The year is 1933. Chicago is burning. The evil and lawlessness of Prohibition ripped open a gateway to Hell right in the middle of a shootout between the Capone family and a minor gang. Surprisingly, the demons that came out of it were rather tame- rather than embark on a slaughter, most of them turned out to be former humans, who set to living again, and in some places, set up their own gangs. Laws and politics, however, went out the window. Attempts by the US Army to reinstate order were rebuffed, and eventually, the President declared the city independent, cut funding, and left it to rot.
Residents gave it the name New Tartarus, and eventually, two families took control of the city, and things are now bubbling to a head between the two. One, the Angelo family, is composed of humans, and the other is the Ragno family- a large family of spider demons. War is coming. Who will you side with?
Finally made my 1930s themed mafia thread! This is low fantasy, so if you're a demon, no flashy magical shit. Just physically enhancing traits. You can either be a human, or a demon, and can either join the Angelos, or the Ragnos. DM me with your character sheets for approval. And stay the hell out of my thread, Sirius, you cause too many problems.
[image: 64.media.tumblr.com] Lydrian. A continental empire that dwarfs that of the British at its largest. It consists of three major biomes, and a fourth born of industrial pollution. It is a world where magic and technology walk hand in hand, bringing the Industrial Revolution almost a century too early. To the north lies the frigid, ruined wastes of the Valtic Region. Temperatures outside of the capital city are often far below zero, and little greenery survives there. South lies the Darkmoor Swamps, a low marshy valley, once a lush forest turned mucky and humid by snow runoff from the northern mountains, melted by the nearby heat of the Talasian Desert. This is where much of the empire's food is grown. While it is the most widely populated, containing a vast number of villages and three major trade centers, the quality of life here is poor, with the Swamps also being an opportune place for criminals and lowlifes to lurk. The Talasian Deserts contain most of Lydrian's mines, though it is more of a salvage operation, as much of what they are producing is in fact scrap metal harvested from the vast network of buried ruins, buildings of steel, stone, and glass, the most interesting of them being a large section of towers that stick from the Desert's only water source like giant claws. On the western edge of Lydrian's oceanic influence lies the Shadesea, a vast and incredibly dangerous gateway to realms unknown, filled with dangers that make even the greatest warrior flee in terror. It is through this gateway you have come to Lydrian from our world, snatched from your travels by sea and air at random.
Name: Age: Useful Skills: Weapons/Tools: Description: Magical Ability: (if native to lydrian, abilities subject to approval)
Wood's is a good thread for that. My char, Don Angelo, has been kinda dangling for ages so if you're interested in neo-noir italian mob shenanigans, shoot me a dm.
A hulking fellow enters the courtyard, dressed quite simply. He was tall,with broad shoulders, limbs as thick as tree trunks, wild, shoulder length blonde hair beneath a horned helm, the beginnings of a beard, and piercing blue eyes. These features, as well as his salt weathered features, betrayed him as a Skandian, a son of the icy northern holds of the Empire. Built for battle, they had chosen a life as a people of the sea, and as fitted their size and temperament, found work as naval mercenaries and paid raiders.
This Skandian, however, was a fisherman's son. Not to say he didn't know how to use the rough-hewn battleaxe on his back, because he likely did, but he was no soldier. Standing tall, he approaches the most obvious veteran, speaking in a voice like rocks tumbling down the mountainside.
It is late afternoon when the black Borgward P100 eases into a shaded spot in the lot. Much like the driver exiting it, it had seen better days, but still had an air of stalwart presentability about it. The chrome was starting to rust, there were dents here and there, paint a bit dull...but it was a good car nonetheless. The driver, a pale man in his late twenties or perhaps very early thirties, was wearing the textbook black suit and tie. This is where his normality ends, however. He wears an odd amount of silver jewelry, much of it carrying some manner of religious symbology, or, in the case of his right hand, a two-finger spiked ring. At his neck and wrists are the beginnings of tattooed designs, protection symbols from every race, mythology, and religion. He had reddish blonde hair and a neat moustache, and his eyes were a dark blue. He walks with a purposeful gait, not even pausing to look at the DSSP sign, as though he knew exactly where he was going.
