like a storm.

Then came footsteps. Her senses snapped sharp as steel, vision clearing instantly.

Three.

She moved before the first attacker lunged. Ducking low, Angel spun fluidly, slashing upward, her blade carving a precise arc through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed her face in a manner that was both hot on her cool skin and familiar. The first attacker staggered back with a guttural howl, his chest split wide open.

The second struck from behind, fangs flashing. Angel pivoted sharply, driving an elbow into his throat. As he choked, she drove a blade upward through his jaw, burying steel in the soft palate of his mouth. He fell without another sound, eyes shocked wide in silent death.

The third hesitated, eyes flashing fear and fury. Angel didn't give her time to reconsider. She leapt forward, blades slicing the air with lethal grace. Her opponent fought desperately, claws and fangs tearing at Angel’s leather jacket, drawing shallow red lines across her pale skin. But Angel's rage outmatched desperation. Her blades buried into the female again and again, cutting deeper until the vampire collapsed, shuddering and still.

Breathing hard, Angel stood amid the carnage, blood slick on her fingers, dripping from her blades like falling stars. Around her, silence reclaimed the darkened warehouse, broken only by her own breath and the faint drip of stolen life from above.

She wiped her blade clean on the fallen woman's shirt, her eyes dull.

A wet, rasping sound behind her made her turn.

The first vampire she’d struck, the one she’d opened from collarbone to navel, was still alive. Slumped against the rusted base of a blood tank, his hands pressed feebly to the gaping wound in his chest, fingers sliding over split muscle and gleaming rib. His blood shimmered like oil in the dim light, but his eyes… his eyes were alight with cruel mirth as a gurgling laugh escaped his lips. The sound slithered up her spine.

He coughed thickly, lips curling into a jagged smile that dripped crimson down his chin. “That all you got, Goldilocks?” he rasped, voice like shattered glass. “You think you killed us all? The others will return any minute now!”

Angel’s expression didn’t change.

He coughed again, this time with pain, but he was still grinning. “A vampire killin’ her own brothers and sisters. That’s gotta be considered sacrilege... or maybe just fuckin' punk rock, eh?”"

Angel raised a brow. Her fingers curled tighter around her blade. "Shut up and die already."

He lifted his head with effort, locking his bloodshot gaze to hers. There was amusement in his eyes, like he had one last joke left to play, even as his lifeblood soaked into the warehouse floor. “I've seen you before, you know... Walkin’ around with those baby blues like you still got a soul. Protecting the cattle like you ain’t just another monster.” He laughed again — not the wild, mocking cackle from before. The sound scraped from his chest like the last echo of a life he’d already half-forgotten.

He leaned his head back against the cold steel behind him, and his gaze, though fading, still sought hers. “You know what’s funny?” he wheezed, “If someone had told me... that bein’ a vampire didn’t mean I had to be a bastard... maybe I’d’ve done things a little different. Maybe.” The words hit heavier than she wanted to admit.

To her surprise, tears had begun to gloss over his eyes, glinting faintly. Angel said nothing at first.
She should have finished him... Put a blade through his throat and walked away as she always did.

But she didn’t move.

His smile wavered as his eyes flicked downward. “Guess I’m not gonna make it, huh?”

There was no time left, not really, but something in Angel’s chest twisted. She stepped forward just a few paces, then knelt beside him, and she took his hand. He stared at her in stunned silence, as though the touch itself was something holy, something he didn’t deserve. His blood-slicked fingers twitched in hers, as if unsure whether to fight or cling.

“I used to be a father, you know,” he murmured eventually, “My little Molly...Oh, she looked just like her mother." His glassy gaze drifted upward, as if the rafters above had turned into something beautiful above him. Whatever he saw there, it wasn’t the warehouse. “She’d sit cross-legged on the floor, back straight like a soldier, waitin’ for me to finish fixing her hair. Giggled like mad, said I always pulled too hard.”

His trembling hand reached into empty air as though he could smooth her hair just one more time. “I used to braid it every morning… blue ribbons, her favorite. Said they made her magic.”

A ghost of a laugh escaped him, the kind of sound that died before it made it far. “Last thing she saw of me was me runnin’ for good. She was at the door... holdin’ one of her ribbons, waitin’ for me to fix her hair.” His voice was fractured, as though speaking hurt more than the wound tearing him apart. “Thought I was protectin’ her… keepin’ the monster away..."

His red pupils shook as tears streaked down his cheeks. “Didn’t even say goodbye. She probably thought I didn’t love her.”

Angel’s throat tightened. “You did love her,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than her breath. “You still do.”

“Do you think…” He hesitated, the question trembling in the space between them. “Do you think she’d forgive me?”

Angel didn’t answer right away, but when she did, her voice was gentle. “...I bet she’s still waiting for you, ribbon in hand.”

He turned his head slightly, resting it against the cold steel tank behind him, his fading eyes drifting down to their joined hands. A faint sound, almost a sigh, escaped him. “You’re kind,” he said, almost in disbelief, as though he’d only just realized it.

Angel met his eyes steadily. "I'm no less a monster than you are." She confessed quietly.

Something genuine morphed his smile, and for a moment, it looked like he might slip away in peace.

But then he jerked forward sharply, gripping her hand with the last of his strength. His face twisted, not with anger, but something more haunting. “You better run... Before Corvane hears about you..."

Of course this is his crap. Fuck me, right?

Angel yanked her hand free with a grimace as he slumped back, the final trace of life draining from his eyes like the last drop of blood from an emptied vein. The quiet in the warehouse pressed in like a held breath, thick with death. Blood pooled beneath her boots, and overhead, the bodies swayed gently on their hook

She rose slowly, expression darkening.

With one last glance at the room of utter carnage, she turned on her heel. Her phone was already in her hand before she reached the threshold, her thumb snapping a picture of the scene behind her. Her thumb subsequently flew across the screen, dialing Griggs.

No answer.

She pressed the phone harder to her ear as it rang, her teeth grinding... Annnd still nothing. Beep.

The air still reeked of blood and rot, clinging to her clothes like a second skin. Holding the phone to her ear, Angel's eyes scanned the empty lot. "You're so full of shit, Griggs." Her voice was cold, even, and low, perhaps more dangerous than if she had shouted. "You said no more lies. That you wouldn’t send me into something blind again."

She stepped outside, her boots crunching on broken concrete. "That was a fucking feeding den. A whole damn nest." The blonde tapped her foot impatiently against the pavement, her other hand twitching with the urge to draw a blade again. "They’re all dead... So you better pay me, jackass. Now." Angel then hung up with a sharp flick of her thumb.

It was a lie.

No den that well-stocked was ever left unguarded for long. More would crawl back soon enough, vengeful and pissed to find their buddies as dead as dirt. But she wasn’t sticking around to be picked off like a rookie for the kind of pay Griggs was offering.

She stormed across the lot, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. The door to her car groaned under her grip as she yanked it open. It creaked in protest, and for a moment it looked like she might rip the damn thing off its hinges. Angel slammed herself down into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with white-knuckled force.

That’s when her phone screen lit again.

LUTHER – Incoming Call.

17x Like Like
Hidden 11 days ago → 11 days ago Post by Oso
Raw —
coGM
Avatar of Oso

Oso

Member Seen 10 hrs ago


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Penthouse Suite 1411 • Time: Dusk

Interactions: A Crow Named Mercy • Mentions: Noah @helo

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________




Halcyon looked beautiful tonight.
But then, that was the trouble with the city. It always looked beautiful.

It sprawled beneath the glass in a flood of jewel tones and drops of rain trailing down the window, a city soaked in color ... neon bleeding across the skyline in bruised violets and electric golds, pink signs flickering in time with the thunder of bass lines that pulsed from rooftop bars and underground dens. It glowed like temptation and smelled like regret. It was a cathedral of sin with a dress code and a sommelier with one hell of a wine list.

And from here, it looked like it was still holding together.

Locke stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other curled around a glass. His reflection barely flickered in the pane. Just a shadow in a tailored silver vest, rings catching the light, eyes the color of warm embers before they went cold. Auburn, but sharp. Like the last thing you saw before the sun dipped below the horizon and the dark of night took its rightful place.

Mercy cawed softly from her perch beneath a modern light fixture sculpted like a twisted helix. Reflections from its warm bulbs made her feathers gleam like oil. She didn’t look at him, just the window…just the city.

Locke sipped his Irish coffee slowly, savoring it like a ritual. Sweetened cream, rich roast, just enough whiskey to kiss the edge of his throat on the way down. It tasted like memories. Like his father’s quiet hum in the kitchen and a sharp smack on the hand if he reached for the bottle too early.

“Pretty from a distance, isn’t it?” he murmured to the crow, his voice low and smooth with that soft Irish tilt that made everything he said sound more like a song or a secret. “You can feel her hummin’ under your skin, can’t you? Like she knows you’re watchin’.”

Mercy didn’t reply, of course she didn’t. She just blinked once, but somehow Locke knew the gist of her feelings on the matter.

“I swear, this place feels like it’s one bad day from burnin’ to the ground,” he added after a moment. “But it never does. It lingers, like blood under your fingernails.”

Another sip. Slower, this time. He let it warm him from the inside out. The silence stretched long and sweet. The kind of silence that people mistake for peace ... but that Locke had long since learned was the sound of something waiting.

He turned from the window to reveal something far less beautiful than the neon jungle below. The apartment behind him was a slaughterhouse.

Blood painted the walls in looping, arterial arcs. A smear trailed down the marble kitchen island like someone had tried ... and failed ... to crawl away. There was a tooth near the fridge. A whole fucking tooth. One of the bar stools was cracked clean in half, splinters stabbed into the floor like miniature stakes.

Locke exhaled softly through his nose. Set the glass down on the only clean counter with a careful touch. He rolled his shoulders once, and pulled his black leather gloves on one hand at a time… flexing the fingers within as he did so, stretching the leather to get them just right.

