North

Within the Northern vicinity of the city, the wealthy gather behind meticulously trimmed hedges and high-class architecture. The pristine streets are paved with stone and the storefronts are brightly lit and inviting - for the right clientele. In the North, every establishment is eager 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 - whether it happens to be illegal or merely involves 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 allows them the luxuries that the North provides.

What You'll Find Here

Eternity
The VooDoo Room
The Witchery

we are the sign, we are the wonder


Posted on November 22, 2016 by anastasia romanova
North


Composure in all things, all circumstances, was a matter of some personal pride for the Russian woman as it had been for nigh to a century now. It was a matter of habit as much as it was a coincidence of her pedigree and admittedly privileged circumstance and upbringing. It was a practiced and polished thing far more valuable to her than any scintillating bauble and certainly something of great likeness betwixt her and her maker. The parallels that existed between Anastasia and Alexander were many indeed; however, a stoicism the likes of which was hardly experienced in these modern times was certainly prominent among them. They were, to be sure, a quite magnanimous, impressive pair.

But hers is a compusure that falters in the very minutest of ways with the unforeseen advances of the Englishman before her. She was hardly flustered by the notion of a man attempting to court her, though the act of it was somewhat of a non-occurance as of late. Stoicism, it would appear, was a treacherous and double-edged sword. A tricky thing indeed. But the tide of ego ebbs somewhat in this moment, drawing away from the shore of Anastasia's subconscious just enough so that she may allow him this perhaps singular opportunity to approach her. To allow him to touch her in the manner that he attempts.

"That may be so, but even the brightest metal will rust with time," she quips, verbally joasting him a bit with somewhat of a sly simper upon her lips. A single brow pitches skyward as William's fingers move to entwine with hers in a manner that is paradoxically both tentative and subtly assured. He was indeed bold in his actions, yes... but Anastasia finds, surprisingly, that she rather enjoys it. Easily do her fingers mingle with his own, the flourish of his arm and his insistance that they venture onwards and upwards met with the jovial shaking of her head and a lighthearted proclamation. "Khitryy chelovek." Sly man. With that, she leads him into and beyond the grand foyer of the Witchery and into the labyrinth of lavish hallways that comprise the elegant resort. The Duchess meanders towards her suite without any notable hesitation, her hand resting gently within that of her impromptu companion.

"Wait here," she instructs as she casts open the door to her private quarters, motioning towards an overstuffed sofa placed within the foyer of her suite. Anastasia releases herself from the Englishman's grasp to traipse beyond the scope of his presumably wandering gaze only to return a few minutes later donning an impeccably appointed black cocktail dress and the requisite pair of corresponding pumps. Her hair had been fashioned into a low bun, loose and beautifully-disheveled in a way that appears (but was certainly far from) effortless, a few auburn tendrils freed to frame the stark lines of her jaw. That characteristic compsure radiates from every expertly accentuated curve of the Russian woman's frame as she fixes him with a confident, knowing simper. "Better," she proclaims, awaiting his lead.

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia

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