Fantasy 𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝒲𝐼𝒞𝒦𝐸𝒟 𝒲𝐸𝒮𝒯

[noxrequiem]

THE WICKED WEST
Chapter I

The moon hung heavy and full over Lone Cross, its ghostly pale light spilling across the rooftops and dusty streets, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and breathe with the night. The sky above was a heavy, endless black, punctuated only by the cold gleam of stars. The cold, dry wind had picked up in the evening, whistling low in the plains. It carried with it the scent of sagebrush and the faintest hint of smoke from a fire burning somewhere unseen. But there was something else with it—something darker—that clung to the air like a warning no one wanted to heed.

The Cursed Roulette stood at the center of town like a beacon, its crooked sign swinging lazily in the breeze, the soft creak barely audible over the hum of voices from within. Its windows flickered with the warm glow of light, the heavy thrum of music and laughter spilling out into the street. The place was alive, almost vibrating with energy, beckoning every wayward soul in the vicinity to its doors to step inside and forget their troubles for a while.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat. The place was packed tonight—travelers, townsfolk, and drifters alike crammed into every corner, most with drinks in hand. The piano man played a jaunty tune, his fingers dancing across the keys in rhythm with the stomp of boots and the clatter of dice hitting tabletops. A fiddle joined in, high and wild, cutting through the hum of conversation, laughter, and shouted wagers. Every table was full. Cards slapped down with the confidence of a winning hand, followed by the clink of coins pushed into piles that glinted in the low light. Laughter rose above the music, mingling with the sharp clink of poker chips and the occasional slam of fists on a table as fortunes were made and lost in equal measure. Dancers took to the open floor in the center of the saloon, their movements fluid, spinning in time to the music. The whole room seemed to pulse with the reckless energy of a night where the world outside didn’t matter, the noise rising and falling like the tides.

Everything was in motion—cards dealt, dice tossed, boots stomping, skirts twirling. It was one of those nights where time seemed to slip away, hours lost in the haze of gambling, drinking, and forgetting the world outside. But it was also the kind of night where things could shift in an instant. Lone Cross had seen nights like this before. Nights where the world tilted on its axis and the line between the living and the dead, the mundane and the magical, became too thin for comfort. Nights like these—nights where the moon shone too bright, too close—were the kind where things went wrong. But no one inside the saloon paid any mind to the what lurked beyond the front doors, where the shadows seemed deeper than they should have been and the usual howls of the coyotes had gone silent. For now, the drinks flowed, the music soared, and the laughter continued.

The Cursed Roulette felt like an island tonight, isolated from the rest of the world, an oasis of laughter, heat, and life. The saloon was always busy, the place to be if you were anyone in Lone Cross, but tonight was different. Tonight felt like something special, almost like a celebration, though no one could say exactly why. The atmosphere inside the saloon was filled with mirth and merriment, a world away from the still, eerie night outside. The energy was infectious, not a single person present could truly be miserable in a place like this.

 

[noxrequiem]

XX.
judgement

✦ MOOD ✦
wary.

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
open to all.

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

Damir sat at the bar, a shadow in the corner of The Cursed Roulette. The lively hum of laughter and conversation swirled around him, but it all seemed muffled, distant, as if he were at the bottom of a deep well. The flickering lantern light cast uneven shadows across his pale, gaunt face, accentuating the sharp lines of his features. His wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, obscured his eyes, though every now and then the soft glow from the nearby oil lamps would catch the icy glint of blue-gray beneath the brim. He held his drink in a hand that bore scars too deep to fade, fingers long and bony wrapped around the glass with the steady grip of someone who had faced down far worse things than what whiskey could drown. The liquor burned, but it was a comfort, a warmth he welcomed even if it never truly reached his core.

The Cursed Roulette was lively tonight, the sounds of chatter and music filling the space, mixing with the rattle of dice and the clinking of glasses. It was a different world from the one Damir usually inhabited—the dead didn’t require company, nor did they demand conversation. Around him, men and women laughed, raised their glasses, and exchanged tall tales—half-truths and outright lies told with easy smiles. But Damir wasn’t part of that world. He never had been. There was a stillness to him, an eerie quiet that seemed to repel interaction, like the cold, unyielding embrace of the grave. His presence drew a wide berth from most of the regulars who knew better than to get too close to the undertaker, the man who seemed to carry a chill with him no matter how warm the night. For a man who’d spent decades on the move, the stillness of Lone Cross had been a surprising comfort. Being the town undertaker was a far cry from the dangerous hunts and violent battles of his past, but in some twisted way, it suited him. There was a kind of quiet in the dead, an understanding. The living, with all their noise and mess, rarely afforded him that same peace.

He stared into his glass, watching as the firelight danced on its surface. It reminded him, in a fleeting way, of the candlelit vigils held in the crypts of old Europe, where he and Andrei once hunted the restless dead. The flames from the oil lamps were reminiscent of fires long gone, of hunts in the cold wilderness, where monsters hid in the dark and blood soaked the earth. His sharp, pale fingers tightened around the whiskey glass, the scars on his wrist visible for just a moment as his duster shifted with the movement. He flexed his hand beneath the bar, feeling the stiffness in the tendons, the way the scars pulled at his flesh. His duster, black and heavy, pooled around him where he sat, concealing the arsenal of tools and weapons he carried at all times. Though Lone Cross had become his place of retirement, a quiet escape from the life of a monster hunter, Damir had never let himself become complacent. He knew better. And so, he watched. He listened. The lively atmosphere of the saloon did little to distract him from the undercurrents of tension in the town. Whispers of dark rituals and strange happenings had begun to spread, and Damir, though reluctant, knew that peace wouldn’t last long.

Through the glass of the window, the full moon hung heavy in the sky, a silent observer to the revelry inside. And yet, despite the festive air that buzzed through the saloon, there was an underlying tension that Damir could feel. It wasn’t just in his bones, though he could feel it deep in the marrow—something in the night was stirring, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was a presence, faint but growing, lurking beyond the noise, beyond the walls of The Cursed Roulette. He just didn’t know what yet. Trouble was coming, of that much he was certain. Trouble always found him, no matter how far he ran. But for now, he let the glass meet his lips, taking another slow, measured sip, letting the noise around him drift into a dull hum.

Damir Sokolov

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[logastellus]

XX.
tower

✦ MOOD ✦
Haughty.

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
Damir- noxrequiem

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

Beneath the shimmering tapestry of western stars, the Cursed Roulette Saloon stands as a beacon of revelry, where the boundaries between the mortal and supernatural blur in a haze of laughter and mischief. Inside, the air is alive with the spirited sounds of a lively band, strumming out tunes that weave through the crowd, enticing both mortals and otherworldly beings to join the revelry. Specters float alongside cowboys and townsfolks, while mischievous entities cheer on players at the card tables, their ethereal laughter mingling with the raucous shouts of those seeking fortune or folly. The atmosphere crackles with energy as patrons engage in spirited games, daring bets, and whispered secrets, each corner of the saloon alive with stories waiting to unfold.

As the night deepens, the saloon transforms into a whirlwind of debauchery, where intoxicating libations flow freely and wild dances take over the dusty floor. Revelers indulge in their desires, be they earthly or celestial, as flirtations and feuds ignite the night. With every spin of the cursed roulette wheel, the stakes rise, and the thrill of the unknown grips the crowd, drawing in those brave enough to embrace the chaos. Here, under the watchful gaze of the stars, friendships are forged, rivalries ignited, and the line between reality and the supernatural blurs even further, creating an unforgettable tapestry of laughter, music, and reckless abandon that will echo in the hearts of all who dare to enter.

Emerson Cole stood above the bustling crowd of the mortals and supernatural's that were indulging their mind, bodies and souls into his establishment. He favored a glass of scotch in one hand and a cane with a sparking ruby gem in the other, his aquamarine eyes complimented the stoic expression on his face. Letting his lips lightly touch the rim of his glass, he nodded at the passing of some of his clients until the stench of a large, overweight mortal made his way over to Emerson. Horace Grindle. A wealthy patron of Lone Cross and a frequent client at the brothel rather than the saloon. His face, round and ruddy, was framed by a patchy beard that looked as if it had been hastily trimmed, leaving bits of food caught between the bristles. Each heavy breath sent ripples through his ample belly, which spilled over the edge of the belt that has been desperately holding his poorly tailored trousers, a testament to his gluttonous indulgences. "Now if it isn't the owner of this here fine establishment!" The beluga chortled placing one of his sweaty palms on the suede fabric of Emersons' trench coat. As he laughed—a deep, wheezing chuckle that echoed like a dying engine—it was clear that his wealth had done little to refine him. Instead, it had bred a kind of arrogance that was as suffocating as the thick cloud of cheap cologne that clung to him, mingling with the scent of alcohol. "I still don't see how a colored fella such as ya self can manage a place like this and better than some of my companions and their businesses! You must have cut a deal with the devil himself in order to have this!!!” Horace laughed again after just delivered a subpar joke about the townsfolks that populated the saloon, a silly remark that had drawn chuckles from the nearby tables and jezebels that were caressing the potbelly pig of a man. Emerson's lips formed a forced smile followed by a routine chuckle at the man. “A saloon owner never shares his secrets Mr. Grindle. Wouldn't want to be out of a business.” The oversized man laughed the sweat forming more on his round face, he wheezed in between his laughing then proceeded to make a handkerchief appear out of his waistcoat pocket. He dabbed at the beads of sweat upon his forehead before taking a swig of his whiskey “A colored man keeping secrets to himself would be hanged in the center of the town but you’re different from the rest of them my boy! Now I need to replenish my empty glass and discover what is under this here hussies skirt before the night is over!” He pulled the woman into his side more causing a yelp and giggle to be released from her mouth then tipped his head towards Emerson leaving to enjoy the rest of his night. Emerson’s smile quickly disappeared after Horace was out of his sight, straightening his coat and swiping his hand over the shoulder Horace placed his hand on. Emerson could still smell the stench wafting in the already warm air after the man left and if demons could vomit he would.

Stifling a growl, Emerson felt the air thick with tension and the scent of peony mixed with whiskey, a striking woman approached him, her movements fluid and seductive. She leaned in close, her fingers gently tracing along his collar, her breath warm against his ear. With a sultry whisper, she let slip the news that the undertaker was at the bar. A smirk creped on his face, thanking his employee he made his way down the stairs swiftly through the throng of revelers his eyes were fixed on the man, who sat at the bar, a steely gaze surveying the chaos. As he reached the undertaker, he leaned in slightly, his voice low "Mr. Sokolov...what a pleasure to have you here tonight. The mortuary must have been...dull today. I hope you are enjoying tonight's festivities and not causing any trouble with your brooding and painfully depressed...self." Emerson's aquamarine eyes remained in contact with Damir's the racy and rambunctious crowd immediately and mysteriously becoming muffled around their beings.

Emerson Cole

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[idiot]

VII.
Chariot

Marionette was propped up against the wall; akin to a puppet whose strings were abruptly cut and discarded for disposal. Her Master didn’t like her staying inside his lodgings when they travelled. He hated the smell that permeated from her. He never bothered to get her a room—despite the gold that lined his pockets from her labour. It isn’t like you need to sleep, my dear, it would be a waste of a good room, he’d mock. Instead he ordered her to keep watch outside like some guard dog.

She didn’t mind the pitiful stares and hushed voices as people brushed past her to their own rooms in the boarding house of Lone Cross. In fact, Marionette appreciated the brief solitude. That and not having to hear her Master’s loud snoring; thankfully dampened by the sturdy wall against her back. The undead woman wondered if she took sleeping for granted when she was alive. Now she was perpetually awake. Sometimes she closed her eyes to mimic those around her but time moved excruciatingly slow. Others also got to dream, which Marionette believed she must of missed.