“All right, my girl,” he said to Mercy with gentle enthusiasm. “Let’s tidy up.”

The glamour came easily. It always did.

It started at his feet ... thin silver lines that etched across the floor like veins, delicate and precise, spreading outward with a hum that only he and the dead could hear. Reality began to bend, not violently, but with quiet inevitability, like a sheet folding under its own weight.

He stepped over the blood trail, the stain vanished behind him like it had been pulled into the tile by invisible threads. Bone splinters turned to soot and were drawn into a small sigil etched midair, hovering in front of his palm.

Locke lifted a small glass vial from his vest pocket ... dark, crystal-cut, capped in silver. He unstoppered it, held it toward the open air, and whispered something under his breath. The glamour obeyed.

The smell of blood and death that was filling the room... in all of its coppery rotten glory ... peeled away from the air and funneled into the vial like smoke into a chimney. He sealed it with a flick of his wrist.

“That one’s for the river,” he said absently, tucking it away.

He moved like water, like silk. Hands steady, motions deliberate. Where he passed, destruction vanished. Walls smoothed. Cracks in the drywall mended. A throw pillow ... previously soaked in sanguine... fluffed itself clean and dry. A shattered coffee table reassembled with the faintest click of wooden joints syncing back into place. Even the emotional imprint of the violence ... that lingering pressure that made your stomach twist when you entered a room that knew what had happened ... was drawn into a ward and locked away.

Locke Devlin didn’t just clean up a crime scene.
He made it so it had never happened.

By the time he was done, the apartment looked like the cover of a design magazine. Polished chrome, sleek lines, a small candle burning in the corner with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood ... his signature, though most never noticed it until long after he was gone.

Mercy fluttered down and landed on his shoulder with a rustle of wings. She let out a small, satisfied noise ... a mimic of a sigh he hadn’t realized she’d heard from him before.

Locke smiled without showing teeth. “All right, love. Job’s done.”

He retrieved his drink, swirling the last inch of whiskey and cream. He sipped and pondered the scene before stepping back to the window to take one more look from on high.

There were worse things to be than lucky.
But in Halcyon, luck could be more terrifying than magic.
And Locke Devlin had both.

He straightened his vest, smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, and vanished out the front door, leaving no prints, no traces, no ghosts behind.

Only the faint smell of clove.
And the quiet certainty that someone, somewhere had just gotten away with murder.

But before he could even put the building behind him, he felt the buzz of a notification coming from his pocket. Something in him stirred and his heart sunk deep into the pit of his stomach, though he didn’t understand where or why the sense of dread came from. Then he checked the phone.

It was text.

We need to talk. Tonight. Pink Room.

It wasn't the words that justified the dread. It was who sent the message.

Noah Corvane. An old friend, but also something so...so much worse.
10x Like Like
Hidden 11 days ago → 11 days ago Post by Infinite Cosmos
Raw —
Avatar of Infinite Cosmos

Infinite Cosmos XIV

Member Seen 1 day ago


Color code 766359
Location: Bloodmarket Row then Abandon Warehouse Time: Just before sunset into dusk
Speaking with: Randoms mostly. Mentions: @Oso Dom

__________________________________________________________

"Nah nah nah, mate, there is just no way. Fuck off with that price. I thought we were here to make a deal!" Lucian said, in a calm, raspy voice. The boxes stacked haphazardly behind the man sitting across from him. "You know how hard I had to work to get all these? Directly from Cuba no less! The fucking embargo, the fucking tariffs, fighting the Coastguard. All that costs money man. Lost a few good men doing all that too! The price is to compensate their mothers, for a son lost. You wouldn't say no to that, would ya? Even you wolves had mothers, right? The stubby, gruff man said.

The air around the table shifted slightly. The man's goons patted slightly to their left and right, showing their unease at what their boss just said. Especially considering where they were. One of them, out of the three, even had the audacity to graze his palm over the pistol tucked away in his waistband. Just like the two-bit gangster wannabe he is...

Lucian blinked slowly, facial expression unchanging. A small, guttural growl did escape his throat. "Bartholomew. Please have care of what you speak...My boys here, they're not as...controlled... as myself... The man sitting acrossing would look up and see the two newbloods standing behind Lucian, with their kuttes on, letting out a slight snarl with a twitch of their cheeks. "I will accept a 50% discount on the previously agreed upon price for your...indiscretions... Lucian extended a hand across the table, claws retracting back under his nail bed as he did so. "F-fine...But we need to talk about a new price..." the man said, amidst a swallow of saliva. Lucian grasped the man's hand firmly and shook it. "Certainly. We can do that. Let me know when you'd like to speak again... His icy blue gaze never leave the man's own.

Releasing the now-sweaty hand, Lucian turned to the two newbloods behind him "Boys, check the boxes, get our labels on them, and get them back to the Cracked Fang." The newbloods got to work, doing what Lucian told them to. A low chime rang out from Lucian's pocket and he picks up the call...

"Yeah. What? What? Slow down. Where? Ok. Tell him I'll be right there. Turning to the barkeep, Lucian barked out, perhaps more harshly than he would normally "Yeah. Hey! Give me a fresh bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. I'll come settle the price later! The barkeep hesitantly handed Lucian the unopened bottle of blended scotch. Lucian whirled around to face the newbloods and the black market trader "Boys, crack one of the boxes open for me then get the rest box to the Fang. On the double. Barty, we'll talk. Lucian swiped a few brown, tubular items from one of the cracked boxes and gave both of the newbloods a quick pat on the shoulder.

With that, he stormed out of the dingy bar, and approached his Triumph Rocket Storm, with the Iron's symbol hand-painted onto the chassis. Foregoing his helmet, as he typically does, he turned the machine over and it roared to life obediently. With one twist of the throttle, Lucian sped off into the rain, scotch bottle in hand.

Upon arrival, Lucian parked his motorcycle as quickly but safely as he can and hopped off. Shaking off some rain from his hair, he walked towards Dominic, gripping the bottle of scotch...
12x Like Like
Hidden 11 days ago Post by Tae
Raw —
Avatar of Tae

Tae

Member Seen 8 hrs ago

Lys Solwynd

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: The Eclipse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: Handsome Stranger (if someone wishes to be said handsome stranger, let me know) • Mentions: N/A

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________




The glitter bomb exploded like a miniature starburst on impact, showering the alley in shimmering flecks of gold, pink, and venom green. Somewhere, someone screamed. Somewhere else, someone cheered. And in the wake of the chaos stood Lys Solwynd, five feet of smug satisfaction in combat boots and fishnets, her wild hair glowing with streaks of green where the glitter had caught and stuck.

“Oops,” she purred, twirling the now-empty popper around her finger like a dagger. “Swore this was the bleedin’ rubbish bin, turns out it was a feckin’ priest.”

The old man she’d accidentally bombed was still sputtering behind her, now covered in enough sparkle to summon a minor deity of camp, or at least host a Eurovision finale. She didn’t look back. It was Halcyon, if you didn’t leave the house expecting mild arson or impromptu enchantments, that was on you.

Instead, Lys sauntered down the neon-slick street, humming a song only she could hear. The nightlife had risen in full color around her now. Music pulsed from alleyways like heartbeats, laughter spilled from cracked windows, and magic buzzed in the air like static waiting for a soul to touch.

Tonight, she wasn’t heading to her little antique shop. No, tonight called for something louder. Wilder. Louder and wilder.

The Eclipse loomed ahead–an underground supernatural rave club wrapped in shadow and soaked in glamour. Lights pulsed in time with the beat that throbbed through the pavement itself, and the bouncers didn’t so much check IDs as they sensed your vibe. Lys walked right past with a wink, leaving a trail of sparkling footprints on the concrete behind her.

Inside, the club was chaos incarnate. Lycans danced like they were trying to break the floor. Vampires lounged in corners like velvet daggers. Fae spun illusions in mid-air for drinks and dares.

Lys made a beeline for the bar, snagged a drink from someone else’s tray without asking, and hopped up onto the counter with a predator’s grin. The bartender blinked up at her. “You can’t be up–”

“I am, though, love...” she cut in, sipping from the glass. “And before ya tell me to get down, just know I hexed your tip jar to yodel if ya so much as whisper ‘no.’”

The jar let out a faint yodel.

“See?” she beamed. “We’re already havin' fun.”

And with that, Lys Solwynd raised her glass high, the ice clinking like fae bells, and toasted the night, the club, and whatever beautiful disaster she was about to cause next.

"Sláinte, ya filthy animals!" she crowed, her Irish lilt thick as honey and twice as wicked. "Here’s to chaos, bad choices, and gettin’ lucky before sunrise!"

She threw back the drink like it owed her rent and leapt from the bar with the grace of a misfired spell.

And promptly crashed straight into a stranger.

Hard chest. Sharply dressed. Smelled like expensive sin and worse decisions. Lys bounced off him like a glitter-streaked pinball and caught herself with a laugh, gripping the stranger for balance.

"Well now," she purred, lips curling into a smirk as her golden-green eyes flicked up to meet his. "Aren’t you a lovely bit of trouble. Fancy helpin’ a girl make some bad decisions tonight, or are ya the sort that needs convincin’?"
9x Like Like 2x Laugh Laugh
Hidden 11 days ago → 11 days ago Post by Tpartywithzombi
Raw —
GM
Avatar of Tpartywithzombi

Tpartywithzombi “Strong women are absolutely unpredictable.”

Member Seen 7 hrs ago

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Noahs bedroom
Time: Dusk
Interactions: None
Mentions: @helo Noah, ??? Someone else.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Pretty little baby…Pretty baby…I’m so in love with you…”

The sheets were soaked crimson where she sprawled, pale limbs tangled in black linen stained with the early night work. Her long white hair, streaked red at the ends, fanned around her like a broken halo. One bare foot swung lazily off the bed’s edge, toes tracing invisible circles above the body lying still beneath her.

