Passable Writer

♡♢ 𝚅𝙰𝙼𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙴: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙴 — 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 ♤♧

^{╔══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══ ◇ ⯁ ◇ ═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩══╗
STORY ONE: "Four of a Kind"
╚══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══ ◇ ⯁ ◇ ═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩══╝}

<sup>A breeze the temperature of blushing skin blustered down South 1st Street, churning up tufts of the dust stuck to the sidewalk, stuck to the stucco, stuck to cowboy boot and to pantleg and to everything; the dust which powdered all that it touched that same anemic hue of beige. Across the asphalt and the concrete, and tapping the cold, dark glass of unlit windows, grains of sand skittered the way beetles do. Chasing the lukewarm whistle as it slithered down the brutalist granite colonnades. Through ungreased chainlink.

To the southwest, amidst the dim, orange-gray glow of a skyline obscured, only the blinking of Strat Tower insinuated revelry and motion somewhere beyond the derelict avenue and its many stillnesses. Here the county clerk offices had shuttered for the evening; multi-use office complexes had already ejected the last burners of the midnight oil; city hall sat dingy and lifeless like the moulted shell of some bygone cicada, clutching the dirt in travesty of its recent clamor. A parking garage, recently patronized by tourist, conference attendee, and hotel-goer—already abandoned for the evening on this, a night of revelry—which in this particular town is every night. It is at one such parking garage where our story begins. The kind of place where the silence skulks every wall, and the shadows roost in every corner. The kind of place where one's penance does not wait until morning with the politeness of a hangover.

A skin-warm breeze blustered down South 1st Street, same as every summer night under moon and neon and a single, ember-red star (the one our most superstitious have dubbed Wormwood). And on this particular night, at this particular hour, there were exactly three around to hear its song.

The first: kicked up against one of the parking garage's outer walls. Waifish and blond, and covering his eyes with the brim of a baseball cap, he busied his hands flipping a coin; smoking a cigarette; checking the price bars on the Robinhood app or some-such idleness. He didn't budge for groups of drunk, cackling tourists stumbling back to their hotel. Not for the methhead (too unpredictable, and what if his blood was laced?). Not the late-night dog walker, whose pooch could smell the predator on him, whose yappy little animal was yowling and bottoming out its leash in terror from well across the street. He was looking for a specific and nonnegotiable set of traits: working-class. Poor. "Ethnic." The kind of person who two or three fat women would wail for on the evening news before the whole city promptly forgot his name, forgot his face, forgot the look of his mother's house bathed in the flashing blue and red behind the newscaster. And alone. Always and most importantly alone. At roughly 11:12 that person rolled past on an electric scooter, ears buried in headphones, music turned up too loud, dreadlocks and baggy cargo pants flapping on the wind as he picked up speed on the down-slope. The figure in the baseball cap pocketed his phone (or his coin, or snubbed his cigarette butt); he stepped out from between the decorative philodendrons and began to follow. His slender hand drifted toward his handwarmer pocket, settling on the .32. The nerves tightened him up in the shoulders; the nerves and the anticipation, raw like an avulsion, feral like rattlesnake venom.

The third figure waited around the bottom corner, watching through the slats until the timing was just so. Bursting from behind it, she made a startlingly convincing display of flailing to a halt, of skidding just too far to avoid contact. The victim, launched from his scooter, ran down the street a pace or two before the rest of him overtook his legs, and he, too, scraped to a stop.

The two of them spent a moment writhing on the ground—one sincere, the other feigning—then hobbling to their feet. Ooh, winced the man as the pain throbbed through the side of his knee, through his abraded left hand, ooh—shit—shit—but when he'd flexed and rotated every bone that stung, and he was sure he hadn't broke something, he dragged himself off the street, toward the white bitch. The fuck you was running from? he snarled through his grimace, the fuck you ain't look where you going?—damn! But she was moving three fingers from a tooth up to her eye back to her tooth, and rolling her tongue around in her mouth, in what must have been a thorough inspection of a new crack, chip, or gap. Shit, the man sighed, still limping her way, you a'ight, at least? He made eye contact with the blond boy in the cap and the vest, but paid him no mind; mistook the terror in his face for a Good Samaritan's concern. Didn't realize his mistake until he'd already turned his back; until the hammer clicked back and the icy barrel was pressed to his nape.</sup>

╠══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══ ◇ ⯁ ◇ ═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩═══⬩══╣

<sup>"It just don't make a damn lick of sense."

Austin McGlinn, badge number 3196, threw an irritated glance over his shoulder; back toward his partner, crouched by the corpse. "What's that?"

"Some of these wounds look......different."

"Alright? Different how?" But McGlinn was already losing interest mere moments after asking. He peered back up the concrete ramp, pressed in by concrete walls, where another figure had set up shop: that bug-eyed fellow with the wrists like stickbugs and the mousy brown hair. The sleeves rolled up on his black turtleneck, each hand scratching, pecking, gouging at the opposite arm like the greedy beaks of so many vultures, stripping the bones of the dead. He looked meek enough, the stranger, all gaunt and girlish, but something about him—his soft, inquisitive gawking—the way his watery, fog-gray eyes seemed to boast that they knew something McGlinn didn't—the way the stranger's fingernails, varnished black, shredded his own skin, translucent, ashy-pale tatters of it drifting to his feet—damn unnerving is what he was. All ninety-something pounds of him.

