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#Post#: 20451--------------------------------------------------
New Orleans WIP: Erin Dovan
By: Raven Tepes Date: October 27, 2025, 1:08 am
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“Joe, you ever get the feelin’ we were made for chaos?” she
asked, flicking ash from her cigarette over the edge.
[B]Her brother, Joe Dovan, older by two years but far more tired
by two centuries, sighed from the shadows of the doorway. His
dark coat fluttered in the damp wind like a crow’s wing.[/b]
“No, you were made for chaos. I was made to clean it up after
you.”
Joe’s sigh turned into a low chuckle. “You really are gonna be
the death of me, sis.”
“Already was, love,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder as
the walls began to tremble. “Now come on. Let’s go raise a
little more hell.”
"I’ve fought monsters before… but Erin Dovan wasn’t a monster.
She was a wildfire with fangs. One second she was laughing, the
next she was gone—behind me, beside me, cutting through my crew
like she was dancing to music only she could hear. Every strike
felt random until you realized she’d planned the whole damn
massacre. I don’t know why she let me live. Maybe she got bored.
Maybe she liked the way I screamed."
~ A rival biker who survived.
"I ain’t built for peace or patience. I’m the spark that hits
the gas, the grin before the crash, the laughter in the
wreckage. Some call it madness—I call it living wide open. Chaos
ain’t my curse, it’s my nature, and I wear it like leather and
blood: loud, proud, and unbreakable."
~ Erin Dovan
Enemy: Hold still, you psycho—
Erin: Aww, sweetheart, if I held still you’d already be dead.
Enemy: You think this is a game?!
Erin: Nope. Games have rules. I don’t. [B]Erin vaults over a
table, lands a spinning kick that rattles the enemy’s teeth.[/b]
Enemy: Damn it—stop moving!
Erin: Can’t! Too much fun! [B]She whips a chain around his
wrist, yanks him forward, and slams her forehead into his
nose.[/b]
Enemy: Gah—You’re insane!
Erin: Not insane… just enthusiastic.
[B]He swings a pipe; she ducks, grabs his jacket, and sends him
crashing into a stack of crates.[/b] Enemy: Why won’t you die?!
Erin: Brujah perk. Also— She grins, fangs bared. —I haven’t
finished playing.
Joe: …Erin.
Erin: Uh-oh. That tone says you found the mess.
Joe: I didn’t ‘find’ it. I walked straight into a trail of
broken chairs, three unconscious bikers, and what might be a
tooth.
Erin: Oh! Yeah, that one flew pretty far. Good arc, though.
Joe: Erin, I asked you to keep things quiet tonight.
Erin: I tried. I really did. But then this guy said I couldn’t
handle him. And then he shoved me. And then—well… things
happened.
Joe: ‘Things.’
Erin: Yeah! Like gravity. Physics. My foot. His face.
Joe: He pinches the bridge of his nose. You know I’m going to
have to clean this up.
Erin: You always do! You’re the best at it.
Joe: It’s not a compliment, Erin. It’s my job because you refuse
to think before swinging.
Erin: Thinking slows me down.
Joe: That is exactly the problem. Joe crouches beside an
unconscious biker, checking his pulse. Joe: At least no one’s
dead.
Erin: …That you know of yet.
Joe: He gives a sharp look. Erin.
Erin: Kidding! Mostly. He might need ice, though.
Joe: Stay put. Don’t start another fight while I deal with this.
Erin: No promises.
Joe: Erin—
Erin: She grins. Fine, fine. I’ll behave. For like… ten minutes.
Joe: …I’ll take what I can get.
Erin: Love you too, Cleaner.
Joe: I didn’t say that.
Erin: You don’t have to.
The fight breaks out in a warehouse—shouts, metal clanging,
engines humming in the distance.
Erin: Joeeee! You made it! I saved you a couple to punch!
Joe: I’m here to end this, not indulge you.
A biker swings a crowbar at Erin. She flips backward onto a
crate. Erin: Hey! Indulging is part of the fun!
Joe: He grabs the crowbar mid-swing, twists the attacker’s wrist
until he drops it, then knocks him out with one clean strike.
Efficiency is the fun.
Erin: Boooo. One-hit-K.O. takes the thrill out!
Another two bikers rush them. Erin leaps off the crate, tackling
one mid-air. Joe sidesteps the other and sweeps his legs.
Joe: Your definition of ‘thrill’ usually ends with property
damage.
Erin: She punches her attacker in rapid-fire burst. And your
definition of ‘fun’ is a spreadsheet!
Joe: He catches a punch, breaks the biker’s elbow with a swift
twist. Spreadsheets are reliable.
Erin: So is punching!