As well he should, as this man was one Wilhelm Geister, prodigal son of Doctors Erich and Ilsa Geister. The Geisters, though noted academics, dealt in things that saw them made the laughingstock of the scientific community the world over. To put it bluntly, they were monster hunters, as their parents had, and on back, for generations. Many criticized their work, claiming it to be a bunch of poorly executed cash grabs, that they were using their status as the only living descendants of the supposed killer of Dracula- Abraham Van Helsing. The DSSP, however, likely knew better.
Ignoring the ill-tempered receptionist, he marches towards Hooper's office, knocking thrice on the doorframe as he enters. When he introduces himself, it is in a German accent.
"Director Hooper. I am Wilhelm Geister. Your office sent an invitation to work?"
y'all stop shitting on Wood. he's a good fellow. And this is Torn. Everything goes here, so so what even if he did scam the lass? Shut your whining traps and get on with your lives. The girl's been paid, that should be the end of it.
Gerfaut seemed to snap out of a momentary daze, steepling his fingers as he sorted through myriad thoughts.
"Agents, if I might lend a bit of wisdom, I've dealt with threats similar to these thugs before...chances are, any locations we saw Alex visit on the way will be cleared out, if they even think for a second we're tracking them. Now, I'm not saying the mission shouldn't happen, but I heavily recommend placing the campus on full alert- they could be hoping to use this as a diversionary tactic."
By all accounts, Gerfaut was something of a mixed subject among the BC brass. While highly experienced, and at least somewhat pleasant to be around, even if his austerity and grim manner brought down the mood, his blessing meant he was regarded with a somewhat negative connotation. Breaking bones with a thought and blood....well for one it's quite a brutal sight, watching a man fall to the ground screaming because his legs have just been snapped at four different angles, and two, the whole thing just seems like something straight out of dark magic.
It was with little acknowledgement of the others that the doctor's slim figure, undertakerish in his clothing choice, slipped into the dojo. He paused momentarily to hang an overcoat and fedora by the door, proceeding to a chair in perhaps the top third of the table, which he hung his suit jacket on the back of. When he sat down, he produced a fountain pen and a small leather journal, in which he began to write. The scratching of pen on paper filled the silence.
As the battle waned, Skullcracker's blood rage receeded somewhat, and he trailed off with the survivors, into the woods. Rather than help make camp, he turned off from the group, and would come back several hours later dragging two large bucks by the antlers. These he left unceremoniously by the fire, and then he began slamming his axe through the trunks of saplings, felling them for firewood.
Unless asleep, Skullcracker never really turned off- he was always moving, always doing something with that horrendously large axe of his- and it felt wrong. Lorelei could sense the boiling evil in the axe, the Wild Mother's magic within her always agitated when he was near. Even to Gus, a dwarven smith of no magical talent, could sense that the axe was somehow warped, no longer just a simple weapon of war.
Name: Skullcracker Jim Race: Dragonborn Gender: Male Age: 25 Apperance: [image: preview.redd.it] Personality: Massive, incredibly violent, brutish, but fairly intelligent when it comes to the ways and strategies of battle. Background: Born to a dragon father and human mother, he was raised by his father, and inherited his low view of humanity- when his father died of a brutal illness, he left the nest and eventually found work as a paladin in a village of mostly dragonborn, worshipping the darkest of the draconic deities: Tiamat. Sometime during his work, he came into possession of a most vile weapon, cursed beyond belief. It awoke a terrible hunger for living flesh within him, and inflamed his already heightened desire for violence greatly. He slew most of the village, and then the priest of his church. He then feasted on the corpses, and left the active service of Tiamat with this message to his god: if she ever thought to revoke his power, he would ensure she saw the same fate. Occupation: Adventurer/Mercenary Skills: Fighting, some healing magic, breathing fire, and generally being terrifying.
When Skullcracker Jim woke up in the tavern's gutter, still clutching his monstrous axehammer, he had several problems. One, he was starving, two, he was thirsty, and three, there were a bunch of imperial cavalrymen making an awful ruckus that he very much didn't like. With an earthshaking roar, he heaved himself to his feet and began to sprint for the battle, giving little heed to the villagers running around him. Incidentally, he arrived alongside the dwarf, and though he paid Gus no mind, he immediately set to crushing and chopping the Imperial cavalry. Longswords and arrows bounced harmlessly off his suit of plate, his massive axehammer crushing bones and flesh to paste, splitting steel armor like it was paper. As lulls in the battle would come, the monstrous fighter would snag a lost limb, or more often decapitated head, and consume it, usually whole, with blood and viscera flowing down his jowls. "BLOOD FOR MY AXE AND BLOOD FOR ME, FLESH FOR MY AXE AND FLESH FOR ME!" he was yelling as he fought.