The knife danced between her fingers, its blade glinting wet and red, singing a soft metallic hum as it spun.

“Poor, poor little lamb” Wren whispered, dragging the tip across her lips, leaving a smear of thick blood. “Not even a scream left in him.” She giggled, soft and sharp, a sound that didn’t quite belong to joy. A gurgling sound echoed in the room. “I wrapped him up all pretty, Noah. All for you. But you’re so sleepy, and now he’s spoiling.”

With a playful pout, she slithered off the bed, landing beside the body. Her white nightgown fluttering around her as she laid on her belly, her arms propping her up as her feet kicked behind her playfully. “Let’s see, let’s see…” she sang, fingers ghosting over cold dead skin. Her nails traced the jagged line she’d carved across his throat, admiring the depth, the artistry. “Oh, look at that color… like crushed berries on snow.” She bit her lip with a grin.

She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening for a heartbeat she knew wasn’t there. “Hollow, hollow, hollow…” she whispered, closing her eyes, savoring the stillness. “The music’s gone out. But I can still hear the echo.”

One delicate finger dipped slowly into the sticky wound, swirling lazily in the blood before painting a sigil across his sternum. “A lock without a key,” she mused aloud. “A door without a handle. He wasn’t meant to last, poor thing. Just a lamb on the path.”

She leaned closer, nose brushing his neck, inhaling deeply. “Mmm… going sour already.” She sighed, disappointment lacing her voice. “You’ll miss him, Noah. I made him perfect for you. But flesh fades, doesn’t it? Like promises. Like prayers. Disappointing.”

Then her face lit up, childlike and radiant, as she scrambled back onto the bed, dragging a tarnished silver tray from beneath the blankets. On it lay a crystal goblet filled dark and swirling, a cracked teacup, and scraps of something raw and red arranged like a grotesque charcuterie.

“I brought you breakfast in bed, Noah!” she chirped at no one, swaying side to side, tray balanced on her knees. “Aren’t I clever? Aren’t I good?” Her smile stretched too wide, too eager, shining with adoration as if he were really there. “See? Warm and fresh—well, mostly.”

She picked up the goblet, swirling its contents until the liquid licked the glass. “I saved the best part for you. His favorite vein. I know you like them sweet.” Her tongue darted out to taste the rim, eyes fluttering shut with bliss. “Mm… but you’re late, darling. He’s cooling now.” A pout tugged her lips, the goblet trembling slightly in her hands.

She set it down gently, fingers lingering on the stem. “You’ll miss him, love. I made him perfect. I wanted to watch you drink.” Her voice dropped to a soft croon, stroking the empty pillow beside her. “Wanted to see your fangs in his throat. Wanted to watch your pretty mouth stain red for me…” Grabbing the pillow, she shoved it into her mouth, biting down as if tearing into flesh, her eyes wild with hunger. A scene so vivid in her mind as she watches Noah hunt his prey.

A tarot card flutters from the bed—the Tower—landing across the corpse’s face, sticking to the tacky stain. She stopped peeking over to the edge of the bed. She threw the pillow finding herself on her stomach hanging her arms over the edge of the bed. Her purple eyes watching the card “It all falls down, love” she sang softly. “Brick by brick, bone by bone, until there is no more home.” Her feet kicked wildly

Another card—The Devil—she pulled it up from the ground, the card soaked in blood that had pooled around the body. “She thinks she’s righteous. But sin sings sweeter than salvation.” Her grin widened, as she grabbed the knife tapping it gently against her teeth. “Oh, how she bleeds for you, Noah. Twisting herself in pretty knots of guilt and glory. An Angel with no wings..” she grinned licking the blood off the card before she tossed it onto the body.

She pushed up to sit cross-legged atop the bed, knife resting in her lap, blood drying in thin rivers along her skin. “I hear them…” she murmured, voice lilting, distant almost a whisper. “The shadows in the glass towers. They’re coming…All of them…Run, run run” she bit her lip giggling softly.

Her head tilted slowly, a shiver crawling down her spine. “But me?” Her smile turned knife-sharp, eyes dark as a violet storm. “I’m the spider in the silk. The blade in the garden. We don’t run Noah… no no no silly.”

She leaned forward reaching for something off the nightstand before slinking back to the ground. Holding a rectangular shaped object Wren laid next to the corpse in the bloody mess.

In her hand was a photo of Noah, one of many he had sent to her. She grinned boldly “Look Noah, I made you breakfast in bed.” She smiled happily resting the photo frame on the body as she wrapped her arm around the frame and the corpse. “I’ll keep it warm for you” she whispered.

And beneath it all, a soft hum rose—a lullaby spun from madness.

Her soft voice began again as her feet kicked slowly along. “Pretty little baby…Pretty baby…I’m so in love with you…”

9x Like Like
Hidden 11 days ago Post by deegee
Raw —
Avatar of deegee

deegee

Member Seen 8 hrs ago

Kessler

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: 'The Eclipse' • Time: Dusk + 5 min

Interactions: None that matter • Mentions: @Oso Dom

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


He fucking hated this shithole. The people, the "music," the watered-down drinks. Nightlife was a blur around him, as revellers shuffled, danced, gyrated, swayed, undulated to the rhythms of another nameless, faceless, soulless EDM track. He was the still centre to this drug-induced psychosis set to pounding bass. His back to the bar, the man downed another whiskey, calmly watching his mark move with friends (or were they simply casual acquaintances, or better yet, complete strangers?) on the dancefloor, a shock of black hair and a set of killer abs, bound to hips that knew they were the centre of any red-blooded male (and more than a few females') attention. In his mind's eye, he leaned, still, ready to make his attack, while everyone around him seemed to move at 2.5X speed. One more whiskey, while his mark seemed to favour vodka-soda's and bumps of the fine white. All this, he took in. More than a few women approached his impossibly broad, lean mass. More than a few were quietly turned away. No, he only had eyes for her. And when he made his move, she was swept off her feet.

His hand, seemingly the size of her ribcage, snaking around her waist. Her hips pulled tight against his midsection. A purr of unabashed arousal from her, unheard by the meat-sacks of the crowd, but easily picked up by his keen senses. Her heartrate. Her body temperature. Moving together now, coming apart and back together where it mattered most. Her hand now, touching his thigh, reaching for his chest, his waist, his abs, that place where their bodies met. She was tiny next to his frame, and while others might have craved her attention, his mass was like a shield to their advances, simultaneously blotting out their clumsy, drunken desires, while allowing the mark to feast on sensation from his thighs his hands, his lips, his need for her.

She was captured by his presence, the scent of her desire and the glaze of her eyes telling him everything he needed to know. The way she gyrated and moved against him, if she could have mounted him right there on the dance floor, she would have. And that was exactly how he wanted her. He lost himself to the beat, moving with her for song after song, until one beat blended smoothly into another, and another.

Some time later, he moved fluidly out from the back door of the Eclipse, into the rainy night air, the mark stuck to the front of his imposing figure, inhaling his tongue, her hands traversing his features, running over the front of his jeans, over his chest. "I want it..." she cooed into his ear, teeth pulling on his lobe, hands hanging around his neck. "And you're going to get it..." the deep, rumbling voice promised, seductively, darkly. They kissed for a few moments, before the man parted from her, sitting astride the black bike that waited there. She straddled the seat, facing him and sliding her ass half-up onto the tank, sitting backward to get closer and wrapping her legs around him, feeling the heat from his core, reaching for what she wanted most. "My place isn't far..." he growled as she unbuckled his belt, letting herself into his pants. She kissed him, sucking on his lower lip as he kicked the big bike to life, the throaty roar of the V-twin drowning out the oaths she swore to him as she sucked on his neck, his ear, her small hands finding what they sought out.

They rocketed off, roaring into the night, the headlight cutting a swath of clarity through the gloom. Her shirt was soaked, as was his dark satin button-down, clinging to his vast, broad musculature. Faster. She was lost to her inebriation, and the need coursing through her veins. Faster. This bike wasn't his usual steed. Some version of the new 'Low Rider.' But being well-versed in bikes for most of his life had made this one easy enough to steal. It was new, in all the ways that was both good, and bad. It didn't shake as badly as his Pan, but it also didn't give as much feedback. Faster. It was easier to maneuver, and was much lighter, but to someone with the strength that Kessler possessed, that was of minimal importance. Ultimately, it was well-suited to his purposes.

The mark was mostly holding on with her legs around his waist, while alternately laying back against the tank to grind against him, and then sitting up to get her hands in his hair, and press the pert, youthful meat of her chest against his while throwing her head back to feel the rush of wind in her face, while enjoying every second of the vibration of the thundering motorcycle against her core. Faster. He knew exactly where they were going. There was forever construction going on near the 'Shroud.' And if not actually construction, hoarding up around condemned buildings and slums, to keep trespassers out. He knew of a place. The perfect place. A scaffolding had gone up around Gideon's Pawn Broker's because the brickwork on the near ninety-year-old structure was in danger of falling apart, and apparently, someone, somewhere was half-heartedly willing to do some work to it. But not tonight.

Faster.

Her tongue was in his mouth, the rain slicking both their faces, while her hand moved salaciously against him, in his pants. It was fast enough. He couldn't see the gauge, but they must have been doing near sixty-five. He let his hands slide from the bars, steering with his body weight, before finally looking up to see that they had reached their destination. He gripped her hair, wrenching her head back, and off his mouth, before sliding off the back of the low seat, rolling into the street, sending the bike careening toward the scaffolding. Hitting the ground hard, he felt bones break, pavement eat his skin, joints dislocate. In the distance there was a sickening, twisting noise as metal sheared off, tore, and groaned as the scaffolding structure bent and sagged after the horrifyingly brutal collision.