Marionette had spent the last hour solemnly stargazing. The stars were dotted in the familiar pattern she had observed last night. Yet, the tapestry of glimmering stars had moved slightly west. Marionette had named most of the stars; giving them their own personalities and stories. Some of the stories intertwined, such as Uma—a faded star who was endlessly chasing a brighter, distant star, Ryo, who was surrounded by other stars more dazzling than Uma. Ryo was too caught up with the attention from the stars around him, that he never noticed Uma endlessly chasing him. She wondered if she was chasing him for love, or something more sinister, such as revenge—a scorned lover who lost her shine after the two collided a millennium ago. Marionette felt a sense of connectedness when she watched them gleaming in the sea of black. Sometimes she had brief flashes of doing this when she was younger. Sometimes a woman was by her side, their hands interconnected. Unfortunately for Marionette, she didn’t remember much from before she died. Her memories were fragmented at best, and only appeared in searing, intense flashes when recalled. Marionette didn’t even remember her own name. How pitiful…

The stars were the only semblance of friends that she had. It wasn’t lost on her how pathetic that sounded. She hadn’t got to the point of talking to them, and that allowed her to not feel as sorry for herself. It wasn’t like she needed friends—her Master had made it quite clear that she only had one purpose. You will follow my every word until you succumb to the inevitable. Those words always hang heavily on her shoulders.

The snoring came to a sudden stop, disrupting the closest thing to relaxation for Marionette. Movement sounded behind her, reverberating on her back. The familiar shoes against floorboards. Marionette’s head simultaneously turned towards the door as it opened.

“Gather yourself, my dear—I’m parched!” The warlock, Silas, gleamed as moonlight spilled over his impeccably-dressed, spindly frame. An ornate cane was clutched in his ringed hand. Marionette had observed when they met that the cane was not from old age; Silas’ dark brown skin was eerily smooth apart from the birthmark that creeped from his hairline. His age was one he kept elusive but considering the raw skill and knowledge he possessed about necromancy, she presumed he was older than he appeared. She now knew that one of his legs didn’t work the way it should. It gave him a distinctive walk, even if he did try to hide it in front of others.

Marionette silently said goodbye to the stars as she stood and stoically followed behind her Master to The Cursed Roulette. Marionette knew well enough that they weren’t going there to satiate her Master’s thirst—he was more calculated than that. She surmised it had something to do with the bounty that had led them to Lone Cross in the first place. A wealthy man was offering a ludicrous bounty for his runaway bride that he wanted safely returned alive. On their travels they were informed that she had fled to Lone Cross after stopping in a nearby town.

Marionette just hoped it didn’t end in bloodshed, she didn’t feel like killing anyone today. Blood and dirt was still trapped under her nails after she tortured the man who offered refuge to the woman in the neighbouring town. He refused to give up her location until she moved the third finger.Not that she had much of a choice. It only took one word and Marionette would have more blood on her hands.

There was no redemption for her anymore.

She knew that.

MARIONETTE

coded by xayah.ღ

IV.
EMPEROR

The Cursed Roulette held a complicated place in Wyatt’s heart. A place where he could drown out the self-doubt that plagued him and entwine himself with strangers for a brief yet intense feeling of affection. Yet, it was also home to the place he had spent drunkenly unaware that his parents were being murdered by an unnamed assailant. The undertaker, Damir, had told him that his parents weren’t dead for more than an hour before he stumbled back from The Cursed Roulette.

Clearly you haven’t had enough to drink if you are thinking those things, Wyatt reminded himself. A deft hand downed the fifth (or was it sixth?) amber-coloured liquid from the glass. Fortunately for him, his vampiric status hadn’t affected his ability to get drunk. He wondered if it had something to do with him only consuming animal blood. Apart from a bit more speed and endurance (and the fact he had the complexion of a damn bedsheet) he hadn’t noticed much change in his physiology. Potentially human blood would change that but Wyatt had vowed to never find out. The sheer thought of human blood gave him a confusing concoction of guilt and desire.

He needed another drink.

The Cursed Roulette was more lively than usual, or at least it felt that way, bodies packed closely together. The heightened thumping of hearts around him. The sheen of sweat beading off the dancing townsfolk, their necks glistening, their jugulars pulsed excitedly below the skin. Wyatt closed his eyes in protest, senses overwhelmed, choosing to focus on the empty glass in front of him.

“I’m feeling generous tonight, the next round is on me!” A confident, hearty voice erupted next to him, having strode over with some fancy cane. Cheers and clinking of glasses sounded at the announcement. Wyatt’s ears too sensitive to the noise, fought the urge to coil back into himself. Maybe his physiology was affected more than he thought? Either that or the alcohol was sinking into his bloodstream.

The voice belonged to a rather dashing individual, whose fingers shined with an assortment of gold and silver rings. He placed a hefty bag of gold on the table for the barkeep who was quickly making work of the orders that flooded in.

“Loose lips, sink ships, my dear. Give the cretins some liquor and they will give us some tasty morsels of information for that pesky wife.” His voice low, a cruel smirk curled on his lips. Despite not looking in her direction, Wyatt assumed he was speaking to the woman that idly, yet purposefully, stood behind him. Her nose was broken but it didn’t seem to bother her. He tried to avoid her frightening, narrow death-glare that circled the circumference of the establishment. A steady hand disappeared into the confines of her dusty coat. If he was a betting man, he’d bet it was planted on the gun tucked away on her hip. Wyatt’s eyes almost watered at the smell that radiated from her—one that could only be described as death.

Wyatt wasn’t on duty, his badge placed in his breast pocket, but he decided a keen eye on this pair might do Lone Cross some good. He had asked to exclusively work during the night after that fateful night. The other deputies didn’t even question him, instead they welcomed it. In hindsight it made sense since they all had families waiting for them at home. Unlike you. Not anymore.

Wyatt forced himself to stand, the world spinning for a moment. It was all hitting him at once. Sweet, sweet revenge from the empty glasses that littered the bar. His mission to protect Lone Cross from the shifty strangers was replaced with the goal of dancing. Wyatt stumbled onto the dance floor, dancing among the townsfolk and travellers. He was gleefully unaware as the herbal remedy that coated his skin stained the cuff of his button-down shirt. A ring of stark white skin bleeding through.

Instinctively, Wyatt found himself grabbing ahold of the nearest stranger, pulling them in for a dance. His vision blurred which made it hard to assess what they looked like. Yet, Wyatt didn’t care in that moment. He just wanted to be close to someone. Anyone.

Wyatt gave them an easy smile, not recognising the subtle shifting of his canine teeth. The whittled-down teeth from this morning seemed to sharpen by themselves. The stranger didn’t seem to notice, or maybe shared the same intoxicated inhibition of Wyatt.

WYATT JR. MCCALL

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[birth of venus]

F

ate was found in the most mundane of places - on a shopkeeper's floor. It was the one thing in life Magdalena was sure of, that fate would guide her true on this self-inflicted journey, and all else fell away. A life lived fast and never lonely, Magdalena liked to pretend she found peace and solace traveling across the states over the years, always eager for new sights to see. If she was running, no one else needed to know. That was the beauty of a new country, she reasoned, safety in anonymity. But everywhere she went Magdalena only found herself making comparisons. The land, just like her own home country, was tilled with blood. The stains under her fingernails would not give others pause, as long as she kept moving along. And though the land was strange, she mused that America was similar to Mexico in terms of vastness as well; mountains could choke out the sky in deep valleys, or the sky's blues would flood the empty spaces of open prairies, and budding cities twinkled on the horizons.

Six years away from home yet the years flew by in a hurry. Survival hadn't been kind to her. Dust on her skin, hunger in her gut. Maybe the yankees were a bad influence on Maggie too, only God knew the trouble she was getting up to as of late. The moon was a fat drop of blood splattered onto black skies the night Magdalena stole the watch. A town made up of sun bleached flies and old farmers, she had rolled in looking for a hot meal and spare change for her wares, and yet that lightning that'd strike her veins had led her to stare down the barrel of a gun and scare the owner half to death.

If you asked her, she didn’t start it, thank you very much. Maybe it was the madness of a full moon, or the resigned frustration of six years of only being seen as her skin color. Strange land, indeed. Maggie hadn’t been in town more than two days, trying (and failing) to sell her wares - poultices for joint aches, herbs to chew for rot-tooth, tinctures for coughs and fevers. And the pawn shop owner, well, that dumb gray-faced old man stole her bag right from under her nose, and it was only right to retrieve what was rightfully hers.

In the soft light of the blood moon, she got her property back along with half the register and a curious pocket watch that had fallen to the ground in the scuffle of it all. The man was left teary-eyed and whimpering, handcuffed to a metal pipe in the back storeroom as the moon shone through the warning shot she fired through the ceiling. That wicked curse rose in her with a biblical anger flashing in her eyes. Though Magdalena fought against it with every breath, it kept her keen, kept her alive. In her pockets were a measly few dollars, in her jacket of wares an old watch, and Maggie rode on his stolen horse for four days and four nights - before a voice scared the life out of her.

"You know, robbery really is unbecoming of a young lady,"

the figure of a pale man sat across from her at the other side of the campfire, his hat pulled down low and obscuring his eyes. His words were smooth and deep, spoken with a drawl that betrayed a deep South heritage.

"Santo dios!"

The response was a clatter and crash from the pot cooking over the flames. Wide eyes stared through the orange glow at the strange man, and a revolver replaced the wooden spoon in her hand, raised within seconds. Panic rose in her chest and a humming rang through her ears and down her veins, how had she not heard him? Was he alone? Were they following her this entire time? In a rush, the thought of being found rose with nausea and fear and thoughts of 'I'm not going back home, I'm not going back to fucking San Cristóbal, I would rather die,' and once again she found herself acting before thinking.

Magdalena shot without hesitation. The only sound that lingered was the frightened braying of her stolen horse, and a ringing in her ears that refused to cease.

It did nothing to harm the spirit, of course. A ways behind Hollis was a tree with a fresh bullet hole splitting the bark, a shot that would’ve gone clean through his shoulder. Maggie had already scrambled away until her back hit the bark of the oak tree she had found respite under, hands shaking around the gun as the ringing finally registered. 'A spirit,' she thought, judging by the haze around his edges that she couldn’t quite blink away. And then Maggie was a child again, her mother’s voice spoken against the shell of her ear, breathing the smoke of laurel leaves. 'Do not feed into fear, set your intentions clearly, do not allow them to attach.'

The woman sat up now, steeled and still.

"Not robbery, just got back what was mine is all,"

She spoke slowly across the fire,

"Are you lost? 'Cause there's nothing here for you. I won't stay long, if you're…"

a pause, lips pursed with caution,

"Y'know, buried here. You should have passed over by now."

A deep melodious laugh rumbled from the spirit’s form, windchimes on the breeze.

"Got back what was yours, huh?"

He leaned forward, the fire lighting up the details of his face. The skin was near-translucent, the skull lurking just below the surface.

"That pocket watch belongs to me."

———

A stupid mistake was made in the blue dawn of the next morning. It wouldn’t be her first time dealing with a haunting; now that Maggie was listening, she could feel the thrum of the watch and what it must have contained. The apparition had scared her half to death that night, a vengeful spirit left contained and restless. A wrath with an endless appetite, a spirit she refused to bring along with her. Magdalena stepped barefoot into the river, pocketwatch wrapped with a scrap of her own hair ribbon, and spoke with clear intent. Words charged with magic. In Spanish,

"Te reprendo, espíritu. No me vas hacer daño a mí ni a los demás. Te reprendo. Y como dijo el Señor: "Resistid al diablo y huirá de nosotros". Debes de buscar tu propia paz de otras maneras. Te reprendo."

'I rebuke you, spirit. You will do no harm to myself or to others. I rebuke you. And as the Lord said, ‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you.’ You must search for your own peace in other ways. I rebuke you.'

She wrenched her arm far back and threw the watch with all of her intent. It dropped into the water, and fueled by paranoia, Maggie mumbled wards and protective hymns all the way back up the bank of the river, and smudged herself afterwards just to be safe. A strange wind blew strong across the river’s surface as the woman gathered her things; a strange coldness that ran goosebumps down her arms. Maggie hoped and prayed it would work.

And then, that very evening, a curious discovery: that very same watch, ribbon gone, not even waterlogged, back at the bottom of her knapsack.

"God damn it!"

———

Lone Cross was a strange little town that Magdalena was beginning to find comfort in. Her first few days had been spent inside; the boarding house was more than comfortable, compared to the hard floors of forests or train cars, and Magdalena felt she slept more in a few days than she had all year. But there was a strike of fear as well.

