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Rosalie Hart

"Go ahead, pick your poison, love."

0 · 917 views · located in Utopia NightClub

a character in “Club Utopia”, originally authored by chanelindistress, as played by RolePlayGateway

Description

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Gods & Monsters | Lana del Ray || Dark Horse | Katy Perry || Bedroom Hymns | Florence + The Machine || Shelter | Birdy






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{ Misnomer }
"As if anyone calls themselves by such an old name. Call me Rosalie Hart, and don't ever call me Rosie."
Rosalind Ophelia Antoinette Speckhart

{ Gender }
"They called it the fairer sex, I called it the better."
Female

{ Sexuality }
Pansexual, though she's definitely more attracted to males. Rose is simply fascinated with the female anatomy is all.

{ Species }
Witch

{ Inhuman Appearance }
Along with the fact that her eyes are a glowing icy blue shade and that she stopped aging around the beginning of the twentieth century, Rosalie also has what it is known as a forked tongue, reminiscent to a snake along with a sharp hiss when she is angry.






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{ Personality }

After being married into an upper middle class family at the age of fourteen, Rosalie has made it her life goal to never live without her wealth, pride, and social prestige. Perhaps her magical prowess will never be on the same level as Magnus Bane, but she has been renowned for years for her poisonous concoctions and helpful potions. It's probably surprising that the woman who serves vodka shots and the like is the same who can poison you with a drop of liquid in your system. But all it typically takes, for those who don't know her, is a simple flash of teeth in a seemingly innocent smile and the peek of dimples in her high cheeks, and suddenly Rosalie can do no wrong. She is deceitful in that way, easily playing the role of the sweetheart. Smooth and muscles coiling as if preparing for an attack, Rosalie takes after her biological father in that she can be as smooth and as sneaky as a snake. Her beauty is one of her favorite tools and she oh so loves using it against people. Rose has no problem enjoying the sensual side of life and has no shame when others look at her with disgust. After all, no one truly knows what happens behind closed doors and Rosalie is a lady; she would never tell.

Rosalie can come off as friendly and generally easy to talk to. She likes gathering her allies and always being a part of the crowd, but never the center. No, she doesn't want to be there - anything can happen with all eyes on you. Rather, Rosalie would prefer to be on the outskirts, constantly keeping a watchful eye on others to see the excitement unfold, and at the same time, and to also keep her name out of it. Perhaps this is simply a defense mechanism, a way to shield her own heart from the prospects of getting hurt. But of course, if you bring something like this up, you might find yourself on the receiving end of a not-so-pleasant drink. You see, while it is easy to for Rosalie to seem unsuspecting and sweet, there's always two sides of a coin and Rosalie is as bipolar as they come. Counteracting this easy-going and vivacious side of her is a girl with a sharp tongue equipped with a rather deadly kind of rage. Violent rage or one that explodes at the drop of the dime is simple. Rosalie can never be simple. No, if you have angered her or made her angry, she will never explode or attack you. Not unless you were someone she truly cared about. Anyone else, her revenge is calculated and when you least expect it. It could be months or years later when she gets back at you. And yes, that is petty and childish, but it's who she is. So, most people stay on her good side.

However, it is smart to note that while she does prefer being seen as this charismatic and rather prim woman, Rosalie has definitely built up walls around herself. After a loveless marriage with an adulterous and incompetent man and a romance that would have never been acceptable in the eyes of God and his people, Rosalie still manages to maintain of sort of distance between herself and others. Of course, being her bubbly self at the bar has garnered her a few acquaintances and perhaps a few that she would call friends. However, Rosalie has become quite accustomed to being lonely. It has never been a fun existence, but she would rather it at this point. A part of her is still that innocent teenager who loved the idea of love, and who wants to fall in love. But she buries that behind a cold vanity, oftentimes coming across to lovers as a rather selfish woman with walls too high for her own good. But if there is no one willing to make the climb, why should she waste her time to bring them down?






