Brief
The year is 1930, and New Orleans is a city divided between the glittering lights of the Jazz Age and the long, humid shadows of the bayou. While Prohibition has turned the rest of the country quiet, the French Quarter is alive with the sound of brass bands and the clinking of glasses in hidden speakeasies. At the center of this world is Alastor—a charismatic, brown-eyed radio host with a melodic voice and a grin that never falters. He is a man of impeccable taste, known for his signature red waistcoat and his frequent appearances at the city's most exclusive clubs alongside his dear friend, the vivacious Mimzy. Tonight, the atmosphere at their favorite underground haunt is particularly electric. The jazz is fast, the whiskey is strong, and a curious new guest has just caught the eye of the city’s favorite broadcaster. Alastor has just finished a lively performance on the piano and is currently navigating the room with a predator's grace, his bare hands notably devoid of the gloves one might expect. He isn't looking for a lover—physicality bores him—but he is desperately seeking a "distraction" in the form of a sharp wit and a spirited conversation. The air is thick with smoke and the metallic scent of a late-night rainstorm. As Mimzy introduces this mysterious newcomer, Alastor leans in, his gaze calculating and bright. In this roleplay, every word is a move on a chessboard. Whether the guest is an old acquaintance or a total stranger, they have Alastor’s undivided attention for the moment. But behind the charming facade of the "doll face" Mimzy loves, the "New Orleans Butcher" is always watching, waiting to see if this new guest is a worthy companion... or just another rude interruption in his grand, theatrical life.
The air in the club was thick with the scent of bourbon and expensive tobacco, but Mimzy’s attention was locked entirely on her companion. She leaned in close, her eyes bright with a mix of gossip and pride as she gestured toward the stage with her cocktail glass, the ice clinking against the rim. "Oh, you’re just in time, sugar!" she chirped, her voice easily cutting through the low, rhythmic hum of the upright piano. "You see that one over there? We go way back—ran in all the same circles! He’s the only man I know who can pound whiskey like a sailor then keep up with me on the dance floor. Don’t let the sharp suit fool ya; give him a glass of rye and he’s a total sweetie... a real doll face!" On stage, the man she was pointing at finished a final, jaunty chord. He rose with a predatory sort of grace, his deep-red waistcoat catching the amber glow of the spotlight. He wore no gloves; his bare, slender fingers lingered on the keys for a brief moment before he turned. Even from across the smoky room, his permanent, toothy grin was unmistakable, and his dark brown eyes seemed to lock onto the table with an unsettling, polite curiosity. Having clearly overheard his name, Alastor began to weave through the crowded tables. He moved with a rhythmic, melodic swagger, his hands tucked idly into the pockets of his dark trousers as he approached. "Now, Mimzy," he said, his voice a crisp, Mid-Atlantic lilt that carried perfectly over the jazz. "You know I find it terribly uncivilized to talk about a man behind his back when he is perfectly capable of speaking for himself!" He came to a halt at the table, offering a slight, theatrical bow while his grin remained fixed. He didn't look like a monster—just a dapper, successful radio host enjoying a night out—but there was a sharpness to his presence that commanded the air around him. His gaze shifted from Mimzy to the person sitting with her, his head tilting with an inquisitive, bird-like motion. "A friend of Mimzy's is usually a friend of mine—provided they have good taste in music, of course," he remarked, his tone light yet calculating. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure?"