Throughout her nights of travels Magdalena could feel it, just as she had felt it back home in Coahuila, the thrumming of pure energy. Of powerful ley lines with wells of magic. But as she entered the town, it felt less like the rushing power of a waterfall, and more like the frightened anticipation before a powder keg’s ignition. The townsfolk were by far the strangest she had ever seen. Maggie could sense it, could smell the danger present, brimstone and the iron of blood and rebirth. It was hard to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her head as the little witch attended mass for the first time in years. She was always looking over her shoulder, but this was something else entirely. Maybe it was time to indulge her curiosity.

That evening, of all people, Temperance had all but dragged her from her room for a ‘night on the town.’ Maggie wasn’t sure she could say no, and the excitement on the other woman’s face made something wiggle warm and giddy in her gut, of course she relented. Even with the insistence that she hadn’t much to wear, Temperance had worked some kind of magic to help her get an ensemble together. A white blouse draped low on the curve of her shoulders, hemmed with small flowers, and a long layered skirt that kissed the ground with every step. A night out on the town, what could go wrong?

Never had she indulged in such a revelry, but the Cursed Roulette was happy to provide. The saloon breathed a life of its own, encouraging its customers to step into its very own open maw. It was a sight to behold, how freely the alcohol flowed, how freely the women dressed (some so scandalous that Maggie couldn’t help but blush, cheeks poppy red), how the floor shook as the whole room danced in a tizzy. Though the cambion had dragged her there, Temperance was quickly lost to the crowd as she greeted her own friends and guests of her boarding house.

Maggie didn’t mind as she was swept through the currents; she was never alone, after all. Wherever she went, the pocket watch did as well, Hollis haunting her every step. His temper had been whittled down well enough, with so many months of being stuck together, there wasn’t much other choice but for coexistence. Her curse meant luck was never in her favor, but Magdalena rolled with the punches. And with such an eclectic clientele, nobody would bat an eyelash if they saw Maggie talking to herself more than she’d ever talk to any other human.

Now, the woman was parked at the bar, deep into her second beer and tongue dangerously loose. There was a certain buzz to the room that felt… otherworldly. A level of unabashed nature, the supernatural filling in the gaps of the world. Maggie leaned back to observe the crowd, and tilted her head to find Hollis’s hazy form through the chaos.

"This seems more like your type of crowd, eh?"

The spirit was perched against a wooden support beam, not too far away from where the curandera sat at the bar. Arms crossed, leaning back against it, hat tilted down slightly to obscure his face–but it couldn’t hide the sly little smile pulling at his lips. Like there was some big joke only he was in on.

"Once upon a time."

“Mmhm,"

she said, master of mimicry of the American sense of sarcasm,

"'Once', or twice, or who knows how many times, I’m sure."

A cheer erupted from the other end of the bar, hollering about free rounds, and Mag was happy to take her third drink and leave a decent tip as well.

Over the rim of her glass, dark eyes skimmed the crowd, watching the harsh stumble of a desperate blond drunk (‘Some folks just can’t handle their liquor,’) and recoiling at the distant smell of death. Pleasant buzz thoroughly killed, the woman closed her eyes against the flash of nausea, the disgusting familiarity of the smell. A change of scenery was needed, stat. Drink freshly refilled, Magdalena weaved and skirted her way through throngs of people, eyes barely bobbing above the shoulders of others. She debated whether to find Temperance again (she had been promised a dance, apparently) or to slip outside for a breath of fresh air.

Tap me on the shoulder when you reload the gun.

MAGDALENA | the MAGICIAN

location:

the cursed roulette

playing:

interactions:

Hollis, Temperance, & open to all.

 

[Remembrance]

coded by xayah.ღ

XIII.
DEATH

MOOD
Calm Inebriation.

LOCATION
The Cursed Roulette.

INTERACTIONS
Wyatt - idiot

•──────••──────•​

There is a stark difference between how a settlement appears by day and what it becomes at night. When the sun casts its light over Lone Cross, the town feels inhabited but not crowded—an odd sense of tranquility amongst peers despite the ever-present dangers of the West. However, when the sun sinks below the horizon and the people retreat to their beds or into the arms of their loved ones, the small settlement transforms, its hidden fears coming alive in the darkness.

Tonight, Lone Cross seemed more active than usual. Shadows of townsfolk flitted quickly, slipping into the saloon or quietly vanishing behind the doors of their homes. Xaniel walked with languid purpose through the dim streets, his path leading him to a decrepit, worm-ridden house. Flickering candlelight barely pierced through the thin, tattered curtains that hung over the windows, but the familiar hum of evening chatter was absent. In its place were muffled sobs and the occasional soft wail, echoing through the cracks in the walls. Grief clung to the air, heavy and unyielding.

He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the weathered door, each rap a solemn announcement of his arrival. He waited. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing a young man—barely a man, really, with eyes far too tired for his age, and a face marked by weariness that suggested he'd seen more hardship than his years could explain.

"Reverend? Is-a something the matta?" the boy asked, his voice thick with some accent barely masking the strain of uncertainty.

Xaniel said nothing, offering only a quiet glance before stepping past him into the dimly lit common room. The stench hit him immediately—something foul, a mixture of decay and sickness, clung to the air like a thick fog.

"I am here to deliver Missus Whaler’s last rites," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the somber faces of the family huddled together, their expressions etched with the knowledge of what was coming. Death had already entered this house, and now it was only a matter of bringing her soul to sanctuary.

---

Tonight was not like any other for Xaniel. This certainly was not his typical routine. The soul of Ann Whaler, diseased and senile, danced about Xaniel’s twirling fingers with renewed vigor. In his other hand was a note of legal tender, its significance enough to still the panic that gripped her spirit.

“This won’t take long,” Xaniel murmured softly. As he spoke, he exhaled—not just with his body, but with his spirit.

Once, thousands of years ago, he had been an angel of conveyance, a guide of souls. Some part of him still clung to that ancient power, weakened though it was. He breathed out, his essence flowing like a warm breeze, spreading through the paper note. The exchange was brief but profound, as if two worlds—one mortal, one beyond—momentarily brushed against each other. For a fleeting second, the boundaries blurred, and the soul was confined. It ended quickly and quietly.

As Xaniel passed the saloon, the raucous light and laughter spilling from its doors tugged at him, the remnants of Ezekiel Fournier's spirit stirring within. You have got to be kidding. Xaniel’s thoughts were heavy with disdain. There was no conceivable way he would lower himself to partake in humanity’s bastardization of sugarcane.

The body, once named Ezekiel Fournier, still retained its memories. A new tenant was in the house, but it still had the prior owner’s furniture—for the time being. While a new tenant now occupied it, the echoes of Ezekiel remained—like old furniture left behind by the previous owner. Ezekiel himself was still there too, locked away deep within, with no say about anything.

Stepping inside the saloon, the overwhelming warmth and revelry hit Xaniel like a wall. It wasn’t just the clamor of people or the jeers that bothered him; there were things lurking in the shadows. Some born of the One Above, others… less so.

Xaniel approached the bar and placed a quarter dollar on the counter. He thought briefly of how the Angels of the Fundament had spent eons shaping the earth, crafting it to perfection, only for its creations to be reduced to currency.

“A shot of coffin varnish, if you will,” he requested. Moments later, a small glass of nameless, clear liquid was placed before him.

He took a sip, grimacing at the burnt taste of molasses and whatever strange concoctions humanity had added to it. It did nothing to please him. What of it? Perhaps, in this very moment, he would be pulled back to the Pit—to that empty void where he had languished for so long. Maybe it was for the best, to return to the place where power, hope, and future all ceased to exist.

The world he’d found, Ezekiel’s world, had wearied and disgusted him. Given a planet of glories, the humans had clearly worked hard to insulate themselves from everything natural and pure and important, creating a world of their own—a world shabby, small and sad. Let them go. Let them fester. Let them be the gangrene in the wound they themselves had inflicted.

And yet…

Perhaps, after all, he did have the strength to continue.

---

The alcohol slowly worked its way through his system, loosening the tight grip of his weary soul. Not that Xaniel felt any urge to indulge in the debauchery that surrounded him. Instead, it was Ezekiel’s spirit that stirred within him, like a man slowly climbing out of a cellar. Another glass of refined molasses and Xaniel reasserted control.

Seeking escape from Ezekiel’s gradual awakening, Xaniel moved to leave the saloon. To do so, however, he would need to navigate through the twisting, shifting sea of dancers. Whisking through the dance floor, his escape nearly complete, and the saloon doors were just in sight.

That was, until something caught hold of him.

The body reacted instinctively, the spirit and mind acclimating to the sudden threat. Xaniel’s chill reason smoothed the edges of Ezekiel’s panic. He grabbed the stranger's wrist, a motion born of centuries of habit, though this body lacked the trained reflexes. His other hand reached for the back of the stranger’s head—only for Xaniel to pause as his weary eyes fell upon something unexpected.

Fangs. Long, sharp, unmistakable.

Releasing the stranger's wrist, Xaniel’s hand returned to him with a sunburnt shade.

“Childe…” Xaniel said softly, his voice a quiet reassurance rather than a threat. Reason had left the dancing stranger, that much was clear. “What is it you need?”

XANIEL

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Helioflos]

XV.
the devil

☽ MOOD ☾
Mischievous

⛧ LOCATION ⛧
The Cursed Roulette

♱ INTERACTIONS ♱
Emerson Cole – logastellus
Damir Sokolov – noxrequiem

⟣─────────── 𓆙 ───────────⟢​

The stench of sin hung heavy in the air. The crowd was thick, bodies pressing against one another, skin brushing against skin, tensions of all sorts riding high. Voices melted together into a gentle hum of lively noise, laughter and chatter, cries of joy and occasional shouts of anger rising above the din, but not drawing much attention from the horde of people too focused on themselves to listen to anyone else.

A figure flitted between the throng of people, weaving through the assortment of men and women gathered at The Cursed Roulette. His fingers lingered on shoulders and wrists, his body leaning in close to whisper something softly and intimately into pliant minds, before spinning away again, disappearing into the crowd and leaving his victims to wonder whether the whisper had been a figment of their imagination. He skirted around a tall gentleman, brushing their shoulders together just long enough to make the man turn, feeling as first a wave of annoyance crossed the handsome features, before being replaced with a familiar interest. He didn’t miss the way those dark eyes lingered on his waist, but didn’t stop either– that little taste was enough, and he could sense that the man was much too repressed to be tempted into action without a lot of work. He preferred to prey on easier targets tonight.

Ishmael Sterling moved with the confidence of a lion, and the air of a house cat who had finally gotten the cream. It was here, amidst this wide collection of different faces and names, where he felt most in his element. He could sense the desires rising up like quiet voices in the back of his mind– “I wish I could dance like that.” “She’s a right beauty. What I wouldn’t do to…” “I can’t afford to lose right now.”

Spotting a curvaceous young woman, he stepped into her space, just in time to catch her hand as she twirled around. She smiled at him, batting her lashes flirtatiously, and he returned her affections with a sharp-toothed smirk. They danced, feet sliding smoothly over the floor, as Ishmael slowly drew her in close. His nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of her lust, tinged with envy, and the briefest hint of pride hidden within. She was lonely– she’d come here for companionship, and yet she couldn’t help but stare at all the other ladies, their dresses flaring, rosy-cheeked and red-lipped. He tracked her gaze, saw eyes catch and linger on a girl clad in stunning periwinkle fabric and dancing with a handsome gentleman.

He dipped her, and she let out a shrieking laugh of surprise. As he pulled her up again, his lips grazed her ear, and he muttered, “Someone catch your gaze, dear?”

Her face contorted in a pouting frown. Ishmael spun them around so that they both gazed at the… ahem… well-endowed woman, inclining his head toward her with a raise of an eyebrow. “A friend of yours?”