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{ History }
Rosalind Ophelia Antoinette Speckhart was the result of rape and her mother never failed to remind her of that. Rebekah, herself, had been a beauty in her younger years - tall, curvy yet still slim, pale skin, icy blue eyes, and pale blonde hair like the softest feather. She had prided herself on her looks and snagged for herself a rather accomplished gentleman. And lo and behold that he have such an understanding and forgiving heart after he found his beloved wife ravished and brutalized by a demon. Instead of casting her and the bastard child out, he kept little Rosalie as she would be the youngest of five older siblings and treated her as such. Surprisingly enough, she ended up being his most treasured child. But her mother - Rebekah made it very clear that Rosalie meant nothing but shame to her. So, Rose would spend the majority of her youth trying her hardest to garner her mother's affection; she would become very well read and write just as prettily as her older sisters, she conducted herself accordingly during guest visits and various events in their English town, and she was a rather respectable young woman with her mother's looks. But it was evident that her father was in her and despite having decided to simply not use her magic at all, she could never win her mother's love.

So, Rosalie was rather ecstatic when a marriage proposal came for her before her older sister. The eldest had been married for six months at that point and it was surprising that someone would want the youngest first. But she was lovely and he was charming, so she became Mrs. Rosalie Bennett. But it wasn't as grand as fourteen year old Rosalie dreamed it would be. Daniel, her husband, had heard the rumors of who her true father was and married her simply for appearances; who would be the idiot and not pick the most beautiful and one of the smarter Speckhart daughters? But it had never been about love, not when he had once wooed her with poetry. Their first night together and he raped Rosalie, throwing her down and ignoring her screams for help. It would be after the fourth night of this horrible treatment that her magic would finally spring up without warning, throwing him off. It would be the last time that Rosalie was ever welcomed into his bed. It was also when her dreams died for she believed that if she were able to have a baby - provide her husband with a family - he could grow to care for her, just a little. But because no one discussed to her the setbacks of her true lineage, the stillbirth and her husband's ultimate disgust left her heartbroken.

After a while, a resentment formed deep in Rosalie's chest. Sure, she smiled in her husband's face when they were in public and was still a rather gentle - if you could call her that - creature. But a deep hatred and bitterness had festered up inside of her, prompting her to one of the shadiest parts of her new town to find another such as herself. An older witch. There, Rosalie learned about her abilities. She found that she had an affinity for potions, poisons in particular. And it wasn't long until her husband pushed her to end him. Two affairs with two of her "friends" without a hint of remorse and Rosalie pretty much tortured him with magic before leaving their home; he was left behind with a poison in his system that slowly killed him. If ever anyone wanted to find her, they could only look to one person. And he was with her in the Americas.

It was her brother. Their relationship had been doomed from the start. Being half siblings left the unable to ever truly be together. They never took their relationship any farther than the sibling love that they had, but it was there. It was obvious to anyone around them. But Edward was one of the most important people in her life and why wouldn't she bring him with her when she moved to New Orleans? There, they were one of the richest families in the city. Why wouldn't they? She was a witch that had a pretty good connection with the other witches of the city; some really weren't witches, others actually were. Either way, there was a loyalty in that community. They were charming and powerful. And more than that, Rosalie was happy. For the first time in a long time, she was truly happy. But it wouldn't last for forever. Edward could only stay as long as he was allowed to live and as he told her, he didn't want her to use any magic that could keep him alive longer. He wasn't meant to live like her. After his death, she managed to stay in New Orleans for only a few more years before exploring the rest of the world.

Word of a stronger warlock, a man named Magnus Bane, who was in New York reached her during a stay in Nashik, India. She had heard of him a few times before by word of mouth, but it astonished her that he had decided to settle in Brooklyn. It took two weeks for her to make the decision, but with a coaxed recommendation two years back, she was working at a nearby museum as one of the conservators. She offered to work as bartender at Club Utopia after she met Magnus, got her first home, and well, she hasn't left. So, obviously she's found something here.






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{ Face Claim }
Claire Holt

{ Extra?}
Rosalie's home: first floor, bedroom, private study, rooftop garden.

So begins...