He lay there a moment, until he felt strong enough to begin the process. Muscles flexed, bones popping and reforming, and he even groaned aloud as his spine took its former place, holding his structure secure and stable. Standing, he looked around to see there were no witnesses, or at least none stupid enough to stay around. His shirt was ruined, his pants torn. Walking back to the bike, he looked around for a moment before finding his saddlebag, flung off into the street. He retrieved it, and pulled his kutte free, putting its familiar skin against his own.

He stepped toward the crash site once more, watching as the mark breathed her last, her twisted, broken form impaled by no fewer than three scaffolding beams, her skull crushed and back badly broken, left leg severed at mid-thigh. There was a lot of blood, and for just a moment, Kessler wondered if the punishment had fit the crime. Don't sell information to the Wardens. Pretty simple.

Throwing his saddlebags over his shoulder, he felt the shock-proofed, armoured pocket within vibrate, and he reached in to withdraw his phone. Dom. He turned his back on the "accident" and made directly for the abandoned warehouse.



12x Like Like
Hidden 11 days ago → 11 days ago Post by Ctenoid Soul
Raw —
Avatar of Ctenoid Soul

Ctenoid Soul

Member Seen 6 hrs ago

Wulde Riddenhouse

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: North outskirts of Gutter’s End. Time:Early-to-mid evening

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: N/A

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Wulde perched, or more accurately lay, upon a rooftop, because apparently that was something Wardens did. This particular rooftop, he knew, was covered in recently-installed three-tab shingles, which cost about one-fifth as much as the architectural shingles the policyholder had listed on their insurance claim.

Said policyholder might soon be in the hands of a police-y holder once Wulde turned in his report. They would certainly want a good lawyer, and not the sort that those TV ads suggest one call to tell the insurance company You. Mean. Business.

But this was all day-job stuff. In the meantime, the sun once more had set, and Halcyon, as always, now turned its energies away from everyday human affairs to bend them towards everynight monster nonsense.

On this night, Wulde’s assigned piece of monster nonsense involved surveillance of the northern edge of Gutter’s End. Apparently, something was amiss these nights in lycanland, more so than usual. There were rumors of some sort of challenge to Iron Fang dominance, even of targeted killings of its members. Details were sparse, and it was unclear what the two Field Wardens were supposed to be looking for up here.

Yes, two. Wulde glanced over at his partner, who lay on the same roof about twenty feet away, peering through a pair night vision binoculars. He hardly knew the guy, nor had he worked with him before yesterday, when they had received this assignment together. The other warden’s last name was “Barton”. Wulde had written his first name down but not bothered to memorize it.

“Wake up, Riddenhouse,” rasped Barton, who probably didn’t know Wulde’s first name, either. “Take a look at this. Just outside that bar on the corner.” .

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Wulde rejoined with a similar rasp as he sat up. He looked for the bar in question before raising his own binoculars to his eyes. “What am I looking for?” he asked as he did, giving himself time to find the bar all over again in the device’s magnified field of view.

“Looks like two guys giving our dealer a hard time.” Barton was a few years older than Wulde, and had been a Field Warden for longer; he knew Gutter’s End well, and thus had spotted the dealer in question right away on their first stakeout.

Wulde zoomed out until his view was wide enough to see three figures on the sidewalk at the mouth of an alley next to the bar. Then, carefully, he adjusted his angle and zoomed back in. “Our” dealer was turned towards him, and the Warden could see his face. Dark hair and features; Wulde guessed him to be Latino. The two newcomers had their backs to him, and were wearing hoodies besides. Their clothes looked plain, and didn’t match each other. One wore high tops and the other boots.

“You spot any colors?” Wulde asked, as he switched on the record button.

“No, nothing I recognize, ” answered Barton. “No clue who these guys are. Could be anybody.”

Wulde silently agreed. With rumors afoot that the Iron Fangs were under siege, there would be a number of interested parties looking to test the water for blood.

The two hoodies certainly seemed to be testing the dealer. They loomed on either side of him, leaning in, crowding him. From their body language, it looked like Left Hoodie was doing all the talking, while Right Hoodie supplied the knuckle-cracking and menacing glower. The dealer was clearly unhappy, but was so far keeping his cool.

At some point, something attracted the hoodies’ attention, for they both started back and looked to their left, in the general direction of the bar entrance. Resisting the urge to traverse the binoculars, Wulde instead zoomed out while keeping the field of view centered on the trio.

Once he had pulled out far enough, he could see that two men, almost as imposing as the hoodies, had emerged from the bar. They both wore black, collared, short-sleeve shirts with some sort of lettering on them. Wulde didn’t have to zoom back in to guess that the lettering spelled “STAFF”.

For a while, the two groups gesticulated and shouted at each other, but eventually, perhaps disappointingly, the hoodies relented and began to walk away from the bar under the watchful glare of Staff One and Staff Two.

Wulde felt his phone vibate in his coat pocket, but ignored it, still watching the events unfold in front of the bar. Off to his side he heard the telltale rustles and clicks as Barton pulled out and examined his own phone. The other warden grunted and muttered an oath.

“Change of plan, Riddenhouse,” he announced. “Some kind of dust-up at a warehouse down Gutterbane ways. There’s an address.”

As Wulde reluctantly clicked off record and lowered his binoculars, Barton continued to read his phone and gave another grunt. “This address is one of our safehouses in that neighborhood, so we’re headed to a rally point. I guess we’ll get some sort of briefing there.”

Wulde put the binoculars back in their case and pulled out his phone. He had the same message as Barton, of course. The only detail the other Warden had left out was the gun icons at the end of the message, indicating that they were to come as well-armed as possible on short notice.

“Do you know how to get there?” Wulde asked. He was not looking forward to driving through potentially hostile territory with one eye on a navigation system.

“Yeah,” said Barton. “Tell you what: get whatever you need from your scooter and leave it here; we’ll go in my truck.”

“Deal,” agreed Wulde, as he began packing up his things. Discerning the activities and intentions of Left and Right Hoodie would have to await another evening. A few minutes later they were in Barton’s canopied pickup, threading their way among the industrial ruins that littered South Halcyon, towards the Wardens’ safehouse.

Safehouse, Wulde snorted mentally as he eyed the dreary hulks of factories and warehouses sliding past them. He was pretty sure any such designation around here was purely aspirational.
11x Like Like
Hidden 10 days ago Post by Sadie
Raw —
Avatar of Sadie

Sadie Unknown

Member Seen 5 hrs ago


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: The Rusty Halo • Time: Dusk

Interactions: Club go-ers, the club's owner • Mentions: N/A

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


"No."

"Aw, come on, baby. Just one little dance."

With a roll of her eyes, the young woman grabbed a glass and poured herself three fingers of Patron. The man was one of many who took a chance on propositioning her, but it never ended well for any of them. She could never truly figure out which part of herself screamed that she was available for anything other than pouring their alcohol and taking their money. Letting out a small breath of annoyance, she wrapped her fingers from her left hand around her glass and raised it to her mouth. The feel of sticky flesh against the back of her right arm made her pause. Bright blue eyes slowly moved from the sight in front of them, down to the sickly pale phalanges that gripped her tanned skin. They flashed dangerously as they trailed up the digits to the owner's face. A snarl of her top lip accompanied the look of absolute hatred across her face.

Her palm itched to grab for the dagger strapped around the inside of her right calf. One swift movement would be all that it would take to rid this man of his crusty fingers. Slowly lowering her glass back to the bar, her head tilted a bit to the side. The snarl of her lips eased into a small smirk as the expression on her face gently softened. She moved her body until her ample chest rested against the edge of the bar, her cleavage spilling out of the top of her black tank top. Her face neared the man's until she could smell the putrid odor of cheap vodka on his breath. The mortal was too drunk or dumb, possibly both, to even bother to move away from her approach.

"Better yet, why don't we get out of here?" Her voice was low and melodic, almost flirtatious. She watched as the man's face lit up in obvious victory. Idiot. Keeping her eyes on him as he released her and stumbled happily to the door, her face hardened once more. "I'll be back," she said to the other bar hand.

"The hell you will," came from the back storage room's entrance.

A huff of annoyance left her parted lips as her hands clenched into fists. She turned her face to view her boss, the owner of the club. "I wasn't-"

"Yes, you were," he replied. "I don't need another guy with missing fingers threatening to sue me, or any cop poking his nose into my business. Get your ass back to work, I'm not paying you to maim my customers." The man shook his head at her. "Fucking psycho," he muttered, before moving back into the storeroom.

Goosebumps flared across her exposed skin as she watched her boss walk away from her. Her head tilted to the side, causing her long multi-colored hair to fall off of her shoulders and hang in gentle waves. A soft grin tugged at the corners of her lips. Turning on her heel, she made her way back to the bar and over to her glass that still sat undisturbed on the counter. She grabbed the container and quickly downed the tequila in one shot before grabbing her black leather jacket from the back counter. Ignoring the drink requests from the stragglers in their chairs, the woman made her way to the back door of the building and let herself out.

The sight of her boss tossing empty boxes into the back-alley dumpster caught her attention. Taking a quick glance around, she took a step in his direction. The soles of her black boots muffled the sound of her footsteps hitting the gravel. Slowly slipping her arms into her jacket, she pulled her hair up into a loose bun and secured it with a band from around her wrist. The man in front of her never left her sight as she reached around her back, pulling a bloodrune blade from the inside of her leather pants. With her free hand, she grabbed a small pendant from the loose cords around her neck and broke it open before shoving it against her nostril, quickly inhaling the dust from within.

Her entire body buzzed as the drug instantly took effect. With a deadly smirk, she darted forward with inhuman speed and jumped up on the tall man's back, her toned legs wrapping themselves around his waist. It only took one swing of her arm before the entirety of her blade sunk deep into her boss's chest, right where his disgusting canine heart lay. She held onto his body as the man fell to his knees, only releasing when he face-planted the ground. Rolling her eyes, she stepped beside the man and pushed the side of his body with the bottom of her foot, forcing the dying Lycan onto his back.