She glanced at him, meeting his stare, and going still for a moment. Her eyes went curiously blank, before she shook her head and answered. “As if! Daisy Barnes is a fat-headed chatterbox, who’d just as often spread baseless rumors as she would her legs. She’s a right temptress. What gall! Stealing another woman’s man…”

Ishmael chuckled, even as the woman went red from embarrassment. She seemed surprised at the words that had escaped her mouth, but he didn’t let her dwell on it.

“I know the type,” he replied, once more leaning in to murmur in her ear. “Take my advice, there’s nothing such ladies hate more than being upstaged. They need the attention, you see. Captivate their audience, and you leave them all alone, while you take the spotlight. Besides… there’s nothing wrong with a little bit of revenge.” He pulled away, moving to the side so that the young woman got a clear view of the gentleman dancing with Daisy Barnes. He let her draw her own conclusions, implying just enough to set her onto the path he’d picked out for her. Sometimes the art of persuasion was knowing when to stop talking.

She nodded slowly, the idea seeming much more appealing to her in the dying hours of the evening, when inhibitions are at their lowest and bad decisions masquerade as daring choices.

“Give them hell, my dear,” he hummed, and spun her toward the pair, watching her stumble slightly, catch herself, and then head decidedly forward. He turned away with a grin. The rest was sure to be a spectacle worth watching, and Ishmael wanted to get a good view. Positioning himself in an out-of-the-way corner, leaning against a wooden support beam, he watched the proceedings with interest. The swarm of people milled around, but he was certain the action would start any moment. Just… about… now!

An incandescent shriek rose up into the air, a hush scattering over the other visitors as they scattered away from the impact center. The crowd parted, and Ishmael was able to view with perfect clarity as Daisy Barnes descended on the young woman, skirts raised high, and cheeks flushed with rage. She raised her palm and brought it flashing down to impact with an ear-ringing “smack” across her opposition’s face.

Ishmael breathed in the intoxicating scent of emotions riding high, his tongue flitting out as though to taste the air itself. In the center of the dance floor, a fight broke out, the two women screaming at each other, pulling at one another’s hair and tearing at each other’s dresses, all sense of courtesy and public image forgotten. The demon chuckled, as the man caught between them tried fruitlessly to tear them apart. Not a moment later, they both turned on him, insults ringing out, before one after another, they headed off with a huff to opposite sides of the room. The crowd began to settle. Such disagreements weren’t all too uncommon, after all. Still, Ishmael was pleased at having staged such a wonderful spectacle. And if he was right about his hunch– and he was; he’d seen the way his dancing partner’s eyes had caught on the other woman’s assets– then perhaps the night would end in a heady mixture of anger and pleasure for both women. The demon smirked. It was ever so nice when things went to plan.

A smile danced across his face, as he stopped at the bar, thin hand wrapping around the smooth surface of a glass filled to the brim with golden liquor. He hadn’t ordered it, and yet the glass had sat there, as though just waiting for him to pick it up. He sipped at it and surveyed the room, the dim light cast from above making his eyes flash scarlet. At his side stood a leather briefcase– it hadn’t been there before. He paused, spotting a familiar face in among the crowd– two, in fact. Well, he reasoned, grabbing the glass with two fingers, it would be rude not to talk to his fine friends.

It was easy to make his way over, and so Ishmael did just that, approaching the pair without much preamble.

“Well, hello there, darling!” He crooned, swooping down to lean his body in against Emerson’s, half-draping himself across the other man, his hand coming to rest at the small of his back. “Now, what’s all this about? Having a party without me, are we?” He tutted. “How very inconsiderate…”

With a low chuckle, he drew away, leaving Emerson be to instead slip into a lounging position on a nearby stool, peering closely at Damir. As he did so, a strand of his chestnut brown hair fell delicately over one eye, giving him a delectably carefree appearance. His glass was set down on the bar, still mostly full of drink.

“Simply jokes, my friends,” Ishmael said, running his tongue over his teeth with a cheeky expression sitting firmly on his face. “What a spirited evening! You, my dear,” he addressed Damir, “Are missing out on all the exciting stuff, sitting and brooding in a corner. I would drag you out for a dance if I didn’t think it would get my arm torn off. Ah, but enough about me.”

He quirked his head, almost pensively. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Ishmael Sterling

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[jones573]

A river of red cascaded in gentle waves down the young woman's neck, her patron's crimson hair smooth and silky where it fell against her skin. The white ribbon sat on the bedside table, where it had been discarded and left behind in the flickering lamplight.

Birdie found a hand grasping at her hip, and took it within her own, pulling it up to cradle against her chest. "How are you doing back there," she asked softly, and got a moan in reply.

The fangs in her neck receded momentarily. "Almost done," the older woman murmured, and then the dull pain was back again. Birdie was always cognizant of the time, in sessions like these.

She wouldn't have staked this particular client, probably- Mrs. Annabelle Moraes was a respected wife to a respected rancher. And perhaps more saliently, she was one of Birdie's longest running clients. They'd built up a certain level of trust, and she didn't think Annabelle would abuse that.

True to her word, the vampire stopped her meal a minute later, and began to lick at Birdies' puncture wound and peppering her neck with small, soft kisses. That became longer, more demanding kisses as Birdie began to turn to face the red haired woman. She could taste her own blood on Annabelle's tongue, something she still hadn't gotten quite used to.

"How much time do we have left," Annabelle asked, long fingers already under Birdie's skirt and skimming up her thigh. She spoke in a lilting southern accent that Birdie found soothing- Her own voice had no particular identifiers, having moved around so often in her youth.

"Not quite that much, unfortunately," Birdie told her. "I'm to be back on the floor soon," she said, stilling her client's hand with her own, and Annabelle sighed remorsefully.

"You seem troubled by more than just that," Birdie noted, placing her hand on her client's cheek with an observant look.

"I just... I hate lying to Mattie like this," Annabelle said of her husband, leaning her face into Birdie's palm and closing her eyes. "He thinks I'm out feeding on cattle, several counties over."

"You should tell him the truth- You are going to have to do as you've told him, regardless of whether you visit me or not, I can only sustain you a little at a time," Birdie pointed out.

"He would be so angry at me," the other woman said softly. "We both agreed when we moved out west- No more human blood."

"Perhaps he would be understanding," Birdie tried to reassure her. "No one is getting hurt, after all."

He would be very understanding, Birdie knew- Because Matthew Moraes was another of her clients. Who struggled with how to tell his wife he had broken their vow not to consume human blood.

"No- He would be so ashamed of me," Annabelle said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes. "He's always had such stronger willpower than myself."

Oh, heavens above, how infuriating. Birdie marvelled at it sometimes- She had gone from killing vampires, to mediating their marital problems.

"Well, you should at least consider telling him the truth," Birdie counseled, leaning forward and grasping Annabelle's hand. "It would make everything much easier, and besides- Think of how much fun the three of us could have together," she added with a wink.

Annabelle laughed at that, and Birdie smiled to hear it.

"Come, let's get you ready to entertain the masses," Annabelle told her, and they both stood from the small bed.

Birdie straightened her light blue shift dress- it had been darker once, but the color had drained from washing- and adjusted the front so it displayed her rather impressive amount of cleavage. Annabelle tied the white ribbon around her neck to disguise the small puncture marks, placing a final kiss there before she did so.

"You can let yourself out the back," Birdie told her, which she didn't really need to say- Annabelle was a well paying enough customer that she was allowed to do so, and always did.

"Until next time," Annabelle said, kissing her on the cheek. The door to Birdie's room swung open with a creak and Annabelle was gone from one moment to the next, vanished into the shadows of the hall like some creature of the night.

With the door open, the noise from the lower level of the Cursed Roulette spilled into Birdie's room- It had always been there of course, loud and pulsing, but it had been easier to ignore with fangs in her neck. She took a long drink from the cup of water on her nightstand, and hid the stake back within its bottom drawer.

She assessed her appearance in the clouded mirror above her small dresser, and pinched her cheeks more than a few times to bring the color back to them after reapplying her lipstick. It was hardly perfect, but in the low light of the saloon, she doubted anyone but Mr. Cole would notice. And he already knew exactly what she'd been doing.

She strolled out into the hall and began down the stairs, swaying her hips slightly to the beat of the music. There was a cheer from a table of regulars when she appeared, and she beamed at them.

"Y'all having a good time?," she asked as she crossed to them, and there was a chorus of affirmatives.

"Not me," one man said grumpily over the din. "Not sure how I'm losing so badly," he complained, gesturing to the card game the group was playing.

"Maybe you just need a good luck charm then, Jefferson," she purred into his ear, to which Jefferson grinned and patted his lap.

"Maybe I do," he replied, and Birdie sat down as indicated with a laugh. She stayed a few rounds with her hands threaded through his hair, the group laughing as she and Jefferson conspired about how to best use the hand of cards he'd been dealt by his friends. Eventually, his fortunes began to look up, and Birdie patted his shoulder.

"I think you are well on your way to winning," she told him, "Or at least- Not losing quite so badly!" The game would continue longer into the night now, and several at the table were already ordering more drinks. "But you give me a holler if you need more luck!"

She danced her way across the floor, her hand passing through another's often as they all twirled about, her brown eyes sparkling in the light of the saloon. Birdie spotted Damir in the corner and waved at him with a bright smile- She ought to go rescue him from her boss, she supposed.

But as she neared the bar to grab a drink first, a man nearly tripped into her as he rushed forward upon hearing of a free drink- She stepped away to dodge him, and bumped up against an unknown woman, shaking dust off the other woman's coat.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, are you all right?," Birdie asked, placing her hand on the woman's shoulder to steady them both. The smell was horrendous, but Birdie disguised her wince when she caught it. She had plenty of experience masking her disgust. Though this, Birdie had to admit, was a bit different than perching on Grindle's knee and pretending he was charming.

 

[noxrequiem]

XX.
judgement

✦ MOOD ✦
wary.

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
Emerson : logastellus
Ishmael: Helioflos

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

As Damir lifted his glass to his lips, the burn of whiskey barely registered against his dulled senses. His hand, pale and calloused, wrapped around the glass with the same ease he might grip a shovel or a weapon. The noise of the saloon was a distraction from the void, and the drink was a reminder that he still belonged, even tenuously, to this world. The irony wasn’t lost on him. A man born between two worlds, both human and vampire, yet belonging to neither. His thoughts drifted, and for a moment, he wondered why he had come tonight. It wasn’t for the company—he had little interest in mingling with the living or the dead. Nor was it for the spectacle, though there was always something grimly fascinating about watching humans lose themselves in their vices. Perhaps it was the growing tension in Lone Cross that had drawn him out from the shadows of the cemetery. The town was on the edge of something, a darkness stirring just beneath the surface, and Damir could feel it as surely as he could feel the cold hand of death.

His contemplation was interrupted by the subtle, yet unmistakable, scent of scotch and expensive cologne drawing near. Damir did not need to turn his head to know who it was. Emerson Cole, the enigmatic owner of the saloon, had a presence that lingered like smoke in the wind, charming and dangerous all at once, and all-too aware of the power he held in Lone Cross. The saloon’s proprietor approached with his usual swagger, the noise of the rowdy crowd mysteriously softening as he came to stand next to the undertaker, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Mr. Sokolov,” Emerson's voice, smooth as polished marble but with the bite of someone who knew how to twist the knife, cut through with a casual sort of mockery in his tone, “what a pleasure to have you here tonight. The mortuary must have been... dull today. I hope you are enjoying tonight's festivities and not causing any trouble with your brooding and painfully depressed... self.”

Damir didn’t flinch. The jab was expected. Emerson liked to toy with him, liked to poke at the somberness that clung to him like a shadow. But the dhampir wasn’t so easily moved. He set his glass down with a deliberate slowness, the clink of it against the wood barely audible over the cacophony of the saloon. For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the swirling crowd, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat. From across the room, his eyes met with Birdie’s. She gave him a quick wave and a wide smile before making her way towards the other end of the bar, while his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer. Finally, with a deliberate slowness, the undertaker turned to face Emerson. His eyes, sharp and piercing like ice on a winter’s morning, met the demon’s. There was an unspoken understanding between the two—both men knew the darkness that lingered beneath Lone Cross. But while Emerson reveled in it, Damir remained its cold observer, its silent judge.