Rosalie Hart's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Magnus Bane Character Portrait: Ignatius Perrish Character Portrait: Rosalie Hart Character Portrait: Trevor Lawson Character Portrait: Dacey Bekam Character Portrait: Errol King
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The streets of Brooklyn were cold and dark that night, the only pedestrians out being the sort that knew how not to lose themselves in a twisting labyrinth of ever narrower, Stygian streets and alleyways. Utopia was waiting for them right around the next bend, forever roaming; the only constant in it's surroundings being the fat, impregnated moon peaking through thick cloud cover hanging overhead.

Magnus Bane's smalt hair reflected the changing neon colors of a human club sign: the words Ecclesia Peccatoris lined in Carmine red, Indigo blue, and metallic gold. This nightclub consisted of a big, tightly packed space that's bare bones resembled that of an ancient church, though that was from design for no church had ever been built on the corner of Amity and Court. Stained-glass windows rose high up in the walls, painting everything beneath them in hues of rose. Darting colored spotlights picked out the blissed-out faces of dancers in the churning crowd, lighting them up one at a time in shades of Amaranth pink, Harlequin green, and Mauve violet. There was a DJ booth along one wall, and trance music blasted from the speakers. The music pounded up through his feet, into his blood, vibrating his bones. The room was hot with the press of bodies and the smell of sweat and smoke and liquor.

He propelled forward, through the dancers; the mortal crowd seemed to part like the sea around the hull of a ship, people looking up to glance at Magnus, then dropping their gazes, backing away out of instinct though they knew nothing of his power or otherworldliness. Something was to be said about mankind and their intuition. On the far side of the room, there was an archway that all of the human club goers seemed not to notice or pay any heed to. Through it a set of stairs led downward, curving away into darkness. Magnus descended steadily, graceful and sure-footed, not worried about slipping on the age-smoothed stones. The air grew cooler the further down he traversed, and the sound of the pounding music faded. The only noise left was the sound of his own breathing, devoid of company save for his shadow thrown, distorted and spindly, against the walls.

The new music bled into his hearing before he ever reached the bottom of the stairs. It had an even more insistent beat than the music in the mortal club. A small cock-sure grin stretched across his face as he entered his Utopia.

Everything was stone, the walls bumpy and uneven, the floor smooth beneath his feet. Huge marble fountains sprayed sparkling water; Electric blue rose petals drifting on the surface. Explosions of color and light burst like cherry bombs throughout the room, nothing like the artificial light upstairsβ€”these were beautiful, effervescent like fireworks that floated on the air, and every time one burst, it rained down a glittering shimmer onto the dancing crowd below. The dancers themselvesβ€”whirling and spinning and clappingβ€”none of them were human.

Even a mortal would be able to sense the nonhuman-ness of the people in the room, the vampires with their pallor and their swift and languid grace, the werewolves fierce and fast. Most were young, dancing close, writhing up and down each other’s bodies. Another explosion of colored light lit up the darkness above them. Metallic drops rained down; catching in their hair and shimmering on bare skin like mercury. Magnus swiped at the silvery liquid that mixed with his hair and skin, painting him in metal as he watched the elated crowd with darkened eyes. The faces of the dancers around him to any human might look vulpine and faintly frightening, but to him they were just darkly beautiful. They were venerable and entranced. The platinum droplets were a mild hallucinogenic, the effect being like that of a cross between ecstasy and mushrooms if it got into your mouth. It was something he had whipped up with the use of some Fae blood, charitably donated of course to cover some old debts owed to him by a Fae lord.

Magnus drew toward one of the fountains in the middle of the room, and sat down on the wide marble edge, leaning over and studying the smooth dark surface of the pool. He could see his own face reflected back at him, his normally yellow cat irises turned an array of fractured colors by the peculiar light in the club like the bright pieces inside a kaleidoscope, his eye makeup smudged like bruises, his hair artfully unkempt. The water shivered apart, his reflection distorting, unrecognizable, the surface broken by a kelpie serpentinely smiling up at him. They were small, and could easily fit in the palm of your hand if you desired to scoop one up...but Magnus knew better, they were all shark sharp grins and razor teeth and like pixies, they had quite the temper. She had an upper body that resembled a human's but her lower half was like that of a seahorse. The incandescent creatures hair spun around her like the filaments of luminous jellyfish as she played with one of the floating blue rose petals, dancing with it like it was her partner.