Squatting down beside him, she reached down and freed her snake-dagger from the inside of her calf. A smirk was spread across her face as she reached forward with her free hand for the man's mouth. Squeezing the sides of his lips, his tongue jutted out in response. Her eyes flashed with amusement before bringing her blade down, watching as the edge swiftly sliced through the muscle. The end of his tongue fell to the ground beside the body. Leaning down to his ear, she placed a small kiss on his lobe and whispered, "you should really watch your tongue around women, puppy."

Straightening, she tilted her head and kept her eyes on his own as she watched the light finally flicker out of his eyes. Her blue eyes danced in the moonlight. "The Butcher sends her regards." Sable used the man's shirt to wipe his blood from her most favorited blade before yanking the other blade from his chest, in turn wiping it clean as well. She pushed herself to her feet and returned the blades back to their holsters before turning once more down the alleyway, disappearing into the darkness.
12x Like Like
Hidden 10 days ago → 10 days ago Post by AuthenticTomb
Raw —
Avatar of AuthenticTomb

AuthenticTomb A Rouge Machine

Member Seen 10 hrs ago

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Coldfang Safehouse in GutterBane • Time: DusK

Interactions: Angel - @princess • Mentions: Tessa - @Potter

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It had taken far too much effort to find her which only served to further the unease in his chest. He had his lips pressed against his folded hands, his icy blue eyes simply staring the woman across from him down. Each passing second was counted by the bouncing of his left leg as he worked through the right words and emotions, wanting to get his conversation started already. The yellowish lighting along with the light brown colors of the dining room portrayed an atmosphere of warmth that was absent in the tension between them.

"Luther, I..." His mother had begun to say in an vain attempt to break the silence. Whatever thoughts that he had been juggling were tossed out the window immediately as he rushed to stand letting out a snarl of warning. She didn't even give him the kindness of addressing him as son. The chair that had been teetering on its edge after his abrupt motion finally fell over after a far too long moment. Luther's jaw relaxed hearing the crashing sound behind him realizing he had been baring his fangs. His expression scowled at his lapse in control before focusing on the one responsible.

"You...don't get to talk right now." The words were spoken through gritted teeth. It didn't make sense. He was her to get answers from her. Naturally that meant she'd need to speak. He wasn't ready for it just yet. Maybe his problem was he wouldn't be ready for whatever answer she had.

She must have seen it as an opening because she didn't back down. There was little warmth in her voice. "What is it you want from me, Luther?"

He snapped back immediately uncaring of her provocation. "That...that is what you have to say?" It was all he could do not to dig his claws into the table between them, the fire of his temper cracking with the statement. She wanted to play it like that? Fine. "Did you know? The barely restrained anger seethed and wrapped around each word.

"About wha-" Her cold, almost professional tone was enough to nearly send him over the edge as he grabbed the chair behind him and flung it at the nearest wall. Dust and crumbling stone mixed with shards of wood on the floor.

"Fuck!" Luther drew out the word as he raked his fingers through his locks of dirty blonde hair. "That's it, isn't it? I wasn't likely to survive that night, huh? Write me off just like that? Can always just make another kid!"

"It wasn't likely you'd come out of it." His mother's even tone was the final straw.

"You're my mother! You should have protected me! You have NO idea what it was like!" Luther was up and out of his chair before his mother could even react, the tips of his claws digging into her throat as he lifted her up from her seated position. The warmth of blood trickling down his forearm. The crushing, burning sensation in his chest was the only warning of the error he made before the walls began to twist in on themselves. The table melted and evaporated into smoke that carried the ceiling from the room they were in, exposing them to a vast emptiness.

A brief turn of his head was enough to shift the perspective and his mother was no longer in his clutches. His head whipped around and what seemed like the inside of a Butcher's freezer encased him. His rapid breaths shown clearly in the suddenly frigid air. His breath filled the room and soon a thick veil of fog pooled at his feet and obscured most of his vision. His lungs felt like they were being shredded in his chest while his heart ached as if pinched in a closing vise. He wished he could close his eyes and let it all pass over him. The magic of the Fae was not so kind.

The metallic walls stretched and the fog swirled all around dragging him to whatever this particular vision had in store for him.

There was no mistaking the face of his mother as everything settled around him and the fog settled at his feet. Her jaw must have been cracked and the flesh torn for it hang in such an unnatural manner. Heavy, metal hooks dug into her arms and legs pulling her limbs taut with many smaller ones holding flaps of peeled skin. Sections were cleanly cut out and the subtle regrowth occurring before him was enough to tell him the unmoving body still held life. Luther begged for any kind of control to return to his body so he could turn away. Begged in silent horror to not witness this.

From the surrounding mist of the freezer came...himself. There was a vacant, empty look that did not meet the wide grin on his face as he made his approach to the strung-up image of his mother. His future self pressed a needle into side of his mother's neck, pressing down the syringe of some dark, purple liquid slowly. Luther's chest felt like it was caved in as the raw, overwhelming terror of his mother passed into him. Never had the vision imparted such unbridled emotions of those who would be his future victims.

"I'm so glad you got see father before your turn was up." The future Luther slid the sharp edge of a cleaver across her cheek, deep enough to split the flesh and catch glimpses of what remained of her tongue amidst the spray of blood. His mother tried to cry out in agony but it came out as a pathetic whimper. The future Luther chuckled as he pinched the edge of the cleaver. "Honestly, did not expect you to outlast him. Not like I would know you well enough, hmm." The cleaver was raised high and came down in barely perceived swing. Desperation saturated the fear that crowded inside Luther and pushed against his organs as the meat that made up half of his mother's face splattered to the ground like a wet fish. His body would not respond to anything he told it do.

"Ah well, all good things got to come to an end don't they?" The future Luther swayed his head back and forth as he twirled the cleaver in his hand pacing in front of her. The future Luther got up into the face of his mother and cupped her chin, the blood flowing over his fingers. "I'm so glad we got this quality time together but frankly..." The cleaved sawed into the center of his mother's chest with practiced strokes. The whine from her eviscerated throat was like steel rods shoved in Luther's bones. "It's high time your little wolf left the den." Future Luther's hand broke ribs as it pushed into his mother's chest, rupturing organs in collateral damage as he went for the object of his dig.

"Wasn't sure I'd find it there..." Future Luther said in surpise as he clearly relished slowly dragging his hand back out with his mother's freshly plucked heart. "She does have a heart!" He cheerfully mocked in a shrill voice as he turned the heart like it was the one speaking. As the light faded from his mother's eyes, the freezer's walls began to crinkle like aluminum in towards him. The fog that had filled the space blew impossibly quick by his feet as the walls came closer and closer until finally crushing him in a final flash of movement.

Luther nearly lost his balance and fell over as he snapped back to his body, the glaze over his eyes disappearing. His mother's hand was clasped around the arm that was still holding her up by the throat. The skin of that arm had ripped and he could feel the agonizing grinding of improperly formed bones. The burning rage that had previously filled his mind was aburtly replaced by a existential fear and anxiety as he stared wide-eyed at his mother. Her future fate burned clearly in the back of his mind as he checked her over.

Unbelieve pain slammed into him as his mind caught up to what was happening. He was in the process of a shift that felt like he was trying to stop a train without brakes. Luther dropped his mother immediately and threw himself towards the door, shattering the wooden frame completely as he rushed outside in the dimly lit back alley. His body shivered and twisted as the fear within demanded he shift to protect himself and eliminate any threat to himself. The cheeseburger he had picked up for dinner on the way over painted the ground the second he made it a few feet from the entrance. His hand shook as he dug for the phone in his athetlic pants, his extended claws ripping the fabric in his desperate search.

His breathing was pitched and heavy as he used the hand that had yet to partially shift to unlock his phone. Thank fuck for speed-dial. Luther howled as bones began to crack and shift, only held back by his insistence to hold off, and the disparity between the size of his legs made it difficult to walk. The relief as Sicily's name and number showed up on his screen was barely a drop in the ocean of terror that wanted to crush him. His mind had briefly considered Tessa but she didn't need this on top of what she was dealing with.

"Ah...shit...fuck come on Sicily. Pick up, pick up!" His voice was distorted as sharp teeth made it harder to speak as did his growing throat. She was the only one that could pull him out of this spiral and the only one he trusted to do what was needed if he lost his mind. Every breath felt like squeezing wet sand through a straw. It had never been that vivid nor affected him this severely. He could only put some distance between himself and his mother so that vision didn't become the near future.
9x Like Like
Hidden 10 days ago → 9 days ago Post by Manzanilla
Raw —
Avatar of Manzanilla

Manzanilla 🌿✨🍵

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago

Location: The Pink Room ◇ Time: Dusk ◇ Interactions: N/A

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇


The private room dripped in red, not the red of love or blood, but of appetite. Raw, ravenous, and unrepentant. The color of lust without shame. Overhead, lights painted in crimson slid over Luna’s sweat-slicked skin as she wrapped herself around the pole, boots to the ceiling. Her platform heels kissed the light with every spin, the red soles flashing like a warning or a promise.

She danced like gravity had forgotten her name. Every movement poured like silk through flame, slow, hot, irresistible. The lace clinging to her hips barely held on, soaked with the efforst of her performance and the weight of four men's gazes, each of them looking at her like she was both saint and sin.

Her matching bra was gone, tucked into the birthday boy’s pocket with a wink and a whisper that made him forget his girlfriend’s name.

Her thighs gripped the pole as she spiraled downward, hair flying, lashes low. In that moment, she might as well have flown, and maybe she did, in her own way. Dancing was the only thing that made her feel untouchable, like she wasn’t just a beautiful tragedy bound in blood and centuries of men’s worst ideas. Up here, she wasn’t even real. She was smoke, rhythm, power.

The music slowed. Her heels hit the floor with a soft thud.