“I leave the troublemaking to those more suited for it, Mr. Cole,” Damir replied in a voice low and gravelly, as if it had been dragged up from the depths of a grave. His accent, a subtle blend of Eastern European inflections, rolled off the words like a cool breeze. His words were delivered without emotion, but there was a sharpness in them, subtle but present, “You’ll find no trouble here. Unless, of course, you bring it yourself.”

His words, dry as dust, hung in the air for a moment before his lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. Damir wasn’t one for indulgence or levity, but there was a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—in his otherwise lifeless expression.

Just as the air between them settled, another presence made itself known, gliding in with a grace and charm that bordered on predatory. The man moved like a snake through the crowd, all smooth edges and sly smiles, a predator playing at being a housecat. Ishmael Sterling, the demon with a flair for the dramatic, sauntered toward them with an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes. He slid up next to Emerson, draping himself across the saloonkeeper’s side with casual intimacy. “Well, hello there, darling! Now, what’s all this about? Having a party without me, are we? How very inconsiderate…”

“Speak of the devil…” Damir muttered quietly under his breath.

He remained still, his expression unchanged, though his eyes flickered with the barest hint of annoyance. Ishmael always had a way of stirring the pot, twisting the energy in the room to suit his whims. Tonight would be no different. Ishmael’s energy was chaotic in a way that both amused and unsettled the dhampir. The demon had a habit of stirring trouble wherever he went, a stark contrast to Damir’s more restrained nature. Still, there was something about Ishmael’s devil-may-care attitude that fascinated him, even if he would never admit it aloud.

“Sterling,” Damir said flatly, barely giving Ishmael a glance. His voice, while calm, held an edge of warning. The two had crossed paths enough times for the undertaker to know that Ishmael delighted in pushing buttons, in coaxing out the darkest impulses of those around him. But Damir was not easily swayed by such tricks. His resolve, like his soul, was carved in stone—cold, unyielding, and unmoved by the whims of demons. “It seems trouble has a way of finding you after all, Mr. Cole.”

“Simply jokes, my friends,” the conman teased. “What a spirited evening!”

Damir didn’t flinch as Ishmael turned his attention toward him, though the grip on his glass tightened ever so slightly when the demon took the seat next to the dhampir uninvited. The undertaker’s jaw tightened as the other man’s eyes inspected him closely, a bemused expression gracing his handsome features. “You, my dear, are missing out on all the exciting stuff, sitting and brooding in a corner. I would drag you out for a dance if I didn’t think it would get my arm torn off. Ah, but enough about me…”

He tilted his head as he peered inquisitively at Damir. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Damir raised the glass to his lips, the faint hint of elongated canines visible in the flickering lantern light as he opened his mouth for a sip, avoiding the other man’s gaze. “My thoughts are worth more than your pennies, Sterling.”

He suddenly became acutely aware of the situation he was in. It was already bad enough to have one devil at your shoulder, but two could only spell disaster; especially when you were closed in, one on each side. His normally well-kept mask of stoicism was beginning to crack ever so slightly, betraying an underlying agitation threatening to boil over.

Damir turned his head, glancing between the two men. His patience began to wear thin, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his pale lips as his dark brows furrowed. “Is there something the two of you need?”

Damir Sokolov

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[blue UP]

solomon black

JUSTICE

T

he mud squelched underneath Solomon’s boots. While the rest of this quaint back alley was dry, he’d found the only wet spot in the entire town. While he hated that his boots were practically slathered in mud, the man who was coughing and choking in the slop more than made up for it. He casually lifted the man in the air by the scruff of his collar, chunks of mud falling off his face. Solomon brought a gloved hand forward and wiped away the bits around his eyes so he could better see. The night was pale and bright, and a thin veil of light painted over all the shadows that lurked around.

“Fuck you,” the guy coughed out. Solomon sighed and lowered him back into the mud, pressing his face hard into the ground below. Not too hard, though. Humans all felt like porcelain dolls with a thin layer of paper around them. Too much pressure and they popped and tore. In that tranquil evening, Solomon wondered when he started making a clear divide between himself and everyone else. The years spent as “The Butcher” surely cemented him as a monster, but one enveloped in rage and passion. This felt more distant and lonelier. A cold detachment like the moon from the Earth—just different enough.

The man slapped Solomon’s ankle, and he lifted his face back up. Shit. He almost killed the guy. Solomon wiped his face clean again. “Okay. Okay. I was counting cards. Come on, man. It’s a victimless crime. No one got hurt.”

“Oh, you hurt someone. And when I tell you he’s much scarier than I am, maybe that’ll mean somethin’.” He flipped the man over and put his boot against his chest. The fellow tried to get his hands around Solomon’s toes or ankles but found them unmovable. Solomon pulled his knife out of its holder at his side. “Alright, I’m not goin’ to kill you or nothin’, but unfortunately, there has to be a reminder that actions have consequences.”

“W-what? What do you mean?” the man stuttered out.

Solomon held the knife tight in his hand. “You’ll see soon enough.”

❇ ❇ ❇​

He reentered the Cursed Roulette to see the room a bit more bustling than it had been. His knife was firmly back in his holster, and his arms and face were wet as if he had just recently washed them. Solomon looked infinitely tired and infinitely alert in equal measure. He moved further into the establishment, intending to sit in his regular spot, in the corner and overlooking everyone. Yet, something felt off in the Cursed Roulette. Had someone let a corpse in here? Solomon rarely thought of himself as that. His body was still intact, and no parts of him would be home for maggots or other infestations. No… something else was lurking in here. Something rotten.

Solomon’s gaze caught Emerson’s, and he unruffled his proverbial feathers. The man was more than capable of handling such a threat. It still didn’t sit well with Solomon. He considered approaching his boss but saw him caught in between two folks with whom he wanted nothing to do. So, he turned his attention back to the ebb and flow of the saloon, catching a stationary object amid a storm. The sheriff’s kid stood there with a person and the preacher. It looked as if the preacher had grabbed the deputy. Now. What was happening here? Solomon doubted a brawl would start between a deputy and a man of God, but the younger man seemed—distressed to say the least. Solomon pushed through the crowd, fighting against the natural movement, his strong arms cutting through them like oars through the water. He then hung next to the duo, like a shadow that smelled of blood and wood wax in equal measures.

Solomon glared at Wyatt’s dancing partner—they were unharmed. Good. The only drinking here was going to be from a cup or Birdie. “Look kid,” he remarked, turning his attention back to the preacher and the deputy. “I’m of a mind to remove you from this establishment. You’ve had way too much.” He then looked at the preacher—a man with his own conflict, but Solomon could not guess what it was. “But, I also don’t want you stumblin’ around on the streets,” possibly getting killed or killing. “So, preacher, could you help me move ‘em? Get him somewhere safe to sober up?”

outfit:

location:

the cursed roulette

tags:

idiot , Remembrance , logastellus

 

[logastellus]

XX.
tower

✦ MOOD ✦
Irked---->Disgusted

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
Damir- noxrequiem
Ishmael- Helioflos
Solomon- blue UP Wyatt- idiot Xaniel- Remembrance

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

Emerson's smirk never left his face as he slowly let his eyes rake over the dhampir's body. Pitch black hair, pale skin that harbored old, new and future scars, thick eyebrows, chapped lips. The dhampir was an attractive male, Emerson would be lying to himself if he said he never imagined himself in bed with the supernatural creature. His nails deep in the skin, yearning to mark and bruise the porcelain canvas to create a beautiful work of art. The demon inhaled the scent of the hybrid his fangs eagerly begging their way out from between his lips. Emerson let his eyes meet with Damirs' once more before listening to what the man had to say. “I leave the troublemaking to those more suited for it, Mr. Cole," the dhampir spoke in his Eastern European dialect, it was smooth as each word rolled off his tongue. "You’ll find no trouble here. Unless, of course, you bring it yourself.” Emerson chuckled his deep voice vibrating through the silent air that still encapsulated the two males "You don't have to be so curt Mr. Sokolov...as the proprietor of this place it is my duty to make sure that everyone is not causing strife in saloon...that includes you." He looked down at the half empty glass of liquor that filled Damirs' slim fingers "Shall we refill that?" He swiftly made eye contact with the bartender and in one quick motion the man leaned over the bar table replenishing the alcohol. "I trust you find our selection of fine spirits to your satisfaction; however, should your preference lean towards the allure of human blood, I would be more than willing to accommodate such a desire, should you wish it." His smirk was starting to form into a sharp-toothed grin until he felt an immense pressure cover half of his body. He lost balance for a short second before regaining himself the look of annoyance immediately coming back like it had never even left. He stifled a grumble when he felt the warmth of a hand on his lower back, letting his shoulders rise and fall he released a long peeved sigh. “Well, hello there, darling! Now, what’s all this about? Having a party without me, are we? How very inconsiderate…” Emerson side-eyed the man leaned against him like a drunkard, he could smell the alcohol mixed with his overbearing cologne, the smell making Emerson want to vomit. "Yes Ishmael how very inconsiderate of us not to include you in a conversation you had no part in to begin with...you must feel--actually however you feel is none of my concern...and if you can so kindly remove yourself from me, the heat in this room is already considerable, and your presence upon me in a setting that is not my own bed may provoke an unfortunate reaction on my part." watching as Ishmael moved away from him and stood next to the dhampir, he straightened his waistcoat before speaking once more "The kind of trouble this one associates himself with is not my forte, he should be grateful I do not have him removed after initiating that little altercation between those two women...I have eyes and ears everywhere and yet he continues to be a nuance for me..." Emerson gaze shifted over to Solomon for a brief moment then back towards the two supernatural men, "Now if you'll excuse me gentlemen...I have other more important business to attend to...any issues and both of you will be removed..." He didn't give them the chance to acknowledge his demand before walking away.

Emerson made his way through the bustling crowd, the air continued to thrum with laughter and raucous conversation, mingling with the seductive strains of a distant band. His aquamarine eyes scanned the lit room, finally settling on his vampire bouncer, a towering figure exuding an aura of quiet menace. As Emerson drew closer, a foul odor crept into his senses, an unmistakable stench that reeked of death and decay, sharp and suffocating amidst the lively atmosphere. It curled around him like a sinister fog, drawing his gaze to the shadows where the bouncer stood, his eyes glinting with something darkly amused. The juxtaposition of the vibrant revelry and the foul miasma unsettled him, hinting at a brewing chaos that threatened to disrupt the fragile balance of his establishment. Emerson swiftly appeared next to the vampire, the creatures size significantly larger than his own, it was something he secretly enjoyed. "Solomon...is there a problem? And this...odor...what. is. it."

Emerson Cole

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[faeriehollow]

The red-haired girl sat on the chair just staring out the window. To say she woke up on the wrong side of the bed has been an understatement. Nothing too out of order came from her routine, yet she found herself simply exhausted. Perhaps the season was dragging her down more than usual. Amelia rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen some of the tightness in her frame.

As the sun hid behind the hill, she finally rose to her feet. She had found a chair in a small storage room caked in dust. It was quite rocky which indicated why it was hidden away, yet she just needed a moment of quietness before beginning the shift. She patted the dust off her skirt with a small sigh. These days Amelia almost preferred to work at night. It was a small source of comfort as she arrived and departed from her shift in the light. Then during the night, she felt just a tad safer surrounded by a crowd like this- even though she knew that the crowd involved some darker individuals. She had her theories, but that didn’t mean that she knew what exactly these people were or that they were correct theories. Just a sense of darkness surrounding them, even the more charismatic ones. There was just a strange feeling that stirred in her gut, but Amelia tried her best not to judge off of it. It could be bad for business after all!

Her boots clicked against the floor as she emerged from the back, offering a gentle smile to those nearby. It was certainly a busy night with the warmth that seemed to vibrate through the air. After waiting a couple of tables Amelia could feel this energy give her step just a little more pep. She fell easily into the routine of chatting with patrons and serving them with a welcoming smile. Of course, there was never such a thing as a perfect night. Loud boisterous voices yelling threats, bad jokes, and even a fight.

“Break it up!”

Her voice boomed over the crowd as she walked by. There were enough others around to break it up anyways, Amelia didn’t need to find herself in the middle of a fight.