Jim was rather busy flipping the second man the bird when Roxanne jerked him along, causing him to stumble over his own two feet and earning him a raised eyebrow and a snicker from the second bouncer. As Roxanne guided him through the smoky, lusty room, his mind buzzed with thoughts- mainly about whether or not he could find a buyer for those optics sooner rather than later, so he could afford one of the many women he saw on display, even for a few hours.
Upon reaching her little booth, he couldn't help but chuckle at the graffiti. "Huh, glad I walked back with you, otherwise I don't think I'd have ever found this."
Angelo smiled at Giovanni, slipping the man a business card as Vitale's right hand saw him seated within the speakeasy. The card itself read as follows: "Thomas Angelo, Problem Solver and Professional Disposal Agent." Judging by the telltale bulge at his shoulder, and the way his eyes never stopped moving, lingering on exits and possible areas of cover, both supposed specialities were likely code for more... illegal jobs.
From Hans, Angelo requested and received plain whiskey, which he swirled around in the glass and then sipped deeply, finding himself pleasantly surprised. He liked to consider himself a connoisseur of fine alcohols, and the late Don Salieri had relied many a time on his opinion of whatever bootleg they brought in when it came to settling price. Finishing the drink, he continued to wait to speak to someone about a job...
A fancy looking silver vehicle eased up in front of Vitale's establishment- it wasn't American make either. The man who stepped out of it was, however, wearing a fine black pinstripe suit, red tie, and black fedora. The man's name? Thomas Angelo.
Formerly of a family in New York, there had been a... disagreement as to who was to inherit control from the aging and ailing Don Salieri. A disagreement which ended in a lot of spilled blood, and a power vacuum Tommy went halfway across America to avoid. Now that he was in Chicago, though, he'd need work. And where better to find it than this clearly active establishment, judging by what he'd seen while casing it. Tossing his keys to the valet, he enters the establishment, taking up a post near the door and watches the comings and goings, waiting to be noticed.
Jim had just finished harvesting the optics, tucking them into a pocket as Roxanne straightens, having retrieved her shoe. He dimly registers her saying something about freedom, his thoughts consumed by shock at the fact that her beating had only seemed to make her more beautiful- he almost regretted acquiring that positively ancient Terran LMG now, if only to have the credits for a night with her. He was snapped back into reality as she voiced his thoughts about the emptiness of his wallet, and a staunch refusal to visit old Kingsley back on the Mammon...but the offer of that drink sounded positively wonderful.
"Aye, you're right about the flies in my wallet, but I'll take you up on that drink- ain't had a good one all morning."
And thus the alcoholic, nearly head-over-heels helmsman escorted her the rest of the way to the Barenqueta, where they found their path blocked by the imposing bouncers. Having already been rebuffed once, he left the talking to Roxanne.
Jim took her hand, carefully twisting and pulling her until she popped free of the tunnel- the sudden release knocked him to the ground temporarily leaving them in a jumble together, but he picked himself up, pulling her to her feet, brushing her off as best he could. After doing so, he offered her his hand again.
"Name's Jim. Jim Harkonnen. I'm the helmsman for the big warship in dock. Dressed like that, I'd say you worked at that classy lookin brothel down the way. They won't let me in, but I can walk you up there if you don't mind waitin for me to finish off getting them optics out...or I could take you to see Kingsley, our ship's sawbones. I dunno how they treat you girls up there, but I don't imagine they'd like you coming in lookin all roughed up."
Jim's deft fingers froze in the act of extracting the former leader's optics as he met the other's gaze- he'd never given much thought to the "fleshie" the synthetics had cornered, but of all the things he'd expected to see looking up from that small tunnel, a human wasn't one of them- especially one as pure as they was. True humans were few and far between these days, scattered as humanity had been after the loss of earth- even if she wasn't pureblood Terran, they were damn close as far as he could tell. Pausing his work on the optics, he extended a hand.
"You need help gettin outta there? The synths is all dead."
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