She prowled toward the birthday boy with the rhythm pounding through the floor. Her hips rolled, her chest rose and fell, and her lips parted just slightly, revealing two elongated canines. Her tongue flicked out to lick scarlet lips. Her hands traced up her hips, her stomach, the swell of her chest.

Faint, just above her left breast, lay a near-invisible scar, the mark of the one who made her. Her sire. Her damnation.

She could feel their eyes rake over her nakedness. Their hunger fed her. The heat between her legs was only outdone by the fire in their gaze. She could smell their arousal, bitter, cloying, desperate. Like communion on a Sunday morning for a sinner starving for salvation.

Perdóname, Señor, por el placer que siento bajo sus miradas. Por cómo canta mi cuerpo cuando me ven. No soy más que polvo y deseo, ten piedad de una pecadora que ya no sabe cómo arrepentirse.


She straddled him. The last bit of lace brushed against his jeans. Her fingers curled beneath his jaw, tilting his face up as if to offer confession.

◇ ◇ ◇


She sat at the bar. A thin red robe clung to her damp skin, the same shade as her drink and her underwear, though the latter was long gone. She doubted Mr. Birthday Boy would return the bra. Not that she cared. It had been bought wholesale, downtown, during a clearance sale. If she had to choose, she’d rather spend her money on imported Chunghwa cigarettes than on new lingerie.

Celeste sipped her syrupy cocktail with deadpan disinterest, letting the sugar and faint iron coat her tongue, masking the acid that churned in her gut.

Across the bar, a man gnawed on a chicken wing like it owed him money.

She watched him with thinly veiled disgust. That chicken was two weeks old. Not frozen, just... kept. The sauce was likely a toxic blend of expired hot sauce, liquefied margarine, and whatever dripped from the ceiling when the AC broke. Which was often.

She turned away before she gagged.

Not her problem.

Her hand slipped through her dark hair, curling a damp strand around one finger. The music shifted to a bass-heavy rhythm. Her body still hummed from the last dance. Her muscles ached in that beautiful, burning way that only being desired could summon.

Then she smelled it.

Something rich, metallic, alive.

Not cologne. Not sweat.

Blood.

Probably from a broken nose. Juan liked braking the noses of the bastards who could not keep their hands off the girls.

Her tongue slid over the sharp curve of her teeth, before she bit the inside of her cheek.

How long had it been since she fed properly? Since she’d sunk her fangs into a warm neck and tasted something divine? The body of Christ, in the form of blood.

Her eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

Maybe she’d visit that little church at the corner of Pine and Findlay, the one she saw on the news the other day.

She was overdue for confession.

9x Like Like
Hidden 10 days ago → 9 days ago Post by JJ Doe
Raw —
Avatar of JJ Doe

JJ Doe

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Vex’s Apartment
Time: Dusk

Interactions/Mentions: N/A

Trigger Warnings: Blood & Retching

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Heat. Searing. Burning from inside.
Throat dry. Tongue thick.
Sweat. Everywhere sweat.
Consciousness flickered like a dying bulb.
Everything hazy, distant.

Awareness returned in fragments—his own ragged breathing, the faint hum of electricity somewhere nearby. Zachariah’s fingers clutched at crisp linen sheets, the detergent scent sharp in his nostrils beneath the layer of his own sweat. His head pounded, each throb a hammer blow against his skull, and his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.

His eyelids lifted slowly, fighting against their weight. The ceiling above was unfamiliar—water-stained in one corner but recently painted. The mattress beneath him felt firmer than what he was used to, the pillow flatter. This wasn’t his bed. And this definitely wasn’t his room. It had that not-quite-lived-in feeling of a guest space. Bare walls except for a single abstract print. Two mini-fridges hummed quietly against the baseboard. On a nearby chair sat folded clothes—dark jeans, black t-shirt.

When Zachariah tried to sit up, his muscles protested with the peculiar ache of disuse. How long had he been here? Days blurred together in his memory, a fever dream of shadows and whispers he couldn’t quite grasp. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cool hardwood. Standing took more effort than it should have, his legs leaden beneath him. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he shuffled toward the door, one hand braced against the wall for support.

The living area beyond opened up before him—sparse but lived-in. Stale cigarette smoke and the yeasty tang of old beer hung thick in the air. Neon lights cast colored shadows across the walls, their buzz barely audible above the building’s ancient radiator. Leather jackets draped over furniture and littered the floor like shed skins. By the door, combat boots were lined up, sized for smaller feet. A couch dominated one wall, its worn fabric patched with mismatched scraps.

Across a coffee table, papers were scattered: invoices, supply orders, all bearing the same header—Ravens Nest. The name triggered a vague memory of a tattoo shop downtown. Sketchbooks lay open, pages filled with intricate designs of skulls, roses, and geometric patterns.

No one else was in the apartment.

Thirst clawed at his throat with renewed urgency, drawing him back toward the bedroom.

Water.
He needed water.

Zachariah yanked open the first mini-fridge. Bottles of water filled the shelf beneath wrapped sandwiches and fruit cups. He grabbed the nearest bottle and drained it in desperate gulps. Then another, and another.

The cool liquid soothed his throat but didn’t touch the deeper ache that gnawed him hollow.

Was it hunger? The food looked appealing enough, but eating someone’s food without permission felt wrong.

And… that wasn’t quite it either.

Almost unconsciously, his hand drifted to the second fridge. The door swung open with a soft whoosh, and Zachariah froze.

Blood bags.

Rows of them, dark red verging on black in the refrigerator light. Dark liquid garnets. Forbidden wine. The plastic pulsed with promise, calling to something primal within him.

Saliva flooded his mouth, throat constricting with a want so profound it made his knees weak. His vision narrowed until all he could see was that gorgeous crimson. Every cell screamed for it, fingers trembling as they reached forward.

Just one taste. Just one—

Nausea slammed into him, sharp and cold. Zachariah stumbled backward, hand clamped over his mouth as he bolted from the room.

Bathroom—there had to be a bathroom. He barely made it to the sink before his body convulsed with dry heaves.

When the spasms finally subsided, he gripped the porcelain edge with white knuckles and forced himself to look up.

The mirror showed a stranger.
His skin had lost its color.
His eyes held a glimmer he’d seen before.
In others.
In monsters.

With trembling fingers, he pulled back his upper lip to reveal what he already knew would be there. The pad of his thumb traced the sharp point of an elongated canine, confirming his worst fear.

“...Fuck.”
11x Like Like
Hidden 10 days ago → 8 days ago Post by TokyoPewPew
Raw —
Avatar of TokyoPewPew

TokyoPewPew

Member Seen 4 hrs ago
____________________________________________________________________________________________
Two Weeks Ago | 00:29 | "Gutter's End": 3103 Eastwick Ave.

Eastwick Ave.: a three-mile-long skid of junkyards, warehouses, and body shops. This part of town, with its greasy asphalt and shattered sidewalk, looked to have not seen a tree in thirty years. Even the weeds hesitated to burgeon up between the cracks and potholes, startled—as they were—by the trash, the pollution, the smothered, starless sky. Not that the bugs seemed to mind, wherever the hell they spawned from. The same moth had been beating its powdered wings against the door screen for half an hour then, though what Promised Land it sought inside the smoke-yellowed office is anyone's guess. The same mosquito, at first vanquished by a swat but soon enough whining round again for another pass. The same legion of mayflies: the dead ones shivering and glistening as stodgy, tepid breezes tickle vacated spiderwebs. The live ones sunbathing beneath the jaundiced fluorescent bulb, itself buzzing and stuttering and long overdue for a replacement, just like the rest of the equipment. Just like her, when she was being perfectly, painfully honest.

It was the kind of summer night that stuck shirt to skin, and skin to skin. Her every breath swam in her throat; her every movement was the act of peeling. Her head already spun from the nic rush but all the same she lit another cigarette just to watch where the smoke curled, as soft as wood ash, hazy and blue like milk thinned with water. But also in the room with her was quiet equilibrium. Too languid was the breeze to nudge it so the smoke—barely drifted from her fingertips—it only smiled, and dissipated. The room became a little milkier. She fed it another exhale. The ember rejoiced.

She was begging one of the drivers to return from a patrol so she had something to open the gate for—in so doing earning, maybe, a crumb of conversation. Begging that mosquito to stay still just a moment longer so she could smear it between the peach-down hairs of her forearm. Begging for a blackout—no, come to think of it, even a brownout would do—so the droning of the bulb and the droning of the desk fan and the droning of the ancient, wheezing computer would all at once stutter and fail, and for a precious moment she would be floating in silence, true silence. (Motherly, the silence. Amniotic.) She sat facing the computer but she was somewhere else, anywhere else. Any salvation at all from sitting in that chair and squinting bleary-eyed at that screen she would have bathed in it, she would have drunk of its waters, baptized herself in and out.

So enraptured in her daydream-by-night, she did not immediately realize when a finger curled on the monkey's paw, when her bargain with the cosmos was made: a vehicle pulling up the lot, and its driver-side door slamming shut. Footsteps. Only instead of a diesel engine's acrid roar it was the genteel purr of a town car. And not soled in rubber, cushioned for surviving an eight-hour graveyard shift, those shoes, issuing down the hall toward the office: they clicked and tutted the grimy tiles. Polished, Goodyear-welted leather. The panic curled her back, pressed it taut and flush against the chair's. She did not mean to discard the cigarette—had rather needed it, actually—but her hands had begun to tremble and then she had spilled the ashes in her lap, sent a spark skipping across the fabric of her pencil skirt, sent the filter rolling under the desk. She thought to light another but interlocked her hands and pressed them between her thighs instead. They just wouldn't stop trembling.