She kicks her biker into Joe’s direction. Joe ducks; the biker
slams into a steel beam and goes limp.
Joe: …That was unnecessary.
Erin: You dodged! That makes it teamwork!
A huge biker with brass knuckles charges Joe. Joe: Stay back.
Erin: Nope! She darts past Joe and jumps onto the big biker’s
shoulders, wrenching him backward. He stumbles; Joe steps in and
knocks him out cold with one precise strike to the jaw.
Joe: I said stay back.
Erin: And miss that combo? No way.
Silence falls briefly as the last enemy stands shaking, holding
a chain.
Erin: Mine!
Joe: Absolutely not.
Erin: Too late! She charges, sliding under the chain, pops up
behind the enemy, and knocks him out with a spinning elbow. The
biker collapses.
Joe: You are chaos incarnate.
Erin: She grins, covered in dust and adrenaline. And you love
cleaning up after me.
Joe: …I tolerate you.
Erin: Same thing!
Name: Erin Dovan
Nicknames: Bayou Brat
Age: 235 years old
Species: Vampire (Brujah)
Gender: Female
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 118 lbs
Clan: Brujah
~ Generation: 10th
Family: Dovan
~ Father: Donovan Dovan (Missing In Action/Presumed Dead)
~ Mother: Julia Dovan (Died of supernatural disease)
~ Brother: Joseph "Joe" Dovan (Alive)
~ Brother: Timothy "Tim" Dovan (Killed by Alucard)
~ Sister: Irava "Poison Ivy" Dovan (Killed by Alucard)
~ Brother: Frederick "Freddie" Dovan (Killed by Alucard)
~ Sister: Cheryl "Blood Witch" Dovan (Killed by Alucard)
~ Other siblings and relatives: Up to Players
Theme:
HTML https://suno.com/s/lkkrF3LzHM8WGy8D
#Post#: 20452--------------------------------------------------
Re: New Orleans WIP:
By: Raven Tepes Date: October 27, 2025, 1:45 am
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Background:
Crimson Mischief in the Crescent City
The night air in New Orleans was thick with heat and sin.
Bourbon Street throbbed with laughter, jazz, and the pulse of
mortal hearts—all so loud it almost drowned out the whispers of
the Kindred who hunted among them. Almost.
Erin Dovan leaned against the wrought-iron railing of a
crumbling balcony, her red hair shimmering like fire under the
neon lights below. The green of her eyes caught the reflection
of a passing police cruiser, and she grinned. Trouble was close.
Trouble was always close.
“Joe, you ever get the feelin’ we were made for chaos?” she
asked, flicking ash from her cigarette over the edge.
Her brother, Joe Dovan, older by two years but far more tired by
two centuries, sighed from the shadows of the doorway. His dark
coat fluttered in the damp wind like a crow’s wing. “No, you
were made for chaos. I was made to clean it up after you.”
Erin laughed, low and sultry. “Oh, come now, big brother. Don’t
pretend you don’t enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what?” Joe’s tone was dry as old parchment. “Watching you
beat the hell out of a Tremere in Jackson Square for tryin’ to
sell blood charms to tourists?”
“He lied to me, Joe.”
“He always lies, Erin. That’s what Tremere do.”
“Still.” She flicked the cigarette away and jumped lightly down
from the balcony. Her boots hit the cobblestones with a
predator’s grace. “He had it coming.”
Joe followed, trench coat swirling. “You know, someday, the
Prince is gonna get sick of your antics and put a stake in your
lovely heart.”
Erin flashed a sharp smile, fangs glinting. “He can try.”
They moved through the narrow alleyways, shadows among shadows.
The sounds of the Quarter faded behind them, replaced by the
slow creak of the riverboats and the distant moan of a
saxophone. Erin’s senses stretched outward, tasting the night,
feeling the heartbeat of the city she called home.
Something was off. The air hummed with something older, darker
than the usual vices.
“Joe,” she whispered, “you smell that?”
He nodded. “Blood. But not human.”
They turned a corner and found a small courtyard lit by a single
flickering lamp. A body lay slumped against the wall—fang marks
visible, but the corpse wasn’t pale. The veins glowed faintly
red, pulsing even in death.
“Ghouled,” Joe murmured, crouching. “But drained dry. That’s not
normal.”
Erin crouched beside him, her hair falling like molten copper
over her shoulder. “Whoever did this didn’t just feed. They took
everything—vitae and essence both.”
“Maybe the Tremere’s been playin’ with somethin’ again,” Joe
said, standing. “You did rough him up pretty bad.”
Erin’s grin returned, though her eyes were colder now. “Guess
I’ll have to pay him another visit.”
“Erin…” Joe warned.