Magnus turned from her as she swam away and leaned back, his hands braced behind him on the fountain’s edge, his smile like the edge of a straight razor and devilishly wicked. He had done well with his choice of setting tonight, he was pleased with the over all effect. Another ball of colored light burst above his head, scattering silver, drops of the metallic liquid spangling his thick eyelashes. He decided to remain there and study the moving crowd for a short while, watching couples of twos and threes vanish into the shadowy alcoves that lined the walls. There were dozens of these circular alcoves, some armed with small loveseats in a lovely deep shade of royal blue, others with circular velvet beds but they all provided the clubers with a heavy curtain that could be pulled closed to provide a modicum of privacy. It also succeeded in discreetly muffling the pounding music outside, though by no means did it make it inaudible. He felt a pang in his chest, a stab like a knife being drug against the insides of his rib cage. How many years had it been since he had taken a lover? How long had it been since he slunk away to the nearest hiding place so that he might just steal a second alone with someone? A warlocks curse was, you either outlived everyone or they lived just long enough to distort themselves into something unrecognizable.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Magnus Bane Character Portrait: Rosalie Hart Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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Rosalie was very much aware that she was late.

After long hours spent arguing against vexatious partners and investors over something as trivial as the theme of the new exhibit, Rosalie was fantastically disgruntled. Her acrimonious debate earlier in the day lasted longer than she originally anticipated, which caused her to hasten in her movements the second she entered her house. She barely gave herself enough time to truly cool down beneath the scorching streams of water in her shower and even the piquant taste of her small cup of tea could not soothe her anxiety. Only when she later made her way out doors, her heels clicking sharply on the cobblestone pathway leading away from her home, did an inkling tranquility manage to permeate the hard edge of her chagrined countenance.

Tugging the fleece fabric of her coat closer to her svelte frame, Rosalie blew out of a puff of hot air, watching it form a sort of cloud in front of her face before evaporating quickly. The cool air licked at her warm creamy skin, attempting to suck the vibrant heat from her body all for the selfish reason of getting her away from its ever chilly lonesomeness. Not that Rosalie herself was keen on staying out. In truth, on nights like these – when biting winds picked up and the distinct wintry feel began to blanket the city – Rosalie was more inclined to stay indoors, preferably in her home where there was a kettle filled with piping-hot water and tea leaves just waiting to be steeped. Where scents like cinnamon and ginger floated in the air, teasing her taste buds with their warm sweetness and soothing her nostrils with the gentle reminder of home and comfort. But then there were those other nights – the longer nights where she felt even more content and calm beneath pulsing music, writhing bodies, and the scent of sweat and lust just barely suffocating her in that oh so good way that reminded her where she belonged.

Utopia.

Magic tingled in the air she breathed and Rosalie knew without a doubt that it was Magnus’ doing. Despite being a witch herself, she left the entertainment to him. Rosalie was never too keen on accumulating much attention, no matter how truly spectacular his little bursts of power were. She favored the safety behind her bar, which she just arrived to. It allowed her the chance to observe and mingle in her private little vector, not like her job. Speaking of the older warlock, she thought for a quick moment that she saw him, but then changed her mind, opting to head to her favorite spot. The insistent beat of music made her nerves dance, a positively exuberant thrum surging just below the surface despite her earlier discontent and dark disposition. A facetious grin tugged at the corner of her plump mouth and a sliver of pearly-white teeth could be seen behind her full lips.

β€œDidn’t take you as the late kind, Rose,” one of her favorite fellow bartenders jested, his glare light and his shoulders relaxed as he topped a drink. A light giggle managed to escape her and her hair, almost as pale as the moonlight and reflecting the bright neon colors around them, tumbled over her shoulders delicately as she removed her jacket. Her attire for the evening was near reminiscent of what she wore for work and a quick flash of rage flitted across her face before she shoved it deep inside, opting to smile a little brighter.

β€œMy apologies, my love,” she purred in response. β€œYou’re not upset, are you?”

To which he retorted, β€œAbsolutely!”