Despite the blowing of the desk fan, despite the blowing of the stagnant summer air through the mayfly-crusted window, despite that heat-lamp of a fluorescent bulb fixed above like an artificial sun but seeming lower and lower, nearer and nearer with every moment as the room clenched down around her the way her chest was tightening around her war-drum heart, when he filled the doorway behind her, it (the room) felt a fraction of a degree colder, as if his shadow sprawled and grasped across it and raked the skin of her spine. And his voice—like she was the lock and he the pick. It slithered inside and began to nibble.

The moth seemed to agree. Tasting the flame of a candle, the electricity of the bug zapper, it had flitted down some other corridor.

"What did you find?"

More than she ever wanted to divulge. More than she could handle having to say aloud. It was heavy and cumbersome, the knowledge. A curse she should have opened up her chest to stuff inside and bear in agonizing secrecy.

"Claudia and Bertin de Guzmán," she began shakily. Crawling up her throat, the words tasted like barbwire. "He's an electrician. No address; takes home calls out of a fleet of vans. She's an account coordinator at BeaconFire. 1st Frelinghuysen Plaza."

"Any photos?"

"No."

"Physical descriptions?"

"No, but I found their personal vehicles, with license plate numbers. Also the tax records on their house. It's all in the dossier."

"Good. That will work."

"It's all in the dossier," she insisted again. Not because he didn't hear her; because he did. Nor because she was fawning, and appeasing, and offering up a present like a housecat does, a wretchèd, one-eyed, limping thing, desperate to dissuade the next hard kick to its ribs; though, yes, she was doing all of that, too. This was her misdirection. She learned more than she was telling him, and she needed him not to press for it. She had never needed anything more than for those offerings, in that precise moment, to suffice. Please, she thought. Please do not ask what you're about to. You don't have to. There are other ways. There are other ways and you're plenty smart enough. Please. Please. Please. Please.

Please—

"Any kids?"

She winced. Two words, two little words with a cruel, barbed little inflection at the end, and she was wincing so hard she'd begun to ache around the eyes, around the mouth, deep in the marrow of her pretty cheekbones. Heat gathering in her head. She was sure she needed to vomit. She was a tube of toothpaste and some great invisible hand rolled her and wrung her clean from the bottom up. Pressure. So much heat. Her terror pressed into a diamond in her skull.

That must be why she told him. All three names. All three schools. Any appearances in the school newspaper or the Boy Scout newsletter. All their varsity extracurriculars. Every mole on their three little faces, every single place where those three children could hide. Every passion which drove them to wake up in the morning, ripe for popping between his fingers like a grape. She spilled it all. With straightened back, head held high, and eyes melting holes into that detestable, dead-pixeled computer screen. Almost like she wasn't even ashamed.

When she'd finished, the silence deafened the room. Then the crisp, papery sound of a ₡100 credit bill being shucked from a wad. His leather soles clacking. The distance between them closing. He placed the money on the mousepad; swapped it for the manila folder in his slender, clammy hand. Then he was walking away. She was unharmed. It should have been some kind of comfort.

"Sir."

He paused.

"You promised," she accused. Exactly as forcefully as she had meant to, rehearsing when she was alone for all those weary hours before his arrival. Then she realized what she was doing. What she was—incurring. "No. No, I didn't mean that. What I meant is, sir—if you can spare some—even just a taste—a drop, even—the pain, sir, it's—I can't—"

She ceased this bleating when she harked his footsteps returning to her, sure that she'd earned herself another bruised neck, another broken tooth. Instead—nothing.

No. Not nothing. She heard (still refusing to look at him) the ruffling of fabric. The chitinous click of metal as he opened up a cigarette case. A small cap skittered across the floor, settling in the corner by the wire nest. The plunging of a needle into skin, still supple on vampires and yet tough as oxhide—as it broke the seal of his skin it produced a firm snap, like biting into an uncooked knockwurst.

His sleeve still rolled, the pinprick still bleeding (god she could smell it, she could smell it and it was right there, all she'd have to do is grab him one hand on his wrist one on his elbow all she'd have to do is...), his arm skulked past her shoulder, certain fingers straightened ever daintily. He delicately placed the syringe beside the money. The first drop still brimming at the silvered tip. His breath was damp against her ear. His hand slithered across the side of her neck, plucked itself from her shoulderblade.

She tried to wait until he'd left the building, spare at least a scrap of her dignity, but he'd barely left the room when she could not wait another microsecond. Grabbing the precious apparatus in both her hands she pawed her thumbs at the plunger, she lifted the needle to her lips, gaping and yearning so very much like the mouth of a trout ripped mouth-first from the brook. She began sobbing as the first lukewarm, viscous spurt crawled over her tongue and down her pathetic throat. Sobbing with shame. Sobbing with so, so much relief.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
9x Like Like 1x Thank Thank
Hidden 9 days ago Post by Tpartywithzombi
Raw —
GM
Avatar of Tpartywithzombi

Tpartywithzombi “Strong women are absolutely unpredictable.”

Member Seen 7 hrs ago


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Vex's Apartment
Time: Dusk
Interactions: @JJ Doe Z
Mentions: None

The sound of keys fumbling at the lock echoed in the hall. A muffled curse followed a woman’s voice, low and frustrated.

Thunk.

A heavy thud rattled the door as a body leaned against it, trying to force it open. “Come on…” she muttered under her breath, another metallic jangle of keys. “Piece of shit…”

Suddenly, the door burst inward with a groaning creak, nearly throwing the woman off balance. She half-stumbled, catching herself with a boot scuff against the floor, a triumphant grin curling at the corner of her lips.

“Shit.” She cursed again, yanking the stubborn key free and tossing it onto the nearest table with a loud clatter.

She stepped fully inside, cigarette clinging between her lips, a six-pack of beer tucked under one arm. Her low-rise jeans clung to her hips, ripped at the knees and thighs; the combat boots thudded with authority as she kicked the door shut behind her. Her leather jacket creaked with each movement, open just enough to reveal the black crop top beneath, a sliver of tattoo ink peeking along her ribs. Tousled hair fell over her shoulders in wild, windswept waves, her aviators slipping halfway down her nose.

She didn’t notice him at first, humming under her breath as she set the beer down on the kitchen counter. One hand flicked the cigarette to the side to ash it, the other shoved the sunglasses up to perch atop her head.

Then she turned—and froze.

A slow smirk unfurled across her face as her yellow eyes landed on Zachariah, still pale and trembling in the bathroom doorway, his lips parted, canine tooth glinting faintly under the harsh light.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to wake up,” Vex drawled, voice honeyed with a sultry, teasing lilt. She sauntered closer, hips swaying, smoky eyes appraising him from head to toe like he was both a curiosity and a challenge.

“Feeling a little… bitey, are we?” she purred, stopping a few feet away and leaning her weight into one hip. She popped the cigarette from her lips and exhaled a curl of smoke toward the ceiling. “Thirst hit you hard, huh? Almost cracked open the mini-bar?”

Her gaze flicked toward the fridge, then back to him, amusement twinkling in her dark eyes.

“Relax, pretty boy. First taste is always the worst.” She stepped closer, close enough for him to catch the mingled scent of leather, cigarettes, and lingering road dust. “You’ll learn. Or you’ll lose your damn mind. Either way… gonna be fun watching.”

She gave him a slow wink, then turned on her heel, sauntering back toward the kitchen. With a casual yank, she ripped two beers from the plastic rings of the six-pack and popped the caps off with the edge of the counter.

She held one out toward him over her shoulder, flashing another playful smirk.

“Beer?” she offered, eyebrow arching.
10x Like Like
Hidden 8 days ago → 8 days ago Post by AuthenticTomb
Raw —
Avatar of AuthenticTomb

AuthenticTomb A Rouge Machine

Member Seen 10 hrs ago


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: The Eclipse • Time: DUSK

Interactions: @Tae • Mentions: N/A

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


"Welcome back you lovely denizens of the night to 'Stroke of Midnight'! I'm your hostess, the beautiful and talented Isabella St.Claire." The enchanting voice came from vampire woman sitting on a black, leather lounge chair. Her illustrious blonde hair was done in several large curls that flowed down her back. A figure-hugging red dress show off her curves adorned with a cropped leather jacket that was purposefully kept open. Isabella's lips shined in a glossy, crimson red that matched her nails.

She had her legs currently crossed as her eyes quickly shifted over the guest sitting across from her, showing no shame in expressing her interest in the man. "Now, I believe we were just getting to talking about your latest production, Hearts of Darkness: Volume 2, before we cut to break. I must say..." Isabella looked at him with a hint of hunger as she licked the underside of her lips to avoid messing with her lipstick. "...what an experience it was. First question I have to ask, what makes you make such media for the citizens of Halcyon?" The sultry tones that had underlined her speech faded as the question was made.

Voflango sat across from the hostess wearing a simple black v-neck shirt with gray, stone-washed jeans. Both were tailored to his exact profile. A warm, inviting smile drew those watching his chiseled features and brilliant eyes. "Volfango thanks you for such a wonderful introduction to the question. He had not realized with such beauty before him that a break had even occurred." The words rolled off his tongue, carried with the clear diction of a performer. "The answer is quite simple, no? Volfango does it to connect to the hearts of his people and give them a story that is theirs." Volfango leaned forward from his perfectly upright posture.

"Love between a Lycan and a vampire. A taboo to some but in the darkness of the theatre it. is. hope." Volfango punctuated the last three words, his expression serious as he continued. "Hope that a special kind love one searches eternity might be out there, no matter the odds or challenges. A story that only the good people of Halycon can understand and appreciate its truth." He leaned back against the somewhat stiff back of the chair. Never once did his eyes leave Isabella's.

A faint blush was clear on the vampire's cheeks as the camera shifted towards her. "Speaking of love, my viewers would burn me on a stake for not asking if there wasn't some special someone for Volfango?" The shift of her weight suggested the statement was not entirely truthful.

Volfango let out a deep chuckle flashing his perfectly white teeth. "Volfango is quite generous and he has yet to find one that can handle all his charity." He finished the statement with a not-so-subtle wink at Isabella.