Behind him a reply had started waterfalling from his partner's tireless gob. "I dunno, they just do. Look, look, here's where he hit the pavement, right?—the blood outside, the rips in his pants, the pebbles in his knee. But up here, by the neck—first of all, how would he even hit himself in the crook of the neck like this?" The cop rolled his shoulder, rolled his head to and fro, trying to picture the angle of impact, the feat of contortionism it took for the victim to the the ground in just that a way. "And the way it's bruised, but not bleeding. And don't these look too clean to you to be real abrasions?"

"So he hit the corner of the sidewalk on his way down," McGlinn dismissed.

"Huh. You think?"

"Hey. Hey!" He waved his flashlight beam in those aggravatingly curious eyes, flashing down at him with a catlike wariness. "This is an active crime scene. Unless you're here to take down a statement, get lost."

The stranger quirked his head; said something much too gently to be discerned amidst the chatter of their shoulder mics, the idling of their engines up on street-level.

"What?"

"Leave him alone, McGlinn. He's allowed to be there."

"And you save it for the M.E. Hey, you. What'd you say?"

The stranger moved to cup his tattered hands over his mouth, but this suddenly seeming blasphemous—filthy, somehow—they recoiled. Curled, repulsed, like a slug writhing in a bowl of salt. He fidgeted as he decided, backpedaled, decided again what to do with them; eventually, contented to step closer—right up against the threshold of the tape, in fact—cover his ears, and call back, "If you didn't want people standing up there, why draw the tape down here?"

McGlinn's teeth sounded like gravel rolling around inside a cement mixer. Before his partner or anyone else on the force could stop him he'd muttered something to himself, stampeded under the yellow tape, and stormed his way under the fluttering yellow-black barrier. "Alright, pal, how do you want it?" he said. "Obstruction of justice? Interference with an officer? Trespassing, tampering? Pick a flavor, smartass."

"I didn't—I don't—" quivered the onlooker's voice.

" 'I didn't, I don't,' " the cop mocked. "Well, guess what? 'You didn't' listen, so now 'you don't' get to leave. How's that sound?" And before the onlooker could protest in his mewling, whimpering way, already the first cuff had clicked around his wrist. Delicate as a baby bird, and sucking air between his teeth in helpless, wincing protest, he seemed about ready to snap in half when McGlinn wrenched both arms behind his back, and finished the deed, and threw the creature into the back of the cruiser.

"It won't stick, you know," said his partner.

"It doesn't have to stick. Asshole just has to not piss me the hell off for the rest of the night."

"Whatever."

With a defeated sigh the other cop stood up, dusted his knees. Until the medical examiner showed up ain't no one was snipping the clothes or frisking the pockets so it was the most he could do: sigh; and stare, and conjecture. He was about to say so what now?—when the distant roar of a 426 Hemi captured his attention; a roar which grew only louder the more corners it rounded, until it couldn't have been but a little ways up the street. Soon enough a 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T—bloody-piss-orange, with black racing stripes—came lurching to a halt just beside the cruiser, and threw on its hazards. The driver flipped off the radio, though not before a few trashy lyrics had already belted down the corridor (and echoed off the high-rises, and woken half the town en route to the crime scene), barely coherent amidst the buzzsaw distortion.

"Aw, shit," McGlinn growled.

"Speaking of assholes..." the other cop agreed.</sup>

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

I adore the lore so far!

A number of character concepts come to mind and intrigue me even at this early hour.

However, I am eager to see what others have in mind so that I might adapt accordingly.

Have At You!!! A Game of Swashbuckling Adventure

I am impossibly interested in this RP and would like to sign the papers to join the crew.

The Wild Beyond the Witchlight

If you are looking for another character, I am most interested.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

EXT. CORPORATE PARKS PARKING LOT, 1ST FREYLINGHUYSEN AVE.

Skeletal fingers rose up from the entombed earth. Row upon row of steel and glass that stretched to the edge of the horizon. Above, the sun, that golden orb of perfection, shone down from a tranquil sea of perfect blue. A shifting lattice of sapphire untouched by any clouds. Endless grids of black surrounded the buildings, parking lots gleaming as the asphalt baked.

The rental car was nondescript. Exceptional only in how utterly forgettable it was. Left beneath the blooming crape myrtles, the car was dusted with pollen.

The man, if indeed he was a man, sat inside the car with the windows rolled up. Unmoving, despite the afternoon heat that beamed mercilessly through the windshield, boiling the leather once again. He did not sweat into his pinstripe Oxford shirt. Faint vapor, wispy tendrils of smoke rose slowly from his skin in barely-discernible ribbons of grey. The heat did not bother him. It did not sicken him. Instead, it was the sunlight, brilliant and unforgiving, that slowly scalded him.

He watched. Sewage green eyes didn’t drift, they didn’t falter. He watched the white BMW X1, license plate ERF-88V, parked in spot 252. It was unoccupied and had been for some time. A fact which mattered little to the watcher.

