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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
    1 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

    Iórkæll Dværg

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    The VooDoo Room

    owned by no one
    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 no one

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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

the second is the love of a woman101.191.169.78Posted On May 29, 2016 at 4:59 AM by Rixon Leifsson

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Alexanders hissing command to ‘stop it’ is met with little more than a snort, heated air blasted like smoke into the chill as his hooves finally land back atop the snow and the stallion steadies his pace to a far more comfortable lope. It has become a habit of sorts, to see if he can unseat the man, Frost so far yet to achieve little more than the slightest unbalance and yet, in truth, the equine had never truly tried to throw the man either. It was a battle for another day and another time, after all, Frost was unwilling to place his strength against the Hunters own- just in case he should lose. His small series of bucks no more than Alex has surely come to expect- after all, he does it every time. It takes barely a few strides however for the war horse to settle, his desire for a faster pace sliding smoothly into the mind of the Hunter all the same, Alexander seemingly willing to abide it. The leg pressed against his side sees the stallion, for once, obediently adjust his direction. Frost having slowly become more and more content to listen to the man’s silent instruction- if only because he has come to see the use of it. Besides- he enjoys the challenge of it, the distraction it affords his mind. Sometimes it is simply easier to be a horse and not a man.

Each muscle in his animal form bunches tightly, heavy, powerful limbs thrown forward to extend his own pace, Frost rapidly gaining speed now. Space, true space, was rarely afforded to the horse within the city. Even the forests of the south, vast though they were- were lines with trees. Flat, open expanses were in dramatically short supply and Frost sees little need to waste the one afforded to him now. It is only on the rarest of occasions that the man truly allows any of his animal form to sway him and yet in this single moment he finds himself incapable of resting the urge to simply run for the pure and utter joy of it. His head swings to the side, sending his mane askew in all directions, the stallion very near flying across that open expanse of snow. His speed surprising, perhaps, for a horse so heavy. For several minutes at least Frost is content to keep this pace, leaving Alexander to be blasted by icy wind and falling snow before they hit the edge of a rather large forest. It is here Frost at last slows to a walk, nostrils flaring with the effort, ears pricked forward in exhilaration- surely enjoying everything Alex specifically did not.

He sees no need to offer any conversation, at least for now, merely beginning the steady walk in the direction they needed to go, heavy feathered feet cutting through the snow with relative ease- the equine finding an easy rhythm in his stride, steeling himself for the rather long, long trek ahead. It is only several hours later, when the mutterings of Alexanders mind irritate him, that Frost sees fit to actually ask the Hunter what seemed to bother him so much about Siberia. Such a lecture had progressed, somehow, into Alexander’s assurance that Ghandi was a highly offensive being, the Hunter evidently possessing a rather comprehensive list of past historical figures he disliked. Frost did, on some level, find a genuine intrigue in what Alexander had to say. The Hunter however, seemed to possess a rather expansive memory, detailing his battles with as much care as he detailed his far less intriguing yearlong treks across Persian deserts. For an hour at least, Frost merely questions the man, Alexander seeming to be in a rarely talkative mood (boredom will drive even the best men to talk to their horses), the stallion indulging him until the lack of any further battle stories sees Frost’s own mind wander. The horse content to merely hum ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’ within his mind as he walks. He is, if anything, relaxed, for perhaps the first time, with merely the sound of Alex’s voice and the snow beneath his hooves.

Tell me, Alexander, do you know who actually shot Kennedy?

It is a sudden and abrupt question and yet truly the horse finds himself curious. That Alexander might actually know was an interesting prospect, both ears rotating to face backwards, offering the man his full attention as they continue to walk. It was, he supposed, highly likely Alexander knew something about every line of the song Frost had found stuck in his mind. A break in the tree line, after so many hours of forest, is a welcome reprieve. Frost halting briefly atop the hill, violet gaze cast down to the tiny, ramshackle town below and their recommended resting place for the night. Hmm, he knew they would be here far earlier then Cassandra had said.


It had been years since he had been here, Frost unwilling to revisit the memories now, pressing forward once more to ease his way down the hill and onto the frosted flat below- halted only by the rather wide river separating them from the town. There had been a bridge last time, passing over the wide, ice-filled river. The fractured remains of which billowed in the wind nearby.

We can go around, but it will take hours. It will be dark by then.

If the Hunter however, was determined to continue riding then so be it, Frost capable of seeing in the dark even if Alexander wasn’t. The temperature however, would drop considerably further as soon as the sun dropped. His head shifts, turning to eye the man upon his back with his single good eye.

We can camp here, though there is much less shelter, and travel around it in the morning. Unless you plan to throw sticks in it until it forms a bridge?

A snort of amusement vibrates within him, the history books having detailed the story of Alexander’s determination to cross another river, once, long ago. Frosts tail flicks up at his flanks, assured the man would make no further attempt to cross it now. Even despite Alexanders supposedly legendary determination. That Alex might very well be determined to ride around it, or worse, swim it, had not truly occurred to the stallion despite his capabilities in both areas. Hunters tended to be lazy creatures, why shouldn’t this one be?

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