She stepped backward, fading into the mist that rolled in from
the river. “Don’t wait up.”
Joe cursed under his breath. “Bloody Brujah.”
She moved through the city like wildfire—passing the Cathedral,
the clubs, the laughing mortals who had no idea monsters walked
among them. She was a storm in a tight leather jacket, all
passion and fury and restless rebellion. The kind who fought for
the thrill of it, and sometimes, for the broken things worth
saving.
By the time she reached the Tremere’s haven—a dilapidated
townhouse on Ursulines—the scent of magic was thick in the air.
She kicked the door open without hesitation.
Inside, the Tremere lay on the floor, eyes wide, throat torn
out. Blood symbols were scrawled across the walls—words she
didn’t recognize, but felt deep in her bones. Something ancient
had answered his call.
Behind her, Joe appeared silently, having followed her as
always. “You had to poke the hornet’s nest, didn’t you?”
Erin turned, green eyes glowing like twin emerald flames.
“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.”
A slow rumble echoed beneath their feet. Somewhere below the
city, something stirred.
Erin smirked. “Looks like we’ve got a new kind of trouble in
town, brother.”
Joe’s sigh turned into a low chuckle. “You really are gonna be
the death of me, sis.”
“Already was, love,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder as
the walls began to tremble. “Now come on. Let’s go raise a
little more hell.”
And as the night split open with ancient whispers and rising
power, Erin Dovan, the red-haired Brujah of New Orleans, laughed
into the chaos—because for her, there was no better sound than
the world coming undone.
Chapter 2: The Blood Below
The following night, New Orleans felt wrong.
The humidity clung too close, the laughter in the Quarter
sounded a shade too manic, and even the jazz carried a note of
discord. Erin perched on the edge of a rooftop overlooking the
Mississippi, her eyes scanning the darkness like a hawk scenting
prey.
Joe stood behind her, arms folded. “You’ve been quiet for an
entire minute. That’s rarely a good omen.”
“I’m listenin’,” she said, voice soft but edged with tension.
“There’s something alive down there—under the streets. Not
Kindred. Not mortal. It feels like…” she frowned, “…earthfire.”
Joe tilted his head. “You mean the old wards? The ones under the
French Quarter? The Tremere used to talk about ‘sleeping veins’
beneath the city.”
“Maybe. Or maybe our dear dead sorcerer poked a hole in
something he couldn’t control.”
Before Joe could reply, the riverboats’ horns wailed across the
night—long, low, and mournful. But there was something wrong
with the sound. A second tone followed it, lower, almost
vibrating through the ground.
Erin stood. “That’s it. That’s the sound I heard last night
before the ghoul’s heart gave out.”
Joe groaned. “You really want to go looking for whatever’s
making that?”
She flashed her wicked grin. “Naturally.”
The two descended through the Quarter’s maze of backstreets
until they reached Chartres Street, where the Tremere’s haven
still stood—now cordoned off by the city’s “special cleanup
crew.” The scent of blood and burnt magic lingered thick as
molasses.
Erin crouched near the drain in the courtyard, brushing aside a
patch of broken sigils. The cobblestone was cr@cked, a faint
reddish glow bleeding from beneath.
“There,” she said. “He opened a gate.”
Joe knelt beside her. “To what?”
Before she could answer, the ground shook—and a ripple of dark
crimson light spread out from the fissure, painting the walls
with writhing shadows. The air filled with whispers.
Erin drew back, fangs flashing. “Joe… that’s not Tremere magic.”
He drew his blade—a short, wicked-looking saber from his old
cavalry days. “Then whose is it?”
A voice answered from the darkness, soft and amused.
“Mine.”
From the crack rose a figure—tall, pale, dressed in tattered
finery from another age. His eyes gleamed like molten gold.
Erin hissed, ready to strike. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The figure smiled, showing teeth too sharp for humanity.
“Neither are you, little Brujah. But I remember your bloodline.
I remember your sire.”
Erin’s grin faltered. “You’re lying.”
“Oh no,” the stranger said, stepping closer. “Your sire once
tried to wake me. He failed. You, on the other hand, might just
succeed.”
Joe stepped between them. “Who the hell are you?”
The being tilted his head. “Once, they called me Malachai of the
Deep Blood. You can call me—your reckoning.”
And with that, the earth split wide, and the Dovan siblings were
thrown back as a wave of red fire erupted from below.
Chapter 3: Bloodlines and Betrayal
New Orleans bled through the cr@cks.
The streetlamps flickered with every pulse from the ground, and
the smell of ozone mixed with rot. Erin stumbled against a wall,
coughing up ash though she hadn’t needed to breathe in two
centuries. Joe caught her by the shoulder, steadying her as the
tremors faded.