“It’s truly not that worth it,”

She chuckled under her breath, making her way behind the bar once more.

She hummed along to the music as she dried a tray of glasses that had freshly been washed. “You look lonely tonight, I think you need to have a drink with me tonight,” Her eyes snapped up as she heard the man in front of her say this. He was an older gentleman and from the rosy glow to his cheeks, she could tell he’s had more than enough.

“I don’t think I do, but appreciate the offer. I’m on the job, but sure you can find someone else of your tastes who is free,”

The dagger strategically tucked in the hem of her skirt would help if someone decided to truly persist, but most knew enough to back off. Another perk of working a night shift was that many people were too drunk by the time she headed home to attempt to follow her.

The Fool

Amelia.

• aaaaaaaaa
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• filler tab!
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  Mood

  
  
  
  

  Tired, but present

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Location

  
  
  
  

  The Cursed Roulette.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  Interactions

  
  
  
  

  Open to all.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Helioflos]

XV.
the devil

☽ MOOD ☾
Amused

⛧ LOCATION ⛧
The Cursed Roulette

♱ INTERACTIONS ♱
Damir Sokolov – noxrequiem
Emerson Cole – logastellus

⟣─────────── 𓆙 ───────────⟢​

The only reaction Ishmael gave to Emerson’s first statement was a provocating wink sent to him as he settled in his seat. He did not fear the saloon owner’s rage– they were old companions, after all, cut from the same proverbial cloth.

"The kind of trouble this one associates himself with is not my cup of tea. He should be grateful I do not have him removed after initiating that little altercation between those two women… I have eyes and ears everywhere and yet he continues to be a nuisance for me…”

Ishmael chuckled, low and throaty. “Why thank you, my dear.” He’d obviously taken the title of nuisance as a compliment– the reaction was genuine.

“I’m glad to see you noticed my little play. What wonderful emotions! You really do attract the most delectable clientele…” His face showcased his enjoyment of his actions, like a man relaying his satisfaction with a great dinner. It was as though the tone Emerson took with him hadn’t even registered. The demon leaned back in his seat, swinging his feet up onto the table with a careless abandon. He was utterly relaxed. “So, what did you think, mon cher? I’m open to critiques, you know, although I must say, I think that was one of my better ones.”

The hostile air emanating from Damir did nothing to dissuade Ishmael, and neither did the man’s scathing comments. Instead, in fact, both seemed to amuse the demon, a spark of delight alighting in his eye. He did not miss the tightening of Damir’s jaw, skilled, as he was, at picking up on the minute shifts of expressions. His eyes strayed down to those beautiful fangs poking out of his mouth, a physical sign of the creature of the night before him.

"My thoughts are worth more than your pennies, Sterling.” Came the reply, and Ishmael let the shiver of something quite different than fear run down his spine.

“Oh ho ho,” he leaned back, that ever-present grin still stretching from cheek to cheek. So, the man had a bark to match his bite. For a moment, that train of thought led Ishmael down a thoroughly distracting path, but he snapped himself back to the moment.

“My apologies, dear Damir.” He practically purred, directly contrasting the other’s use of his surname with this forced intimacy. “I should’ve offered more.”

He could see his words and presence were having the intended effect– Damir was certainly put off, at the very least. His eyes flicked up to Emerson, still standing at Damir’s shoulder. This was his bar, after all, and although Ishmael had no qualms about causing trouble, even here, Damir was no ordinary customer.

His gaze locked on to Damir the moment the man spoke again, tones low, conveying his ever-rising aggravation. “Is there something the two of you need?”

The truth was that Ishmael did not need anything from Damir. What he wanted, well, that was another question entirely. He was a beautiful specimen, after all, and Ishmael had always been one to appreciate beauty.

“Why, Damir!” He questioned, feigning mock surprise. “I did not foresee you’d think so lowly of me. Can I not approach a friend of mine to share a compelling conversation? Must I have an ulterior motive? Or–” He drew out the syllable, “Are you simply so eager for us to leave?”

His brows raised up in inquiring sadness, his mouth jutted out in a pout, his eyes seemed larger than before. With a sigh that ruffled through his whole body, his feet came back down, and he slumped onto his crossed arms, leaning his chin on the back of his palms. His eyes flicked up, watching Damir’s reaction. The theatrics were swiftly interrupted by the stone-cold voice of Emerson, who had seemingly had enough.

“Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen… I have other more important business to attend to… any issues and both of you will be removed…”

With that tempestuous declaration, the other demon strode away without another word and disappeared into the crowd.

Ishmael raised an eyebrow. “Well, what’s got his knickers in a twist? I suppose he was, itching to leave us be. No matter.” His lips curled up. “That leaves us a private moment.”

He tilted his head to one side, leaving his neck exposed to the light, a pristine expanse of skin clearly visible to the other man. “You don’t want my pennies, but perhaps a drink would suit you better.”

With a quick flick of his hand, the glass before Damir filled once more with liquor. Ishmael sighed, and his gaze seemed to turn more serious, his attention focused solely on the man before him. “You are quite an interesting person, Damir. I wonder, why have you come here tonight? What is it you want?”

Ishmael Sterling

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[idiot]

IV.
EMPEROR

A sweet symphony of the stranger’s heart thumping and arteries pulsating hummed in Wyatt’s ears. It was almost hypnotic. Wyatt’s body burnt up, his skin sheen with sweat. A tongue ran over the sharpened teeth, ignoring the metallic taste that swelled in his mouth.

The stranger’s slender neck appeared radiant; a prominent artery coyly hid behind the supple skin. An urge to know what hid beneath became ever-present in his mind. His hand instinctively rose, nails seemed to shift to a point—ready to tear open the flesh-coloured wrappings that held the artery and its intoxicating contents.

Yet his hand became suspended in the air. Wyatt’s reaction was subdued due to the alcohol, blinking momentarily to find a foreign hand wrapped around his wrist. Weary eyes trailed up the appendage until he was staring at the person who was in front of him all along. Yet, this time, he could see them in another light—they were no stranger after all.

“P-Preacher?” Wyatt couldn’t hide his nerves, stumbling backwards, yet compelled to maintain eye contact with Pr. Fournier’s intense gaze. His eyes appeared to be devoid of the kind understanding that Wyatt had grown accustomed to. Still, his eyes had a much needed sobering effect.

Pr. Fournier had been a consistent, if not reassuring figure in Wyatt’s life over the last year. A religious family, his parents were overjoyed when Pr. Fournier wanted to establish a church a few months before their untimely demise. Fond memories of hot summer days with a hammer in hand—his father almost toppling off a ladder, his mother directing Pr. Fournier and his father on the placement of the cross, and freshly made drinks from Temperance after a hard day of labour. He could still remember attending twice a week with his family, shoulders pressed against one another in the wooden pews. He could also remember Pr. Fournier’s kind words at his parents’ funeral. Wyatt made an effort to attend after his parents’ murder but that ended with that fateful night last month. He couldn’t even bear to look at a cross now, let alone attend the congregation.

He had heard the rumours of Pr. Fournier’s health taking a turn for the worst in recent weeks. Wyatt had even made a note of walking past the church at night to make sure he was okay. Rumblings around The Cursed Roulette thought he would not recover and was a dead man walking. Yet, here he was in front of an embarrassed Wyatt, looking as though he had made a full recovery. If he wasn’t utterly embarrassed and intoxicated, Wyatt may of found it odd.

“What is it you need?” The preacher softly spoke, no audible transgression in his tone. Need? Wyatt pondered, but felt the surge of recognition turn his blood cold.

“Nothing. I—uh, seem to have lost myself momentarily. I think Emerson might of ordered some stronger stuff than usual.” Wyatt stifled a hollow laugh, struggling to hide his shame. The realisation of what Pr. Fournier had just witnessed becoming increasingly clear. He was about to attack him. It was something Wyatt would detest with every fibre of his being; he could barely arrest someone without apologising for the inconvenience. Regardless, here he was about to dig his fingers into the preacher’s neck.

When he had groggily woken a month ago; pitchfork by his side under the pale moonlight, lying on a spilled over hay bale with two puncture marks on his neck. Ever since then, he had known there was something seriously wrong with him.

See, Wyatt wasn’t oblivious to the occult and supernatural. Look son, a lotta’ queer things happen in this town. In my lifetime, I’ve seen some things that ain’t natural. Things that I hope you never experience but you have to be ready—yeah? So stop your sulking. Wyatt hated to admit his father was right but unfortunately it was too late. Whatever had attacked him that night had left him changed. He craved human blood. Thankfully, Wyatt prided himself on his humanity even more. That would explain the animal carcasses he had buried in the sand out the back of his paren’t house—their insides hastily scooped out in feverish moments. Tonight however was a major slip up. To Wyatt’s defence, tonight was the only night since he had been turned, that he had openly felt sorry for himself and the drinking hadn’t helped his inhibitions. Usually he skulked in his parents’ home until he was able to see the sun retiring for the day.

“Is that a common occurrence? Losing yourself?” The preacher questioned, or rather interrogated Wyatt. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, muddying the herbal remedy and revealing pale skin beneath. His mind raced with the prospect that Pr. Fournier was aware of the monster he had become.

Fortunately—or unfortunately considering the haste in which the stocky figure parted the sea of dancers—a regular fixture in The Cursed Roulette had left their usual posting in the corner and was gunning towards him. Oh no…now you’ve done it.

In any other situation, Wyatt would gleefully (secretly and nonchalantly of course) welcome Solomon’s company. He had always found the brooding man who settled himself quietly in the corner until ruckus ensued within the establishment as someone rather alluring. His rugged, easy on the eyes appearance didn’t hurt either. He had piqued his interest to say the least, but despite his naivety, Wyatt was woefully aware that if he had ever approached Solomon he would meagrely present him with that bored, uninterested expression he gave others. To say that would crush Wyatt’s ego was an understatement.

“Look kid,” Solomon marked on his arrival. “I’m of a mind to remove you from this establishment. You’ve had way too much.” Wyatt wondered if there was a word that could describe how he felt beyond just embarrassed. He was mortified. “But, I also don’t want you stumblin’ around on the streets. So, preacher, could you help me move ‘em? Get him somewhere safe to sober up?”

The preacher gingerly nodded in response to Solomon’s request.

“I’m sorry…” Was all Wyatt could manage, head drooping forwards in shame. An almost habitual pose from his childhood. His father’s voice reverberated in his head. You are fuckin’ useless, I swear, Wyatt—you need to be a man not a burden. Wyatt tried not to cry, fighting back the burning tears that threatened to prick at the corner of his eyes. Thankfully he won the battle, knowing that despite his sensitivity, if the townsfolk saw him in this vulnerable state they would question his authority—more than some already did. The room had stopped spinning, reality of the situation sobering him up. He just needed to get somewhere quiet. Wyatt’s ears were ringing; a multitude of distant conversations rattling in his eardrums, the music overbearing, and the sound of blood thumping through bodies around him. He couldn’t turn it off—he could hear everything.

Wyatt’s pleading eyes met Solomon’s gaze.

“Can we go somewhere quiet? Please.” Wyatt shared Solomon’s sentiment, wanting to be taken out of this place; especially when he spotted another face joining the fray in the appearance of Emerson. I need to get out of here before I’m sick…

Solomon's usually stoic face contorted into something of quiet empathy for a moment, which caught Wyatt off guard. "All right. Come on, I'll spare you your dignity by not throwin' you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes—this time. But next time, you ain't goin' to be so lucky." The large man then placed a strong, outstretched hand on Wyatt's back while his other hand held his shoulder firmly. So firmly, in fact, that Wyatt was worried any slight resistance might cause him to break something. Solomon eyed the preacher, as if trying to tell him with a glance alone to handle their path between here and a room. A room that Emerson was hopefully fine with them using.

You’ve fucked it once again, Wyatt. Like always. He wasn’t sure if that was his voice or his father’s.

blue UP Remembrance

WYATT JR. MCCALL

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[noxrequiem]

XII.
the hanged man

✦ MOOD ✦
ready for trouble.

