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    The North

    Within the Northern vicinity of the city the wealthy gather behind meticulously trimmed hedges and high class victorian architecture. The streets are paved with stone, the buildings are made of brick, and the storefronts are brightly lit and inviting. In the North every establishment is made to cater to the rich and the wealthy. Many such places are used to the sometimes peculiar requests of the otherworldly but here there is little that money cannot buy - weather it be illegal or merely looking the other way. Vampires and Dark Hunters are often found upon these Northern streets, their long lives often contributing to their sizable wealth which allow them the luxuries that the North provides.

    What's You'll Find Here

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    St. Pancras Station

    owned by Eve Thorn
    0 employees

    St. Pancras Station

    A historical train station renovated in to a luxury resort-style country club that unites Victorian elegance with contemporary style. Relax in the full-service spa featuring spa treatments, saunas, spa pools with hydro therapy & aqua bar, and relaxation lounges. The club offers many dining and entertainment options including Seven Sisters Lounge, Victoria Bistro, Barlow Gastropub and the formal St. Pancras restaurant as well as boutique shopping and event halls. Join The Chambers Club for a more exclusive entertainment experience.

    Owner Eve Thorn

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    The VooDoo Room

    owned by Ceara Hade
    0 employees

    The VooDoo Room

    The Voodoo Room is an award winning bar that aims to provide an eclectic and exotic atmosphere. The bar is filled with intoxicating liquors and a voodoo vibe to keep you coming back. Their mixologists meet the highest standards with our fantastical themed selections of cocktails and specials.

    Owner Ceara Hade

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    The Witchery

    owned by Rowena Metcalf
    1 employees

    The Witchery

    Dark, gothic, and throughly theatrical, the Witchery is a place to indulge yourself with it's fabulously lavish suites. Whatever room you choose, you'll find glamor, indulgence and luxury. The suites you have to choose from are: the Vestry, Sempill, the Old Rectory, the Library, the Turret, Heriot, Guardsroom, Armory.

    Owner Rowena Metcalf

    Sous Chef Elenore Dorian

SPENCER; me and the devil, walking side by side108.93.10.156Posted On June 27, 2017 at 6:26 PM by ASKAREE

askaree


"Aww, come on, you're leaving?"

"No, I'm taking the long way to the ladies' room," she purrs acidically, the worn leather of the satchel already suspended from her shoulder and bouncing gently against the pleasing curve of a hip as the caramel-skinned woman carves her way toward the shop's equally as weathered front door. She casts not even the barest of glances in the direction of the bulky, heavily-tattooed gentleman who lingers just beyond the blemished wooden slab of the counter, his subsequent and admittedly ill-advised attempts to coax her into remaining there with him met only with the timely salute of a single, choice digit. Whenever it happened to be that Davante chose to grace them with the splendor of his presence, she was going to grace him with a goddamn earful for subjecting her to the parade of presumed ex-bouncer fuckboys that he had recently deemed appropriate to bring aboard their little operation. Askaree was not to be mistaken, though, for on more than a single occasion had she twisted wrinkles into the threadbare sheets of this particular strain of macho douchebag. Alas, mouth-watering though they certainly appeared, especially sans garments, they were more often than not absolute shit when actually taken to the sack. It was much the equivalent of sliding into the front seat of a Ferrari only to discover that a lawn-mower engine lay nestled beneath the hood.

Allowing the door to rattle to a close upon its rusting hinges, the caramel-skinned woman quickly heads north, her trajectory practiced for she had taken this particular route time and time again since arriving in the city. Though her intended destination lay several blocks from the armory, Askaree did not bother to hail any of the taxis that rubbled past her traveling form; the young Egyptian had never found a need for such things, her preference quite heavily skewed towards merely soldiering forth upon her own two feet even in a city as expansive as this.

She arrives at her destination in unquestionably impressive time, the elegant architecture of the building she nears is a stark and nearly shocking contrast to what might have been considered Askaree's normal haunts. Nevertheless does she make her entrance, bypassing the lavishly furnished reception lounge and impeccably ordered nurses station to seek out the room she intends from the vast corridor that lies just around the corner.

He has left his door ajar, as he always did whenever anticipating her arrival, the inviting traces of his cologne lapping cordially against her heightened senses even before she finds him in the foyer of his private suite, perched just so upon one of the room's handful of overstuffed chairs. Time had seen his body wane somewhat, the undeniable heft of decades of strife and struggle having weighed upon his shoulders, though it remained evident even as he stared down the proverbial barrel of his seventieth year that he had once been an absolute beast of a man. His frame still bore traces of the muscular figure that had made him so formidable, and his gladiator spirit had never once faltered. He turns to her then, the hard lines that time and tribulation had carved into his otherwise handsome face bending into the most meager trace of a simper. It was all that he would offer her, it was all he ever did... that and a deep, brusque growl. "'ant muta'akhir." You're late. The lilt of her mother tongue curls sensuously against her waiting ears, her visits with him the only moments in which she is given to hear it anymore. "Alhudu'u, alrajul alejuz. 'anaha laysat mithl kunt tasir fi 'ayi makanin," she snaps in false spite. Quiet, old man. It's not like you were going anywhere. This earns her a grizzled, rumbling chuckle, as he shifts ever so slightly to collect the container with which she presents him. The aroma of the dish she had prepared is very nearly erotic in its allure, a far cry from the tastleless refuse the American chefs dared to call food. But, truly, not a lot was to be expected of the culture that had forced the unsuspecting world to endure the horror that was Cheez Wiz. Fucking food rapists.

Silently does Askaree assume her place opposite him, not a word passing betwixt them as he ate.



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