Five, the digits of the clock inset in the idling town car’s dashboard read. Pheromones passed through the air, signaling the worker drone’s that began to file out from the building’s exits in undulating swarms. They wore uninspired businessware clothing, unflattering haircuts, and all the marks of complicit avarice.

The man ignored them, letting the insect-like waves pass over him. He watched and he waited. He started only when a woman approached the BMW, thumbing clumsily at her keyfob before she climbed in. He saw enough. She was not pretty. She was tall and slender, her neck too long and her face too doughy. Her hair was a birdnest of tangled curls. There was nothing to savor and he allowed himself an expression of disdain.

Heat waves rose from the hood of the BMW as she started the car. She waited, scrolling on her phone as the AC fought to drop the inside temperature to something bearable. He noted when she put her phone down, weary eyes looking forward as she peeled out of the parking lot in a stop-start-stop-start motion. He put the rental car in drive, sliding in behind her as she drove towards an intersection.

_

EXT. THE STREETS OF HALCYON - FREEWAY, THEN GRIDLOCK FIDI TRAFFIC, THEN SUBURBS

Caught in the rush hour traffic, the two cars were linked together in a long chain. The chain twisted, shifting around other cars. The chain loosened and contracted, but never approached the point of breaking.

The white BMW was never out of the man’s sight for long. There was practice in his driving. There was experience in every movement he made. And there was an inhuman efficiency. He knew the streets. He knew when to speed up to hug close to the car he was trailing. He knew when to slow down to hang back and keep his distance. He knew when to circle a block to avoid getting trapped. He knew when to simply keep heading straight, steadily following the flow of traffic.

Unnoticed, the spectacled man watched the woman driving with her eyes jumping from the smartphone she balanced in her hand and the road. At a light, he could see her sending text messages. His eyes spotted three distinct names. Three children. Something about dinner. Golden Wok or Ash Well’s. Time passed slowly, but with a steady inevitability she led him from the strip malls and drive-thru lanes to the sprawling suburbs.

_

EXT. 167 FRONTENAC LN., SUBURBS

The neighborhood was quiet. The streets were clean. The lawns were immaculate. The man in the rental car didn’t care. At a distance, he noted the driveway that the woman he still trailed pulled into. But to be sure, he rounded the corner of the block. He pulled over next to the sidewalk and idled where he could still see the driveway. Thirty minutes later, a white van, replete with luggage racks, ladders, and a company decal pulled in behind the BMW. At the hour, finally satisfied, the gaunt man took off, driving around the block to avoid passing the house. Unseen, he vanished back towards the city.

The sun had traveled far across the sky. The heavens were now more golden than blue. The man looked sicklier, clammier, and unsteady. Five minutes passed, and then ten, before he pulled in behind a bagel shop, already closed for the day, vomiting up chunks of congealed scarlet.

_

DISSOLVE, AN INDETERMINATE NUMBER OF DAYS LATER

Crickets and cicadas crooned out their grating cacophony from beneath sagging leaves and rain-heavy canopies. The sun had begun to set, the sky afire in the west, but no vestiges of ghostly starlight emerged; not for the heavy quilt of clouds unleashing their grief, mirroring the road, drawing rainbow oils from the asphalt. Most windows along Frontenac Lane. still glowed with the 8pm liveliness of forgettable dinners, of mediocre sex, of helping one’s Mensa-hopeful children with their insultingly easy homework. And in the treeline across the street observed two predators, one taller than the other but just as scrawny; both wearing dark burner clothes and standing beside a dark gym bag. Inside a small hoard of burglars’ goodies were arranged: a good pair of bolt cutters. A nozzled can of WD-40. A rake pick. A skeleton key. A rubber mallet. A loaded Smith & Wesson 638.

Apt #3A, 412 W. Pomona Ave

Static symphonies flickered through the stale air of the darkened apartment. She watched half-heartedly as ghostly figures danced across the buzzing screens arrayed in front of her. The music coalesced into a murky soup, rising in a slow crescendo, notes stretching out until they became voicelike. Thin whispers that jumped with unwelcome anticipation. Jazz, played too fast, too pleasantly for the gloom of withdrawal.

Fuck, she said.

The rush was dead. The relief rotting beside it. Her half-dried hair lay plastered against her neck. Raindrops cooled over the cold sweat splayed across her skin. The folded-up futon was damp, but she didn’t move. She let her head loll backwards, studying the ceiling. Chipped pieces of green paint, faded to a shade of vomit, hung above her, reaching down like vines from primordial jungle.

Fuck.

Her tongue burned with rusting metal as the painted-over outlets leered at her. The tiny skulls horrified her even as she smiled in their direction. Her feet tapping to the phantom beat that haunted her.

She wanted another fix. She wanted another fix to feel again.

The coffee cup quivered in her hand. The smiling cats printed on each side twirled in a slow, hypnotic dance that sickened her. Her fingers moved out of habit then, pressing against ceramic long since cooled, as she studied her whitening knuckles from afar. She unclenched her jaw, putting the cup to her lips, forcing herself to drink. Swallowing clumps of milk and coffee, she coughed, their flavor soured.

Fuck.

Scattered bits of furniture surrounded her. Dropped in place at her own discretion. Minimalist in every way. Bright wood, washed in white. It didn’t matter. It didn’t hide her shame.