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
Amelia: faeriehollow

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

Tonight, The Cursed Roulette pulsed with a wild energy; the usual din of laughter, clinking glasses, and raucous music carried an almost manic edge, as though the revelry had taken on a life of its own. Beneath the floorboards, ancient ley lines threaded through the earth like veins of raw power, their magic seeping up to mingle with the revelry. It was an intoxicating blend—an undercurrent of supernatural force swirling with the chaotic life above, as if the saloon was suspended between worlds.

Hollis could feel the surge of supernatural energy coursing through him, making him more than a mere whisper in the shadows tonight. The magic that pulsed through the saloon, drawn from the earth’s hidden veins, made him more solid, more present, more dangerous. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have to strain to stay visible. He could just exist. It was intoxicating, nearly feeling even the slightest touch of life once again.

But there was something else, too. The calm before the storm. The air was charged with it, lightning poised to strike. He was eagerly awaiting it.

The dead man’s eyes followed Magdalena’s form closely as she slipped into the crowds without so much as a further word of acknowledgement to him, her gait a bit unsteady on account of all the alcohol. He huffed in amusement, that sly, knowing smile still stuck to his face. Despite the constant jabs they exchanged, an undeniable fondness for the curandera lingered in the depths of him, leaving whatever remnants of his heart feeling achingly hollow.

Well, if she was so eager to split off, so be it–there was plenty else here to keep him entertained, and feeling so alive for the first time in a long time, he’d be taking advantage of this night. Even when he could feel something else around the corner…

He pushed himself from his post against the wooden beam, slipping amidst the edges of the crowd lingering near the bar. An older man, clearly inebriated, stumbled forward, cutting Hollis off. The drunkard spoke to the red-headed woman working the bar, his words slurred but his gaze dragging over the woman’s form. He leaned in too close, mumbling with a voice that clung like stale smoke. “You look lonely tonight, I think you need to have a drink with me tonight.”

“I don’t think I do, but appreciate the offer. I’m on the job, but sure you can find someone else of your tastes who is free.” The lady replied with forced politeness in her voice, busying herself wiping down a set of freshly-cleaned glasses.

The smile on Hollis’s face changed ever so slightly, a look of both amusement and something far darker. He slipped behind the man, his boots making no sound against the creaking wooden floor. His presence was an icy chill, enough to raise goosebumps on the back of the other man’s neck.

“Now, friend,” Hollis drawled, his voice as smooth as the whiskey the man had been guzzling, “if you’ve got any sense left, I’d say it’s high time you made yourself scarce.”

The drunk stilled, as if cold air had hit him. His bleary eyes widened as he twisted around to face the shadowy figure looming behind him. He found himself looking into a face partially shrouded by a low-cast hat, yet the glint of the sly smile curling his lips was clear enough—and that smile had a promise in it, the kind that chilled to the bone. Hollis stepped forward, just close enough that his breath might have stirred the collar of the man’s shirt, his smirk sharpening as the man's expression shifted from irritation to an unsteady, uncertain fear. There was something about Hollis, something that spoke of a danger lurking just beneath the surface. Something not quite natural, something otherworldly, and not at all to be trifled with.

“W-wasn’t meanin’ no harm,” the man stammered, his voice dropping to a whisper as he took a hasty step back, his face losing a shade or two of color.

Hollis tilted his head, his smile widening into a grin. “Good to hear, friend. A man ought to know when he’s not welcome.” His tone was mild, but a note of warning simmered just beneath, unmistakable. His eyes flicked over the man with a slow, measured appraisal, like he was weighing something, calculating.

The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded, glancing around as though hoping for an escape. He turned back to mutter some half-formed apology to Amelia before stumbling away in a graceless retreat. Hollis’s smile lingered as he watched him go, savoring every anxious step, the way the man’s shoulders tightened as if bracing for some unseen strike.

A soft chuckle escaped from Hollis’s throat, low and satisfied. He turned back to Amelia, tipping his hat in a fluid, almost theatrical gesture and punctuating it with a sly wink. The man before her was well-groomed and well-dressed, cutting a suave figure. “Sometimes folks just need a good reminding of their manners.”

Hollis Holt

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[blue UP]

Theodora Fern

the hierophant

T

he sunset always made Theodora nostalgic. Maybe it was the mixture of peachy orange, cornflower blue, and deep purple. They were all the colors of Odette’s blanket. She’d sewn it together with the help of a quilter down the way. It wasn’t beautiful, but it expertly fought against the cold. She didn’t know where that blanket was now. Maybe she’d buried her daughter in it. Those hours were a haze for her. She did not cry anymore. That hot tickle at the edge of her eyes announced it might happen, but she suffocated it with a smile. Her body and soul were missing pieces, so she was fine with sewing them back together with the strong parts of her personality.

The night blossomed from the same horizon that the sun had disappeared behind. It didn’t take long for the coolness to nip at her fingers. She stood, sliding her hands down the length of her skirt. Tonight, she was not dressed in her cassock. She hoped she could get a drink at the Cursed Roulette without the eyes of every person in Lone Cross on her. They always asked what she was doing here when they had a perfectly fine pastor. Theodora only tilted her head and applied a smile. She asked if they thought that they’d do better with less of God’s grace in their life? They’d usually quiet after that. Theodora didn’t tell them about her mission. If she took one lesson from Jeanne d’Arce, it would be to keep her mouth shut or be burned at the stake.

So, she pushed through the town, the lights from the windows making her shadow stretch out long and tall. Her hands were clasped in front of her as she did. Theodora’s long brown hair was braided tightly back, and her electric eyes were not hidden behind a smidgen of cosmetics but long lashes that were an awning over the fatigued lines of her eyes. Not that she slighted anyone who wanted to brighten their appearance. Theodora felt so silly trying to apply polish to her cracked visage.

The saloon was louder than the howling winds of the long plains, so she barely heard the creaks and groans of her ascending the wooden stairs to the establishment. She crossed the threshold and paused. There were people from every corner of Lone Cross and then some more. “Maybe this was not the best of ideas,” she said, chuckling. Then, she caught Magdelena moving through the crowd and away from the chaos. Theodora lifted her hand and yelled out to her.

outfit:

location:

Cursed Roulette

tags:

birth of venus

 

[erzulie]

TEMPERANCE, THE CAMBION

From her place at the window she watched as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in muted oranges and purples as shadows lengthened across the landscape. Through the glass, she could see sparrows making their final flights before nightfall, their silhouettes dark against the deepening twilight. The sight stirred something in her – a gentle reminder that the world continued to turn, continued to hold beauty, even when her own had seemed so thoroughly shattered.

Where once a dull ache had replaced the sharp pain in her chest, now even that had begun to fade. Her eyes, no longer rubbed raw and lined red from endless tears, were clear enough to see the world surrounding her once again. She pressed her fingertips to the cool window pane, grounding herself in this moment of stillness. Temperance wasn't quite ready to say she was okay – healing rarely follows a straight path – but she could acknowledge with quiet certainty that she was making progress. In the gathering darkness, that small truth felt like enough.

______

She was swallowed by the crowd nearly as soon as she entered the building. For a moment Temperance was sure that she had unknowingly transported herself someplace far from dusty little Lone Cross. The press of bodies and buzz of conversation washed over her like a wave, bringing with it traces of tobacco smoke, perfume, and the sharp bite of music. Her senses were nearly overwhelmed by it all but she found herself enchanted nevertheless.

The gaming tables drew crowds like moths to flame, with cards snapping against green felt and dice tumbling across polished wood. Laughter rang out, both genuine and forced, while somewhere deeper in the room a piano played something wild and syncopated that seemed to catch at the edges of her consciousness. It was a world unto itself, this pocket of glamor and vice tucked away in their quiet corner of nowhere, and Temperance found herself adrift in its current, carrying her further from the familiar shores of her everyday life.

She could only hope that Magdalena would forgive her for the way she had left her behind. The thought of her guest's face – likely creased with worry – twisted something sharp in her chest. Familiar faces and words of condolence soon took over her senses, each sympathetic glance and gentle touch threatening to crack the fragile composure she had managed to construct. All too soon she was reminded of what she had lost and how alone she felt in a place surrounded by people, their presence somehow making the hollow spaces within her echo all the louder.

Temperance could feel her eyes begin to burn with unshed tears and was quick to throw herself into the sea of dancing bodies. The music swallowed her whole, and she surrendered to its rhythm, letting the wild notes drown out the whispers and the pitying looks. Here in the press of strangers moving to the piano's feverish melody, she could pretend the dampness on her cheeks was merely from the heat of too many bodies crowded close, could blame her uneven breathing on exertion rather than grief. She moved without thought or purpose, seeking only the temporary oblivion found in motion and music, hoping to lose herself in this moment where nothing existed beyond the next step, the next turn, the next beat of the music that pulsed through the room like a second heartbeat.

 

[Remembrance]

coded by xayah.ღ

XIII.
DEATH

MOOD
Dark Dealings.

LOCATION
The Cursed Roulette -> Unoccupied Room

INTERACTIONS
Wyatt - idiot
Solomon - blue UP

•──────••──────•​

Ezekiel shuddered where he lay in the pews of his church, his tear-filled gaze fixed on the thing that leaned between the benches before him. Its face drew closer, and he could feel a hot, sickly emanation against his skin. The features seemed blurred, out of focus—not just with Ezekiel, but with the world itself. That might have been a mercy, sparing him from seeing it fully. But his mind, traitorously, filled in the gaps, sketching in details he desperately wished it wouldn’t.

The creature continued to watch him, a twisted blend of amusement, curiosity, and perhaps... hunger? Ezekiel didn’t want to understand, not really, but he couldn’t help guessing.

It reached out a hand—or was it a claw?—and brushed his cheek with the flat edge of its talons. “Oh, Ezekiel,” it hissed—or rather dripped.

Where once lay an empty space, a terrible brilliance now flared—a glory of fire. Water dripping from the rot-streaked ceiling recoiled, vaporizing in a hiss of steam. The empty church, cold just a moment before, was suddenly ablaze with celestial light. Ezekiel fell to his knees, hands clasped and eyes wide.

“My Lord and my God!” he cried, his voice breaking. “My Lord and God! I do not believe in this demon!” He hated the desperation, but it was all he had left. “I couldn’t have called you, you shouldn’t exist!”

“You didn’t have to believe in me, Ezekiel,” it purred. “You believed in yourself. I like that in you. I want you to keep doing that. But if we’re going to get along, I think you’re going to have to look at me now.”

It touched his eyelids, forced them open. Ezekiel saw it clearly.

---

In any other setting, watching a creature of the night unravel might have been entertaining, but here, all Xaniel felt was pity. Some say there is a devil in all men—and perhaps even in those who skirt the edge of humanity. That sentiment had some truth to it, he mused, surveying the saloon below. There was the man slumped against the bar, pouring back finger after finger of burnt molasses, uncaring that his liver would inevitably fail or that his heart would one day stutter to a stop. Her, right beside him? She encourages the man's drinking, breaking their hearts with the care that a worker has in hammering spikes onto a rail. And though she may never admit to it with spoken words, she thinks it all the time: she adores the way it makes her feel, because men are worthless and she is worth everything.

Even Ezekiel, the pious priest beneath Xaniel's skin, would stand in condemnation of those who faltered in faith, his mind so steeped in righteousness he’d likely consign anyone weaker (and that meant everyone) to the inferno of his convictions. In some twisted way, humanity’s constant rejection of one another tied them together, punishment linking them like chains. Perhaps in the same way Xaniel had been cast out for loving humanity too much, this young deputy too had been cursed for his trust in others.

Xaniel, in company with another whom he didn't know well, helped Wyatt up the creaking stairs to the small, dimly lit room above the saloon.

It was weakness that invited Xaniel into this poor, malformed body. Not a subtle weakness, as some have, but drastic, dramatic frailty—ragged holes that tore into his soul. Such holes start small, of course, and when the rips and tears are tiny, there is little a way in for any aspiring demon. It would be like trying to climb through the keyhole of a door instead of through the threshold itself. But as the holes grow, there are more "points of entry", gateways allowing foreign entities to nestle in close to the weakened soul.