Another laugh, louder this time, greeted him and Rosalie’s eyes, reflecting the vitreous luster of a fluorite holding the pales of blue shades beneath the ever changing lights, washed over the male. She always flirted with him, always played with the absolutely darling fae whenever she stroked neatly-trimmed nails against the heated flesh of his left arm.

β€œThen I guess I’ll have to find some way to garner your forgiveness, won’t I?” She spoke as she plucked the cherry he meant to use for the next drink out of his hand, pushing it past her succulent lips so that the sweetness finally caressed her tongue. Smirking at the rather captivated look on his face, Rosalie shoved the male away from her section with an absolutely lascivious grin on her face. β€œGo ahead and have a little fun, love. I think I can manage without you.” She said and with a flip of hair over her shoulder, turned to greet the next customer.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Rosalie Hart Character Portrait: Trevor Lawson Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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The repetitive "what can I do you for?" probably should have tugged at some nerve shoved deep within Rosalie's core. But by the fifth customer, her movements around the bar were looser, freer, and more graceful. She appeared deep in her own element, laughing at a few guests who decided to have a drinking competition. Which, on a bad day, reminded Rosalie too much of prepubescent boys at an institution using their parents' hard earned money to see who could chug the most beer. Her nose wrinkled distastefully at the thought of the liquid; she wasn't the biggest fan. No, Rosalie was a woman who appreciated items that held depth. Currently, with that thought in mind, she nursed a glass of Chateau Margaux, a very deep and expensive red wine she found while looking for a few bottles of a requested liquor.

Despite it being a club, Rosalie hardly partook in the drinks that she prepared for the guests. In fact, she surprised herself by actually drinking a few shots of a strong vodka concoction that she had whipped up a few months ago. Not particularly turned on by out-right drunkenness and debauchery, Rose contended herself with the glass of wine, sipping it demurely as two faces she might have seen prior to this night arrive to her little kingdom.

After checking with a few of her more familiar customers, Rosalie's eyes fell on a rather new face. It probably would have been an insult to his ears, given what he was though Rosalie would not have known it herself as she observed him, but his countenance and overall demeanor reminded her of a lost puppy. He seemed unfamiliar and out of place amidst the loud, pulsating music and the rowdiness of the supernatural creatures that surrounded him. Smiling gently, Rosalie set her glass down and grabbed a bottle of beer. Nodding to one of her fellow helpers, she left the safety of the bar, stepping onto the dancefloor. It throbbed beneath her feet, even through the layers of her black suede pumps. She approached the male warily, however, no matter how languid or naturally sensual her walk may have seemed. She shot him a rather charismatic smile, the movement tugging at the corners of her mouth gently.

"You look a little lost, love. I don't believe I've happened upon you once. Care for a drink, darling?" The rich upper crest accent of her ancestors dripped from her tongue like silk, icy blue eyes glowing amidst the flashing neon lights and grandeur of the club. Rosalie extended the drink towards the stranger.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Rosalie Hart Character Portrait: Trevor Lawson Character Portrait: Errol King Character Portrait: Seth Sykes Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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#, as written by CutUp
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Trevor looked around at the patrons of the club, trying to find a werewolf or someone who could help him track one down. Between the hustle and bustle of the clubbers and the music, he couldn't focus on observing whether they're a werewolf or not. "I'm so out of my element." The young wolf sighed to himself.

He was about to go around and awkwardly make small talk with a bunch of strangers in the hopes of getting lucky and finding someone who could help him, but then some very pretty woman came up to him.

"Huh?" Trevor looked behind himself to make sure she wasn't talking to someone else. "Umm, yeah sure. I'm in a club aren't I?" Trevor said as he took the drink from her hand.

"Thank you very much miss." He then flashed her a warm smile. "Oh, my name's Trevor. Trevor Lawson." He introduced himself.

"Yeah, Clubs aren't really my scene." Trevor said as he took a big swig of the drink she gave him. "I'm not much of what you'd call a social butterfly."

"Oh right!" Trevor said when he remembered what he was there for. "You're the bartender right? Maybe you could help me?" Trevor said as he took off his necklace and showed it to the woman. "I'm looking for someone. Well some-two hopefully, but someone is fine too."