She had time. She was alone. She could walk out the front door. She could vanish. Just another forgotten name. Just another face lost in the neon glow of the city.

Except—except she needed the blood. They didn’t need to find her. They already had her.

Her pocket drummed, an electronic ring hammering against the side of her bruised body.

One ring.

The flip phone creaked as she opened it. Protesting where she would not. Could not.

“Showtime,” the voice said, before the line clicked dead as quickly as he’d opened it.

Eager. Hungry. A word full of teeth. Sharp promise that bit into the flesh of her neck and squeezed until she gasped for breath.

Stumbling, she rose to her feet. Slipping into the cramped bathroom. The drain was stuffed with rags. The faucet sputtered as she pushed it upwards. Water began to fill the sink. Pouring slowly over the edge of the vanity. Pitter-pattering onto the cracked tile flooring. Squelching as it filled small canyons of wear-and-tear. Following the slant of the floor under the saddle, onto the scratched up hardwood floor resting beyond the crooked door.

She dialed a memorized number, counting out the numbers to herself.

Two rings.

“Bertin?”

The panic came easy. The anxiety unforced. The worry merely transfigured as each syllable rolled off of her tongue. Playing pretend had already become survival.

“Yes, hello, it’s Klára. Klára Novotná in Apartment 3A? Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry to call you so late. But Mike, the supe, he won’t answer. I—it’s just there’s water all over my bathroom floor. I know where it’s coming from but I can’t get it to stop.

“You can hear it? Great! I mean, yeah, it’s—it’s bad. I tried, but the valve is stuck. Yes, thank you! I’ll put down some towels…Just please hurry.”

She snapped the phone shut harder than she had intended. The girl in the chipped mirror frowned back at her. Fear wet in her eyes. Disgust plastered on her burnt cherry lips. Bile rose in Klára’s throat as she steadied herself against the sink.

She deserved it.

She always did.

_

EXT. 167 FRONTENAC LN., SUBURBS

The white utility van sped pulled out of the driveway in a sudden hurry. And in the twilight, the woman in black smiled to herself, laughing silently at a joke that she alone perceived. She approached the cookie-cutter house with a cardboard box cradled in her hands. With a feigned stumble, she placed a tab of duct tape over the camera mounted above the doorbell ringer. She pressed and held the doorbell button, adopting her kindest voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi? Can I help you?”

“Hi. Is there a Bertin de Guzmán at this address?”

“What’s going on?”

“Ah, well—I live at One Seventy Six Frontenac, you know. I have a package here for Bertin? I think the driver must ‘a got the number mixed up.”

“I see. My husband actually just left. Just leave it on the porch and I’ll make sure he gets it later. Thanks.”

“Gee, miss, I guess. It’s pretty heavy, though. It might be expensive. And you know, we’ve had a rash of porch-pirates recently.”

“Is that so? Well—…”

The door cracked open, a tired, homely face visible in the gap as the gold chain pulled tight. That’s when the figure pressed against the wall, hiding low beyond the peephole and windows’ purview, lunged forward, bolt cutters slipping past the door frame, snapping the chain in one smooth cut. The woman in black shoved the door open with her shoulder. A low, panicked shout greeted her as Claudia fell backwards onto the floor.

Strong hands grabbed her. Pushing her down by her shoulders, turning her until she lay on her stomach. She groaned as her face was smashed against the polished tile. Her hands were pulled painfully behind her back, the woman in black tightening a zip tie so tightly about her wrists that she could barely move her arms. Blood beaded where the plastic tore and chafed.

Lifted to her feet as if she was no more than a toy, she felt the sharp tip of a knife pushed against her back. The other intruder latched the front door as the woman in black dragged Claudia into the living room, shoving her into a kneeling position on the floor.

“Don’t worry, it’s alright,” she cooed, her voice so kind, so sweet, “it’s gonna be okay.”

The man with the bolt cutters returned, bringing the children with him, already restrained, and mouths covered with thick cloth. He motioned for them to sit on the three person sofa and took a seat on the nearby reclining chair. Chrome gleamed against his black sweatpants, a revolver resting casually against his thigh. Surveying the situation, he smiled, a reptilian thing, cold and damp, that never reached his eyes.

_

412 W. Pomona Avenue

Knock. Knock.

The pounding jolted Klára alive. Her legs moved her towards the door without her willing direction. In the silence of waiting, the mote of willpower she had been nourishing finally crumbled, layers of carefully kneaded dough, burning to ash as the tension spun the dials several steps too far.

There was nothing left to save. There was no way to avoid it. Not any longer. There was only the job. She had only to do her part. And she had only to see it through.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She opened the door, with a forced smile, a pitiful expression molded out of desperation. A stout, short man in work clothes stood before her. He flashed her a lopsided grin, that seemed intended to reassure her. A trickle of sweat trailed down his forehead, leaving a furrow in the dirt and grime that covered much of his skin. She recognized him. It was her landlord. Bertin. She had met him only briefly when she had moved in.

“Please, come in,” she apologized, gesturing in the direction of her bathroom and the pooling water.