When silence finally returned, it wasn’t comforting — it was
watchful.
“Bloody hell,” Joe muttered, surveying the ruin of the
courtyard. “You sure you didn’t just wake the devil himself?”
Erin grinned, though her eyes glimmered with something between
awe and fear. “Not unless the devil wears lace and quotes
poetry, Joe.”
“Don’t joke. That thing—Malachai, was it?—you felt his aura.
He’s not Kindred. Not as we are.”
Erin rubbed her temples, trying to shake the lingering hum in
her skull. “No. He’s… older. Feels like vitae, but twisted.
Cold. Ancient, like the blood remembers him but doesn’t want
to.”
Joe’s gaze darkened. “Which means your sire probably wasn’t just
some rebel Brujah with a cause. He might’ve been part of
something much worse.”
Erin’s smirk faded completely. “You saying Maelis lied to me?”
“Love,” Joe said gently, “your sire lied to everyone. It’s why
she got staked in ’74 and left you running wild across
Louisiana.”
Erin’s jaw tightened. “Don’t remind me.”
They returned to their haven — an old speakeasy beneath Rampart
Street, hidden behind a defunct jazz club. The walls dripped
with age and the faint thrum of bass that seemed eternal in that
city. Erin lit a candle from habit, not need, its glow painting
her pale skin in copper tones.
Joe pulled a **** leather ledger from the shelf — their sire’s
old journal. He’d tried to destroy it a dozen times; Erin always
stole it back.
“Let’s see what Maelis was hiding,” she said.
The pages were brittle and smelled of dust and iron. Most of the
entries were coded in Latin and Gaelic. Erin traced one line
with her fingertip.
“The Deep Blood calls again beneath the Crescent. Its hunger is
memory, not appetite. We were born of its mistake, its first
rebellion. The circle must never break.”
Erin looked up. “What in the hell does that mean?”
Joe frowned, flipping through more pages. “There’s mention of
something called Sanguis Primordia. A covenant, maybe. Or a
curse. She writes that the bloodlines were born from a split in
the source—whatever that is.”
“So… we’re not just vampires?” Erin asked, half-joking,
half-terrified.
“Seems we’re knock-offs of something far worse,” Joe replied.
Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the
stairwell. Joe instantly drew his saber, and Erin’s claws slid
out like silver.
A voice called softly from above. “Peace, Brujah. I come with
warning.”
The figure that descended was regal in a decayed sort of way —
dressed in black silk and silver chains, with eyes the color of
a dying flame. Erin hissed. “Ventrue.”
He gave a thin smile. “You wound me, Miss Dovan. I prefer
diplomat.”
“Yeah? Then what’s a ‘diplomat’ doing sneaking into my bar
uninvited?”
“I’m here because the Prince wants answers. The city is
whispering about the light that tore through the Quarter. He
fears something ancient stirs beneath us — something your
bloodline may have woken.”
Erin leaned back against the bar, crossing her arms. “Let him be
afraid. He’s got plenty of reasons to be.”
The Ventrue ignored her jab and turned to Joe. “You were seen
leaving the Tremere’s ruin. Was it your sister’s doing?”
Joe gave a tight smile. “She only breaks things worth breaking.”
The Ventrue exhaled, clearly unamused. “This is no laughing
matter. Whatever rose from that gate has already drawn
attention. The Setites have begun gathering along the river. The
Nosferatu are vanishing. And the Tremere Chantry is in
lockdown.”
Erin’s eyes narrowed. “So the city’s unraveling. Again. What’s
new?”
He fixed her with a cold look. “What’s new is that the elders
are afraid. They think Malachai wasn’t merely some relic. They
believe he’s a precursor — the first Kindred, or something that
made them.”
The candle flickered, and the room seemed to grow colder.
Erin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then if he’s awake… he’ll
come for the blood he made.”
“Exactly,” the Ventrue said. “And you, Miss Dovan, are descended
from one of the earliest lines. The Prince fears you may be… a
key.”
Joe’s eyes widened. “A key to what?"
“To waking the rest,” the Ventrue said softly.
Silence filled the speakeasy. Erin finally laughed — sharp,
disbelieving, a little wild. “Oh, this keeps getting better.”
The Ventrue’s expression didn’t change. “You should leave the
city. Both of you. Before the others realize what you are.”
Erin smiled — but her fangs showed. “Leave my city? Not a
chance.”
Joe sighed. “Erin—”
She turned toward the stairs, her silhouette framed by the
guttering candlelight. “If this Malachai wants me, he can come
find me. But if he’s bringing an army from whatever pit he
crawled out of…” She cr@cks her knuckles, eyes blazing green
fire. “Then New Orleans is about to remember why they fear the
Brujah.”
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