The deputy, in all his misery, had holes slowly ripping open. Although Xaniel would have taken advantage of such weakness, there were contractual obligations that he still had yet to fulfill.

Xaniel guided Wyatt into the spare room, and as the young childe swayed, eyes dull with drink, he knelt beside him, clasping the deputy’s clammy hands in his own.

“Oh, Wyatt,” Xaniel murmured, his voice soft as it wound through the heavy silence, “you must have been so alone. So frightened. So sad.” A flicker of something colder crossed his mind—so pitiful—but he kept it to himself, letting only warmth show in his gaze. “I’m here to help.”

Xaniel turned toward Solomon, offering a faint smile, one reserved for moments when he wished to soften the edges of his presence. “You need not stay any longer. I’m sure you have greater concerns at this time of night.”

XANIEL

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[noxrequiem]

XX.
judgement

✦ MOOD ✦
wary.

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
Ishmael: Helioflos

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

Damir’s pale eyes followed Emerson as the saloon owner disappeared into the throng of raucous patrons, his sharp gaze lingering on the man’s back. As the demon departed, Damir felt an odd mix of relief and apprehension.The situation was a double-edged sword; it now left him alone with Ishmael, which was an arrangement the dhampir found decidedly unfavorable. Now with Ishmael’s focus turned entirely upon him, the air shifted, becoming heavy.

The demon lounged comfortably, his posture a mockery of ease, while his words slithered through the air with that characteristic mischief. “Well, what’s got his knickers in a twist? I suppose he was, itching to leave us be. No matter, that leaves us a private moment,” Ishmael practically purred.

Damir’s thin lips twitched in annoyance, his eyes locking onto Ishmael all cold and calculating while the demon leaned into his insufferable performance. The exaggerated gestures, the faux innocence, and the lingering, too-long looks only served to deepen the dhampir’s disdain. He felt the weight of Ishmael’s gaze, the demon’s amusement dancing just beneath the surface. The flippant remarks and forced intimacy grated against Damir’s already frayed nerves, each word like a nettle dragged against his patience. It was like the demon was daring him to snap.

“You don’t want my pennies, but perhaps a drink would suit you better.” His words dripped with a honeyed innuendo that Damir didn’t miss. The glass in front of him was replenished with an easy flick of the demon’s wrist, but the half-vampire paid it no mind in the moment. His gaze was instead fixated on the way the man before him exposed his throat, tracing the path of the artery that pulsated with life beneath the smooth expanse of delicate skin. It was a brazen and provocative display, no doubt fishing for some kind of reaction. It made his jaw tighten.

Damir could feel the demon’s gaze lingering on him, drinking in his discomfort like a fine wine. He fought against the urge to fidget under the scrutiny, unwilling to give Ishmael the delight of knowing how deeply his provocations affected him.

“You are quite an interesting person, Damir. I wonder, why have you come here tonight? What is it you want?” The question hung in the air. Damir’s fingers tightened around the glass in his hand, not from the temptation of the drink, but as if he were crushing something fragile between his fingers. Ishmael was like a wolf dressed in fine clothing, the dangerous edge never far from the surface. His offer, his exposed neck, the way his eyes sparkled with the promise of trouble—it was all a game to him.

Damir looked away, dropping his gaze to the glass of liquor nestled between long, elegant fingers. “I’m here tonight for the same reason I’m always here. To enjoy a drink in peace.” His words were murmured, losing the razored sharpness they had before. It was the truth, but he felt no peace tonight. Something in the atmosphere gnawed at him, he could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

He raised the glass to his lips, taking a deep sip before turning back to the man beside him, gaze sharp and icy once again as he shed the quiet contemplation from his shoulders. He leaned forward slightly, deliberately closing the distance between them as his eyes bore into Ishmael’s, the brim of his hat casting shadows across his gaunt face. "You ask what I want. But it seems to me that it’s you who wants something. You always do. But I have no interest in striking any deals with you, Sterling.”

Damir Sokolov

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[idiot]

VII.
Chariot

“Mhm. Yeah. That sounds like her, blonde and petite—well where it matters!” The man’s face became redder and blotchier with each drink, his face scrunched up in a roar of laughter. A type of laughter that reminded Marionette of a steam train. A hand slammed into the bar to further cement his ‘genius’. Her Master endured the fool’s nonsense, strategically placing another drink in front of him. Marionette tried to piece together the information between slurred speech and the garbling of other patrons who had flocked to the bar. It appeared the woman had picked up some work as a cattle hand. Marionette surmised this was paid in refuge and food in her belly than monetary payment.

Marionette was becoming frustrated with the shoulders and elbows barging into her; another wave in the endless sea of bodies at the bar. Decidedly, Marionette stepped back, only to collide into another body.

A finger twinged on the trigger of her gun—still concealed by her duster coat—when the woman steadied them both with a hand to her shoulder. Marionette studied the woman who couldn’t have been more of a juxtaposition to her own appearance. Where dirt and grime had become part of Marionette’s complexion, the woman’s skin was unblemished and smooth—decorated with rosy cheeks and lipstick. Lustre and shine had left Marionette’s hair, similar to a horse’s tail; the woman’s was glossy and thick, styled in a way that was meticulously done but appeared effortless to the untrained eye. Marionette pondered if she looked after her own appearance as fastidiously when she was alive.

What did catch Marionette’s attention was the white ribbon beautifully fastened around her slender neck. A similar ribbon, albeit in a shade of red, was fastened in Marionette’s hair. Are you bound to someone or something as well? Marionette wondered.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, are you all right?," The woman asked. Marionette simply nodded, her face stony and unreadable. The woman’s nose didn’t twinge, nor did she appear disgusted by Marionette. A swell of appreciation surfaced. She had become accustomed to the looks of disgust—her body was rotting from the inside to be fair. It became worse the longer since her last digestion of human flesh. Marionette made a point to not do it often, unless she had sustained damage in a fight or if she noticed the way her leg dragged behind her. It kept the inevitable at bay, and whenever she has refused, her Master would force her.

Birdie paused, seemingly waiting for Marionette to speak. I guess that is how a conversation goes, huh. "I don't think I recognise you, darlin'—you new in town?," she asked when it became apparent that Marionette wouldn't offer anything. Marionette couldn’t deny her surprise (which didn’t happen often) when the woman continued speaking. Usually most just gave up and left her be.

"You can call me Birdie," she said by way of introduction. That was a nice name, it fit her well, Marionette decided. Marionette hoped her name given by her Master didn’t suit her, but she hated how much it made sense considering her predicament.

For some bizarre reason—maybe it was the full moon—Marionette felt the urge to introduce herself. It had been a while since she had even spoken. She was afraid her vocal cords were broken and nothing but a death rattle would follow in her attempts.

Marionette’s mouth opened ajar, thankful no cobwebs or dust plumed—

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry, Miss,” Silas cooed, his voice velvety smooth. He had pushed through the crowds to position himself in front of Marionette.

“My companion is a little…slow.” A ringed-hand to the side of his lips as though telling a secret; the word ‘slow’ hushed, but loud enough on purpose for Marionette to hear. He dragged his eyes up and down Birdie, seemingly quite pleased, “you are rather stunning, my dear, I must say. What are you doing in this establishment?” Silas played dumb, as Marionette knew he would be just as aware as her, that considering Birdie’s attire she was someone who brought pleasure—for a price.

"Oh that's quite all right—I've been told I'm a little fast," Birdie joked with a wide grin, clearly not insulted by it. "So together perhaps we can even the other out!"

She blushed just the slightest under Silas' gaze, toying with a lock of dark hair for good measure. Marionette could tell this was child’s play for her—she had mastered this act a long time ago. "I provide entertainment," she started, “and company, for a rather reasonable price." Clearly not shy.

A well-rehearsed, yet intriguing smile spread across Silas’ face as he listened to Birdie. Marionette felt odd. It was the only way she could describe it—her stomach fluttering at the prospect of Birdie introducing herself.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, my dear, but…” A polished boot strode forwards, his ornate cane following, “I think you have enough experience with the dead as is.” He punctured the word, ‘dead’, all-too-knowing apparently. Delicate fingers brushed her cheek, yet Birdie didn’t even flinch. Marionette watched his eyes linger on the ribbon around her neck—an unspoken agreement settled between them. Marionette quelled her mild annoyance that she didn’t understand what he meant.

This time he whispered something into Birdie’s ear, too quiet for Marionette to hear. She wondered if he was speaking about her, but often than not, he had no qualms with telling strangers of her status. In fact, he seemed to relish in it. Yet, the response from Birdie answered that for her.

"Worry about your monsters," she advised serenely, not bothering to hush her voice as he had. "Before you go fretting about mine."

Monster. So, they were talking about her. Marionette’s stoic face cracked for a fraction of a second—a pang of betrayal at thinking Birdie was being kind earlier. Marionette didn’t have the time to consider if she had misread the situation as Silas stepped back.

He offered another smile, yet this one lacked the effort—small and pursed. A telltale sign Marionette had become accustomed to that he was seething below the surface at Birdie. Yet, the glint in his silvery eyes indicated intrigue with her as well.

“Now come, my dear, we have a woman to find.” Unbeknownst to others, it would appear as a request, one that Marionette had a choice in the matter—yet her feet moved on their own. Silas only made it a few steps before he turned back to Birdie, “Oh, and you might want to touch yourself up dear—you look rather pale.”

MARIONETTE

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[Helioflos]

XV.
the devil

☽ MOOD ☾
Disappointed

⛧ LOCATION ⛧
The Cursed Roulette

♱ INTERACTIONS ♱
Damir Sokolov – noxrequiem

⟣─────────── 𓆙 ───────────⟢​

He watched the man’s response with a hungry curiosity. In a way, he almost didn’t want Damir to answer, so that he could watch him think forever, the tension growing every second. But the dhampir did respond, a quiet answer that Ishmael knew immediately was the truth. That was good, they were getting somewhere.

But then, Damir looked up at him, a frigid steel in his eyes.

"You ask what I want. But it seems to me that it’s you who wants something. You always do. But I have no interest in striking any deals with you, Sterling.” The man told him, leaning in so that the distance between them shrunk.

“Ah, now that’s a pity,” Ishmael replied, not moving away. “But nobody can be perfect, I suppose. You’ve got the charm and wisdom to cover for it, at least.” He bit his lip and raised his eyebrows. “And the form too.”

He very obviously let his eyes trail over Damir’s body, then flicked them up toward his face again, returning that closeness of before, their gazes locked. That stare lasted for a moment that seemed to stretch on to infinity, until it finally snapped. Ishmael nodded, and stood up. He would wheedle and persuade, would lie and cheat, but he’d never force someone into making a deal, in this he was honest. It simply wasn’t his style.

“You’re right," he admitted. "I always want something. It’s just how I was made, I’m afraid. But you’re deluding yourself if you think there’s nothing you want. I see past that. I know you ache for something.” He smiled, and somehow, it was the most genuine one he’d given out so far that night. “I just haven’t found it yet. But I will– I always do.”

He chuckled, and propped himself up on the back of the chair he’d previously occupied, jutting his shoulder out in a way that shouldn’t have looked comfortable, but somehow did.

“You know, dragul,” he smirked, and wrapped a curl of his hair around his pointer finger, “If you’re so opposed to my company, I do have a proposition you might like. Perhaps if you’d give me that dance, I’d stop bothering you. Just something to consider.” With a suggestive wave of his fingers, he spun on the heel of his boot. “Ta ta!”

And with that, he slid back into the crowd, leaving the grumpy undertaker behind. He felt a slight exasperation at not striking a deal– though he’d known it was unlikely to happen– but an even bigger delight at having clearly irritated Damir. Who knew, perhaps the man would take him up on the offer. Ishmael would be surprised, but he liked being surprised.

He deftly spun around a dancing couple, and retreated to a familiar corner from where he could see most of the room, positioning himself so that his back was pressed against a beam. With a flick of his wrist, a coin appeared in his palm, and he threw it up, then caught it, threw it again, caught it. He continued the motion, while his eyes scanned around, not focusing on anyone in particular, but just searching.

Now… who around here looked interesting?

Ishmael Sterling

coded by xayah.ღ