“Sure, let’s take a look at that—” he began, picking up his toolbox and stepping confidently into the apartment, though not without worries of his own. Worries of insurance claims and mildew and the recent prices of good lumber.

She shut the door behind her. Turning the deadbolt into place with a loud ka-thunk. She pulled the pistol from behind her back. Cold metal heavy in her hand. The safety was already off. She aimed it at him. Center mass. Fingers waiting next to the trigger. Just like Caleb had taught her.

He saw the gun. Saw it just too late. His eyes widened, a split-second of disbelief flashing across his face. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“You should sit down,” she said, embarrassed at his sudden plight. Bothered by the fragility that he wore like some fucking badge. As if it would protect him. As if it would save him. As if it made him better than her.

“Claire, hey, what’s going—”

“Don’t. Just—fucking do it. Please.”

She sighed, the anger fading from lips as quickly as it had appeared. It wasn’t his fault. She couldn’t blame him. Not entirely. She pointed helpfully at the chair she had left next to the couch. She had never liked it very much. He obeyed meekly. His hands raised up to his shoulders, held out in front of him, palms facing towards her. Shifting the gun into her right hand, Klára placed her flip phone on the table in front of him with her free hand. From her pocket she fished out a scrap of paper with a number neatly printed on it. Putting it into the phone, she nodded at the two objects, never moving her eyes aways from the sights which pointed unerringly at Bertin.

“Someone wants to talk to you.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Klára

__________________________________________________________ Basic Information __________________________________________________________ • Name | Klára Novotná • Nickname(s) | Klara, Clara, Clare, Claire; anything to spare others from diacritics. • Age | Preserved by the vampiric blood she regularly ingest, physically Klára is no more than 25, but her true chronological age clocks in at a respectful 45. • Gender | Female • Birthday | October 31st • Race | Human • Rank/Status | Ghoul, a blood addicted blood doll Appearance __________________________________________________________ [+] • Height | 5' 6'' • Build | 125 lbs • Eye Color | Gray • Hair Color & Style | Klára has brown hair that falls straight to her shoulders. • Skin Tone | She has a medium complexion, aglow with rose, that pales when she has gone too long without vampire blood. • Notable Marks | Accompanying her fading pallor, Klára often bears bite marks on her body, clear evidence that she has recently served as a blood doll. • Typical Clothing Style | Klára dresses modestly, favoring longer fabrics that allow her to easily hide familiar signs of vampiric predation. A sweater and comfortable pair of jeans. A long-sleeved blouse and knee length skirt. • Aura/First Impression | A carelessly plucked flower caught in full bloom, Klára seems nothing more than a sweet fruit to be devoured by the monsters that haunt Halcyon. • Voice | Klára speaks in a clear voice decorated with cautious deference. Her words are carved out of submission. Each syllable she delivers is designed to disarm, to soothe the savage souls of the beasts that surround her. To buy her more time. To give her a chance. Relationships __________________________________________________________ [+] • Openness to Friendship (1-5) | 4 • Openness to Romance (1-5) | 3 • Romantic Preferences | Anyone willing to offer her kindness and genuine affection. • Current Romantic Interests | Caleb keeps her busy, leaving Klára with precious little time for romance. • View on Forbidden Relationships | Driven by a healthy amount of caution, Klára would do her best to avoid breaking a taboo. • Reputation Among Their Race/Faction | Unchained humans aware of her enslavement would likely view Klára with revulsion. Amongst the members of the Crimson Circle, she is nothing more than a ghoul, free to be used and abused by the vampires that command her. • Relationship with the Glamour | Klára is sure she has bigger things to worry about than the Glamour. • How They Handle Love | Fearfully. • Biggest Turn-ons | ✦ ✦ ✦ • Biggest Turn-offs | ✦ ✦ ✦ • Known Friends | TBD • Known Enemies | A nobody like Klára doesn't have any real enemies. • Known Family | ✦ Caleb, her boss ✦ Dreda, her other boss ✦ Has mortal family in Chicago

Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Hobbies/Interests | ✦ Baking ✦ Music, playing her guitar ✦ Swimming • Likes | ✦ Animals ✦ Green Spaces ✦ Social Connections • Dislikes | ✦ Reminders of her culpability ✦ Her powerlessness ✦ Raisins • Fears | ✦ Caleb ✦ Being cut off from her supply of vampire blood ✦ Death, always, always death • Habits | ✦ Fingernail biting ✦ Daydreaming ✦ Needless apologizing • Vices | ✦ Vampire blood addiction ✦ Meekness ✦ Soft-Hearted Core Motivation Klára wants to live. She wants to keep breathing. She wants to see another morning. No matter what. No matter what price she has to pay. She has too much left to do. Too much left to see. Otherwise it all means nothing. All the things she did. Every small step she took. Every time she looked away. And all the things she didn't say. So she will grovel. She will beg. She will debase herself before them. She will continue to serve them. Her sanguine masters. Unlife awaits her...or so they've promised. Personality Overview Klára is just a girl. She's normal. Normal, how you would be if you spent twenty years being twenty five. Normal, how you would be if you were nursing a severe addiction to vampire blood. Normal, how you would be if your boss was bloodsucking monster hellbent on world domination. Normal, how you would be if your boss's second in command was eyeing you like you were some blood drenched steak. Normal, how you would be if you were trapped in an endless nightmare. Klára isn't alright. Klára isn't doing well. She's scared. She's a ball of anxiety. She takes two pills a day just to get by. She self-medicates to bury the guilt. And she drinks blood. Vampire blood. Payment for services rendered. The poison they used to bind her. She listens to what they tell her. She does what he wants her to do. She lets the honeyed voice seduce her. She helps them to smother her conscience. She tells herself she has no choice. She reminds herself it isn't her fault. It's better that way, she knows. She can swallow the lies without vomiting. Sweet, Klára. Good, Klára. Capable, Klára. Klára who doesn't complain. Klára who doesn't cry in her dark room. Klára who is nobody and everybody. Klára who twists herself to please her masters or her victims. Sometimes she forgets. Her old self seems such a foreign thing. They've remade her. She's who they want her to be. She watches them. She studies every movement that they make. Each subtle shift in the features of their ageless faces. She tries to match their moods. She struggles to understand them. And she tries to see the signs of violence before it's too late. Before the sharp teeth find her. She forgives them. She forgives them every time. What else can she do? It's always her fault. If only she were better. If only she were stronger. If only she hadn't made them angry. They're so merciful. They're so kind. They're right, so very right, of course. She's exactly where she belongs.

Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Current Occupation | Chief Dispatcher, Southside Towing Company; Ghoul; Blood Addict; Blood Doll • Level of Schooling | Bachelor of Science in Chemistry • Past Occupations | Student, Parking Lot Attendant, Hotel Receptionist, Waitress, and occasional Gig Musician • Socioeconomic Status | Tragically Middle Class • History Summary | Chicago is a distant memory for Klára. She was born there. She grew up there. Her family still lives there, if what Caleb told her is true. Highschool was a blur. There were boys. There were girls. There were endless fights with her parents. She was out too late. She played her guitar too loudly. She was rude. She was foolish. And she wore too much makeup. Her sisters made it bearable. Sometimes, she pretends that she is going to call them. That she will tell them she's alright. That she has a job. That's she's doing great. That her boss is a great guy. Babi must be worried, Klára knows. She was always her grandmother's favorite. The lies are everywhere. They always were. She finds them comforting. She studied chemistry at the University of Chicago. She met more boys. She met more girls. She discovered drinking. She discovered drugs. She had a blast. She graduated with a B. Sc. that she shoved in a drawer at her parents house. She traveled. She worked as a parking lot attendant in Cleveland. She worked as a hotel receptionist in Atlanta. She waited tables in New Orleans. She played her guitar in bars and cramped coffee shops. She sold some drugs. She made some new friends. And she heard about a cool place. A magical place. She ended up in Halcyon. She got in trouble. Real trouble. Eleutheria Grey saved her. She was older. Cooler. She seemed nice. She doted on Klára. She told her about her future. Of what she could become. She promised her eternity. Once Klára had put in the work. Once she had laid the foundation for her immortality. Once she had earned it. It was a good pitch. She saw the trap too late. She realized the danger when the blood was on her lips. When the burning liquid was already dripping down her throat. It was the best deal she would get. It was better than what she had seen others offered. Drained of all their blood. Tossed into some ditch. Eaten piece by piece. For a time things were good. Eleautheria was interested in her. She cared, she cared as much as a monster can. She taught Klára the rules. She taught Klára the unspoken rules grew like great roots beneath the streets of Halcyon. The tricks that would keep her alive. Eventually, Eleautheria began to make introductions. And then Klára made a mistake. She fucked up. She was afraid. She was weak. She made the wrong choice. She cost the Crimson Circle more than money. Caleb was the only one who would take her afterwards. But there was no kindness in his eyes. She was just another tool. Damaged, but not beyond repair. She could still be useful. And so she was. A decade passed tolerably. She worked at the towing company. She managed finances. She found victims. Prey for her new master. She earned her keep, wage-slaving her way to damnation. Always working. Always reaching for the immortality that Caleb dangled in front of her. He promised. He promised her time and time again. He was not bad, she told herself. Better than most of the vampires in the city. He didn't hurt her more than he had too. He paid her sometimes. He gave her food. He gave her a small apartment. He let her rest. And most importantly of all, he gave her blood, his blood. The blood he claimed in return was a small sacrifice to surrender in return for salvation. Besides, Caleb was stingy, and rarely shared her with his guests. Dreda was different. She was family. She had rights. It would have been rude to refuse, Klára knew. And so she didn't. She was happy to help, it was the least she could do. She didn't need them to remind her of her place. She latched on to what little affection they showed her. Small gestures, threads of generosity, woven through a tapestry of apathy. She worked harder to please them. Each smile. Each compliment. Each harmless touch sustaining her further. Klára doesn't really believe it. She doesn't dare to hope. She tries only to make it another day. Telling herself that she couldn't help it. She couldn't be someone else. She had to do it. There was never another choice for her to make. They understood. They knew. Deep down, even the monsters that loomed above her knew. Knew the truth that they had beaten into her. Freedom was nothing more than a dream. No one in Halcyon had ever been free.