She blinked once at his flirtatious gesture and coughed softly into her hand "I see. Well, since our time is coming to end I have a few questions from our viewers. The first one comes from Saul Petrand and he asks..."

Volfango had come to Eclipse for one purpose alone and likely so did the various other patrons that crowded the space. A glamour of his own creation prevented those who gave him passing glances not to recognize him. It would slowly come undone faced with a lingering gaze and close proximity but that was by design rather than a flaw of the magic itself. Volfango needed to unwind and let himself loose after months of filming and a interview that ended in a particularly heated way. The best way one might even say.

The Fae flowed amidst the dancers on the floor. His hand resting on one hip only to shift with the beat to another, pressing himself against their back as the music carried the energy of the night. Graceful and fluid as his movements were, they belonged to a hunter in search of suitable prey. Volfango had been on his way to the bar for a drink and had nearly gotten to the bar when the most tantalizing of accents was carried to his ear on the wings of fairies.

Volfango had barely budged when the small woman crashed into him and he smiled brightly down a her letting a small laugh of his own. "Oh, Volfango needs no such convincing when he has eyes. The question, he thinks, is how many bad choices should we make?" His Italian roots made it easy to rolls the words into one sensual wave of suggestion.
9x Like Like
Hidden 8 days ago Post by Oso
Raw —
coGM
Avatar of Oso

Oso

Member Seen 10 hrs ago



Dominic Blackmoor

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: @Infinite Cosmos Lucian, @deegee Kessler

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


The rain had eased to a low whisper, barely more than a breath against the rusted metal of the warehouse walls. Somewhere behind the clouds, the moon hid its face, and the world felt quieter for it. Not peaceful… just quiet like how storms get when the eye rolls overhead and the wind forgets to howl.

Dominic was already standing outside.

Backlit by the dull glow of a security lamp, he was all silhouette and silent rage, the edges of his kutte damp with rain, one hand loose by his side, the other curling slow and steady into a fist. He didn’t pace, he didn’t smoke even though god damn he wanted to. He just waited. It wasn’t time to ease his pain, to soothe. He needed to feel it. Every last ounce of it.

The first sound was the low rumble of Lucian’s bike… followed closely by the heavier grind of Kessler’s boots on gravel. They came into the light one after the other, but Dominic didn’t move to greet them. He just looked at them, storm-gold eyes steady, as if measuring the moment, as if deciding whether or not it was even fair to ask them to see what he was about to lead them to.

Lucian held out the bottle.

Dominic took it without a word, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to his lips. He didn’t toast, didn’t tip his head. Just drank. A slow, heavy pull that caught in the throat and burned like it should. When he lowered the bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then nodded once.

“Come inside,” he said quietly. “There’s something you need to see.”

The door creaked as he opened it, the warehouse swallowing them all in dim light and the stench of old rain, metal, and blood. Their boots echoed faintly on the concrete, but nothing could drown the silence waiting just ahead.

Dominic said nothing as he led them in.

No words could ready them for what they’d find beneath that swaying bulb… where Logan Delaney, Red Right Hand of the Iron Fangs, sat butchered and broken, bound and left like some grotesque message from something that didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

Dominic didn’t look at them as they entered the room. He didn’t turn to watch the shock hit, didn’t try to soften the blow. He just walked to the chair again, slow, as if pulled by a gravity no one else could feel, and stopped just to the side.

He took another long drink from the bottle.

And then, after letting that moment sink in. Really fucking sink in…finally, he spoke.

“They didn’t just kill him.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was calm, the kind of calm that made the room feel colder. “They made an example of him.”

He looked at Logan’s body, at what was left of the man who once laughed the loudest in every room and bled beside them in every fight worth a damn.

“Someone wanted us to feel this. Wanted it to haunt us. To make us hesitate. To wonder which one of us is going to be next.” He turned slightly now, facing his brothers, the bottle still in his hand.

Dom stepped forward, crouched slightly, and poured a slow stream of liquor onto the concrete beside Logan’s boots. It splashed across the blood already staining the floor, soaking into it as if the dead still drank.

“For the last drink,” he said softly.

Then he stood, holding the bottle out in his palm, his eyes lifting to Lucian… then Kessler.

No command, no words…Just an offering. It was a rite, a moment to honor what mattered most. Brotherhood. And the promise that no wolf would ever die forgotten.

“The three of us share one last drink with our brother…then we bury him. We lay him to rest and we get to work. I want you to find who did this and I want you to bring them to me so I can show this entire fucking city what happens to anyone who takes my brothers and sisters away from me.”

11x Like Like
Hidden 8 days ago Post by Infinite Cosmos
Raw —
Avatar of Infinite Cosmos

Infinite Cosmos XIV

Member Seen 1 day ago


Color code 766359
Location: Abandon Warehouse Time: Dusk
Speaking with: @Oso DomMentions: @deegee Kessler

__________________________________________________________

The rain letting up was a nice touch, a bit poetic perhaps. Lucian flung out the kickstand to his bike, and approached Dom. Standing under the dim light of the encroaching night, there was a quiet menace to his Alpha. Something that needed no words. As Lucian walked, the soft crunch of gravel echoed more than it should. Lucian turned and noticed his pack-brother Kessler approaching as well. Lucian gave him a wordless acknowledgement, a simple but effective greeting.

As he handed the bottle of blended scotch to Dom, Lucian knew things were going to be bad. From the way the newblood sounded on her phone call to him, to how Dom torn into the bottle. Lucian drew in a deep breath and followed Dominic into the warehouse. The creak of the door, the must of the stale air mixing with the freshness of rain and the swaying of the old warehouse lightbulb all made for a dramatic set up to a tragic scene.

It was Logan Delaney. Or what was left of the man. Beaten, mangled, mutilated, among a bevy of words that could be used to describe the image that was seared into Lucian's mind. Lucian's left eye twitched. Was it anger? Was is sorrow? He didn't know himself. In front of him was the former second-in-command of the pack, the big brother everyone could rely on. A tough son-of-a-bitch, no less. "Made you pay for it, didn't they, D." 'D' was what Lucian would call Logan, in informal situations only of course. "You tough old fuck. Goddammit. Couldn't go cleanly and just had to leave a mess for us to clean up. Fucking mongrel bastard." None of these words were spoken loudly. None of these words were spoken out of insult. It was just a way Lucian's subconscious is using to shield himself from lashing out, from charging straight back out there and burning Halcyon down to find the rats that did this to Logan 'Red Right Hand" Delaney.

Lucian watched quietly as Dominic poured one out for their fallen brother, as a last rite. Blinking a few times and turning to cast a glance at Kessler, Lucian snatched the bottle from Dominic. Studying the bottle in his grip for a brief moment, he did exactly as Dominic did and pour a line onto the concrete next to the lifeless body of his pack-brother before taking a long, hard, swig from the bottle himself. Thrusting the bottle into the clutches of Kessler, he turned and walked up the the body and pulled out two wrapped cigars from the inside-pocket of his kutte. "For the road, fresh shipment for the pack. See you around, old man." Tucking the cigars neatly into the pocket of Logan's kutte, Lucian stood back up and face the door.

Speaking with Dominic now, "Where are we burying him? On a hill where there is lot of sun? The quicker we get this done, the quicker I can get to work... The next few words to come from Lucian were colder than usual. A low, raspy growl behind his words. A mix of emotions ran hot through him right now. A chemical mixture so volatile it might just spontaneously burst into flames. "Because you're right. The hunt's on, brother. Lucian said while having his head turned ever so slightly to his right to address Dominic.
10x Like Like
Hidden 8 days ago → 8 days ago Post by JJ Doe
Raw —
Avatar of JJ Doe

JJ Doe

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Vex’s Apartment
Time: Dusk

Interactions/Mentions: @Tpartywithzombi

Trigger Warnings: Implied SA flashback

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Zachariah’s Warden training kicked in immediately. His eyes darted around the cramped bathroom, searching for anything resembling a weapon. The razor on the sink caught his attention, but he dismissed it just as quickly—plastic cartridge razor that could barely nick skin during a shave, let alone slit a neck. Useless.

The kitchen knives were his best option, but in his current state—trembling, disoriented, gripped by bloodlust—he doubted he’d make it there before…

Too late. The door burst open with a groaning creak. Zachariah pressed against the bathroom doorframe, fingers digging into the wood. He watched as the blonde woman sauntered in, keys clattering onto the table, cigarette dangling between her lips. Tattoos peeked from beneath her crop top, complemented by a worn leather jacket and combat boots. This was clearly the apartment’s owner. From her confident movements to the lean muscle visible along her arms; all of it told him she knew how to handle herself in a fight.

When she pushed her sunglasses up and turned, their eyes met. Yellow. Inhuman.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to wake up,” she purred, studying him with amusement.

“Who—” His voice emerged as a ragged scrape, alien to his own ears. He swallowed against the burning in his throat. “Who the hell are you?”

He took one unsteady step forward before forcing himself to stop. Every nerve ending screamed at him to lunge, to hunt, to feed. His disciplined mind wrestled against these new, feral impulses, refusing to surrender control.

When she called him pretty boy, fragments of memory flashed through his mind—hot breath whispering those same words against his neck, the smell of sweat and blood mingling, unwanted hands roaming every inch of his body. Zachariah shook his head sharply, banishing the memory to focus on the present. It’s been a while since he had one of those...

With steely determination, he began slowly moving toward the kitchen, each step a battle between instinct and will. His eyes remained fixed on her, only flickering away momentarily to take stock of his options.

“Beer?” She held the bottle out.

Zachariah’s eyes narrowed at her casual demeanor. “No thanks,” he said tersely, then pressed on. “Why am I here?” he asked, voice low and controlled, despite everything. His fingers flexed at his sides, fighting the tremors.

More importantly, was she the one who turned him?
9x Like Like
↑ Top
© 2007-2025
BBCode Cheatsheet