"I'm looking for my birth parents. I'm 100% purebred werewolf, so my parents must be werewolves too." Trevor explained. "I was left on the steps of a church when I was baby with only this necklace. Yeah it's pretty cliqued I know."

"Anyways I heard Brooklyn's a hot spot for things that go bump in the night. So I thought coming here would be my best bet to find them, or at the very least a clue." Trevor went on. "So, do you recognize it?"

"If not, could you point in the direction of someone who can?"
Trevor asked as he took another big swig of his drink. "Oh, I've got one more thing to ask you before I stop bothering you. Do you know of any cheap hotels around here?"

"I'm sorry for talking your ear off."
Trevor apologized.

Errol flowed around the club like a gust of wind, never staying in one place. He would spend a few minutes with a couple vampires, and then he'd move on to a few faes, and then to everyone else.

He started dancing and grinding around with just about any female he saw. But he got bored after awhile. He scanned the room to look for a empty table, or at least mooch off someone.

He found one with just some guy in it. Perfect. Errol grabbed a couple of drinks off of a tray that a passing by waitress was taking to a table. Errol started chugging one of the drinks as he arrived at the booth.

Now that he was up close he could see that the guy's a werewolf. Well that's a bit problematic, most wolves don't really like vampires. It's pretty stereotypical.

"S'up dude?" Errol greeted as he just sat down and spread himself out on the booth. "Don't mind if I sit here right? Didn't think you would." Errol said, not giving him a chance to answer.

Errol slid the other drink he grabbed towards the werewolf, as if that would pay for him to sit there. "Name's Errol Isaac Theo King. Or Errol Is The King. I quite like that." Errol said with a sly grin as he took a sip of his drink.

"You're a werewolf right? Of course you are, you're hairy enough to be one. I've got a question for you. Do you like ever wolf out when you're asleep?" Errol asked. "No wait! What about when you're screwing?"

"Wait, when screwing does that count as bestiality?"
Errol wondered. "Or does that make you a furry?"
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The setting changes from Brooklyn, New York to Utopia NightClub

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Magnus Bane Character Portrait: Ignatius Perrish Character Portrait: Rosalie Hart Character Portrait: Trevor Lawson Character Portrait: Dacey Bekam Character Portrait: D. Hugo
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The night bled into day as all the creatures intermingling in the underground club partied well into the morning hours. Ignatius Perrish discovered he had made an unusual contact in the form of a nymph, and left the bar not feeling quite as dejected as he'd of had had he made no acquaintance. Any new contact was a step in the right direction on the search for his family's killer, and if he was being completely honest with himself, he felt a tad less lonely having shared the evening with someone other than his guilty conscience--even if it was only for a short while and at the expense of his coat.

Magnus Bane had spent a socially acceptable amount of time with the ever incorrigible Mr. Bekham before he concluded his own night on the dance floor and ventured into one of the many sealed doors in the backroom of Utopia where a king bed rested with proverbial open arms, waiting to envelop the warlock, inviting him to sleep. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him that evening, more so than it had in a millennium and it had nothing to do with his vigorous dancing. So many questions that vampire had posed, all about Magnus' solitary life style. It felt as if Magnus was made to poke his tongue over a hole where a tooth had once been, reminded of it's absence in a sore fashion. He flopped on the mattress with a doleful sigh, surrounded by a mountain of feathered pillows and lost in the rolling waves of his crimson downy duvet he finally found rest.

There had been heated arguments and passionate elicit exchanges made in Utopia that night, but then again their always were. This was not a place of quiescence even if it acted as some sort of haven to the supernatural society. As the elated and blissed crowd funneled out into the streets with twilight blossoming overhead, dawn fast approaching, there was a sense of excitement over what the next night would offer up. The club would be of a different theme, as it always was, and be in a new location; ever changing like the fads and times around widely the immortal beings. One thing was for certain though, there would never be a dull moment if the High Warlock of Brooklyn was throwing a party. What sensation wasn't plaguing the lascivious clubers however, was the impending sense of doom...they had no idea what was truly just around the corner and what it had in store for all of the mystical creatures of New York.