Race-Specific Questions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ✦ Ghoul / Blood Addict / Blood Doll Race info ▸ Vampires ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Born or Turned? | Klára has been enthralled by a cruel vampire. A long suffering ghoul, she is still forced to act as a blood doll. • Blood Source Preference | Vampire • Blood Addiction Risk (1-5) | Already hooked on vampire blood, Klára experiences a weekly cravings for a sanguine cursed fix, 5. • View on Fae Blood Ban | "It's gotta be even better than vampire blood, right? A little bit...a little taste...wouldn't hurt anyone..." • Views on Vampires | "No. No way. This isn't group therapy. Ask someone else. What do you think I'm gonna say? They're great, of course. The best. Love 'em. You can tell Dreda I said that." • Views on Mortals | "Humans? Yeah. It's hard not to feel bad for them. They're weak. They're helpless. They're a tasty treat or toy to break for most of the creatures in this city. Just like me." • Views on Fae | "Pretty, sometimes I swear it hurts to look at them. But you can't trust them. Not ever." • Views on Lycan | "Big. Big muscles. Big mouths full of big teeth. Big noses that smell you. Big ears that hear you. Big eyes that see you. A little piece of advice. You see a werewolf getting angry. You do what I do. You run." Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Theme Song | youtu.be/PHzOOQfhPFg?si=1ftqLQrxeZafaUTK • Favorite Food | Vepřo-knedlo-zelo or anything else that might remind her of home. • Favorite Animal(s) | If Caleb would let her, Klára would keep a menagerie of animals in her small apartment. • Favorite Music Genre | Anything but country music. • Favorite Haunt | ✦ Klára spends much of her time at the offices of the Southside Towing Company seeing to the day-to-day operations of Caleb's ancillary business. ✦ On slower days, in the haze of the fading daylight, Klára can be found at the Midnight Blue jazz bar, attending to Caleb and/or Dreda. • Signature Weapon | Glock 17 chambered in 9×19mm • Preferred Vices | Vampire blood. Vampire blood. And more vampire blood. • Pet Peeve | Removing blood from clothes. • Guilty Pleasure | Telling others what to do and having power, real power, over them.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Kora

__________________________________________________________ Basic Information __________________________________________________________ • Name | Korinna • Nickname(s) | Kora • Age | Several Centuries • Gender | Female • Birthday | March 20th • Race | Fae • Rank/Status | Artisan/Neutral Appearance __________________________________________________________ [+] • Height | 5' 7'' • Build | Kora has the lithe, effortlessly graceful build of a Fae. • Eye Color | Black eyes adorned with silver. • Hair Color & Style | Kora has long black hair, the color of midnight, that reaches past the small of her back. She is fond of elaborate hairstyles, often pinning her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. • Skin Tone | She has light skin, untouched by the passage of time. • Notable Marks | Her skin is decorated by an ever-changing collection of pin pricks, strange patterns tinged with intentionality that call to mind some arcane ritual. • Typical Clothing Style | She wears fine clothing cut in the latest fashion. She has a fondness for floor length gowns, fashionable cocktail dresses, and elegant suits. • Aura/First Impression | Wreathed in subtle strands of power, Kora puts others at ease with her gentle appearance • Voice | She possesses a silvery voice, rich with the warmth of spring. Relationships __________________________________________________________ [+] • Openness to Friendship (1-5) | 3 • Openness to Romance (1-5) | 3 • Romantic Preferences | Kora is attracted to those that bring beauty into the world. • Current Romantic Interests | She is currently married to her job. • View on Forbidden Relationships | Not her business. Not her problem. And if it is Kora's business...then it's not your problem. • Biggest Turn-ons | ✦Artistic Talent ✦Subtle Confidence ✦Cleverness • Biggest Turn-offs | ✦Sadism ✦Crudeness ✦Violence • Known Friends | TBD • Known Enemies | Kora likely has more than one remorseful customer out there who's eager to blame the Fae for their bargain and the debt she has collected from them. • Known Family | Despite her non-aligned status, Kora has ties to the Syrara family, a minor house of Fae sworn to the service of Lady Zenovia, one of the rulers seated on the Thorn Council, and mistress of memory.

Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Hobbies/Interests | ✦Arts and Crafts ✦Shopping ✦Social Events and Engagements ✦Nature • Likes | ✦Praise ✦ Profit ✦Crafting • Dislikes | ✦Getting Dirty ✦Rude People ✦Ignorance • Fears | ✦Stagnation ✦Mediocrity ✦Obscurity • Habits | ✦Pacing when anxious ✦Mending random bits of fabric ✦Rarely found without a sewing kit on her person • Vices | ✦Perfectionist ✦Periodically Blunt ✦Arrogant Core Motivation Kora is driven by the dream of creation. She wishes to create new things. She wishes to create things beyond even the boundless memory of the Fae. And she wishes to weave threads that can reshape the very fabric of reality. Personality Overview A master of her craft, Kora commands her talents with endless patience. She chooses to weave a story of creation. She believes in beauty, true beauty bright enough to lessen the growing darkness. Halcyon has become so ugly, so drab, and she has no interest in accepting such unwelcome changes. She fought once, long ago, for her honor and for her house. But no longer. The ancient threads tying her to her past are tattered and worn. Instead, she has bound her thoughts to her work. She permits herself small pleasures, remembering memories of her own. She allows herself small acts of kindness, discrete actions designed to avoid attention or offense. However, Kora knows with every fiber of her being, that there is one unmistakable truth. Nothing is ever free and sooner or later the price must be always be paid in full.

Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Current Occupation | Seamstress and proprietor of The Fated Thread, an exclusive store specializing in custom, enchanted clothing. • Level of Schooling | Taught by some of the finest Fae artisans that have passed through Halcyon, Kora has mastered her craft over long centuries. • Past Occupations | Kora was once a celebrated artisan attending to the desires of the lords and ladies of the Thorned Council. • Socioeconomic Status | A sought after creator of clothing, woven with powerful magic, Kora commands a hefty price for her services. • History Summary | In the fading twilight, you ask for a seamstress. You speak quietly as you fumble with your pocket watch, for you know others are always listening, especially when the subject is magic. Hours pass, but through coin and reputation, you secure an introduction. The vampire grins and says you will need no directions. The door finds you before your doubt overwhelms you. A black maw rising out of the shadows, far too large for human use. Eldritch symbols carved into the door shift with every passing moment. You cannot divine their meaning, not entirely, but it seems a warning and an invitation. Power lies beyond. Beauty awaits. Whatever you desire. Whatever you seek. Whatever you desperately need. Or so the strangers said. You remember the fear in their eyes and the stories your grandmother told you about the mercurial Fae. The door opens before your hand touches the handle. Warm light beckons you forward, soft music playing beyond. You stand facing a woman. No human. No lycan. And no vampire. Her eyes dance with a silver light. Stepping in from the filthy streets, her beauty burns you. For a moment, you struggle to recall why you sought her out. Too late you feel the threads of her magic as they envelope you. You've heard the rumors. The half-whispered gossip. They said she was a Fae noble. An aristocrat, fallen far from grace. They said she had been there from the earliest days. A fixture of high fashion. And a giver of gifts. She offers her hand, smiling faintly. New warmth travels over your skin. The fear leaves you. You remember why you came. She asks for something precious. Something priceless. She covets memories most of all, she explains with a soft laugh that lessens the horror you suddenly feel. A vial of your blood seals the bargain. The memories begin to fade as the Fae tells you to take a seat. For a moment you remember a young woman. Your first love. Her name slips away from your tongue as you try to say it. Her face vanishes next as you fight a sudden urge to violently vomit. Five years of moments leave you in an instant. And then the darkness overtakes you. You emerge into the bright daylight. Restored, purified from the blight of the gloomy city. You are not sure how much time has passed, but for the first time in a long time you feel hope. You feel strong. The dress feels like a second skin, armor for the fight that looms ahead of you. Admiring the beauty of the lacy gown, you fail to notice the door fading out of existence behind you. Besides, you soon remember, you don't believe in any of this fate crap. You're in control of your own life.

Race-Specific Questions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ✦ Race info ▸ Fae ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Element Affinity | Thorn. • Glamour Specialty | Crafting of enchanted items using pact binding. • Views on Mortals | Kora is ambivalent towards mortals, unless they possess great artistic talent or seek her out with a worthwhile bargain in mind. • Views on Vampires | Amused by the pride of vampires, Kora takes no issue with those afflicted by the sanguine curse, provided they keep blood off of her clothes, and continue to pay her well. • Views on Lycan | Seeing no value in turning away a potential customer, Kora views lycans with polite caution, recalling a number of violent incidents that saw her creations damaged as a result of sharp claws and sharper teeth. Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Theme Song | TBD • Favorite Food | Kora adores spicy food gathered from across the world. • Favorite Animal(s) | Kora is inordinately fond of cats. • Favorite Music Genre | Despite her prim and proper appearance, Kora is a passionate devotee of punk and metal music. • Favorite Haunt | Kora prefers small, intimate settings that allow for private conversation. • Signature Weapon | A well-used sewing needle cast in silver and a seemingly unending spool of thread. • Preferred Vices | Fine clothing, fine dining, and expensive alcohol. Elaborate romantic encounters. And the joy of creation. • Pet Peeve | Kora dislikes poor manners, detests being rushed, and abhors those who destroy art. • Guilty Pleasure | Insert Considering smoking to be a dirty habit, Kora nonetheless takes great joy in sneaking in a drag from a cigarette or well-packed pipe.

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

I very much enjoy the vibes of the lore drop, so my interest is yours.

Last Chance ( A Star Wars Rebel Cell RP)

A story about the adequate and average sounds exactly like the sort of story I would be involved in.

I am not the most knowledgeable about Star Wars, but I did watch Rogue One recently so I think I can pull this off.

In short, I am very interested!

A Passable Writer

A fond hello to any readers,

I am a passable writer seeking to exercise my writing muscles after a lengthy break from all forms of collaborative writing.

I am fond of fantasy and science fiction stories. I adore Cyberpunk. I obsess over well-written Urban Fantasy. And I enjoy a party based adventure that seems to spring from the pages of a Dungeons and Dragons novel.

The level and length of writing is no great issue to me. Instead, interesting characters, thoughtful settings, and enjoyable roleplaying are what I desire.

Adequately Yours,
PW