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thelastvictimFor blindstrike
Jeannette hated coming in to Hell's Kitchen the way she did. Alongside the bottom-feeders and brutes who inevitably come streaming in to fill a power vacuum. It was dirty, and unseemly and above all else, she strove to avoid getting her hands dirty, literally and figuratively.
So her first actions in the borough were legitimate enterprises. She needed somewhere to operate, and turning her single hotel and casino in Las Vegas and beginning the process of making it a small chain by opening the first of several new locations, buying up several properties on the edge of Hell's Kitchen to build the Hotel Nocturne New York.
Reported crime in the direct vicinity of her shiny new 4-star location dropped significantly. Especially after a well-known local pimp staggered into the ER, bleeding from his ears and in a catatonic state, with multiple broken bones.
The banshee had first met the Kitchen's mysterious Guardian Devil on the docks, after she'd crushed the throat of a particularly horrible man before the Devil had a chance to stop her. She'd laughed, and tossed the body into the river while bleeding from at least two bullet wounds at a much slower rate than she should have been.
Tracking her down hadn't been difficult. Her voice was distinctive, and her heartbeat inhumanly slow and faint, and she smelled of moss, damp earth, tastefully faint, and likely exorbitantly expensive French perfume.
Her private suite, difficult but not impossible to sneak into (especially via the roof) had no expenses spared and was a feast of textures. Silk velvet, the softest of leathers, and the enticing, almost vanilla-like scent of old books. The carpet was plush underfoot and absorbed the sounds of footsteps almost completely.
"I normally turn uninvited guests away, my darling demon," came a voice. "You're lucky I'm feeling patient tonight, and willing to entertain." Her accent, French by way of somewhere in Eastern Europe was strong, wrapping around her words without distorting them.
"What can I do for you?"
blindstrikeJeannette hated coming in to Hell's Kitchen the way she did. Alongside the bottom-feeders and brutes who inevitably come streaming in to fill a power vacuum. It was dirty, and unseemly and above all else, she strove to avoid getting her hands dirty, literally and figuratively.
So her first actions in the borough were legitimate enterprises. She needed somewhere to operate, and turning her single hotel and casino in Las Vegas and beginning the process of making it a small chain by opening the first of several new locations, buying up several properties on the edge of Hell's Kitchen to build the Hotel Nocturne New York.
Reported crime in the direct vicinity of her shiny new 4-star location dropped significantly. Especially after a well-known local pimp staggered into the ER, bleeding from his ears and in a catatonic state, with multiple broken bones.
The banshee had first met the Kitchen's mysterious Guardian Devil on the docks, after she'd crushed the throat of a particularly horrible man before the Devil had a chance to stop her. She'd laughed, and tossed the body into the river while bleeding from at least two bullet wounds at a much slower rate than she should have been.
Tracking her down hadn't been difficult. Her voice was distinctive, and her heartbeat inhumanly slow and faint, and she smelled of moss, damp earth, tastefully faint, and likely exorbitantly expensive French perfume.
Her private suite, difficult but not impossible to sneak into (especially via the roof) had no expenses spared and was a feast of textures. Silk velvet, the softest of leathers, and the enticing, almost vanilla-like scent of old books. The carpet was plush underfoot and absorbed the sounds of footsteps almost completely.
"I normally turn uninvited guests away, my darling demon," came a voice. "You're lucky I'm feeling patient tonight, and willing to entertain." Her accent, French by way of somewhere in Eastern Europe was strong, wrapping around her words without distorting them.
"What can I do for you?"
