When St Noah Wigan first arrived on Hathfield Bay to bring the word of God to the islanders he was met with resistance. St Wigan warned the natives that if they didn’t give up their heathen ways and accept God they would be met with fury. Most of the islanders converted. The few that remained were gathered in a shack so that Wigan may speak to them as his brothers and sisters. By Wigan’s side was St Michael the punisher. St Michael trapped the islanders in the shack and set a fire which dispatched their heathen souls to Hell. The church of Wigan was built upon the ashes.
As the church carried into the modern day not much has changed. St Michael the punisher was still revered as the one who would seek vengeance for God. He’s not just a saint that lived centuries ago. The blood of Michael still remains to this day. Whilst he lives in quiet solitude, if he were to be called by St Wigan, souls would be burned all over again. ‘You cannot be saved,’ Noah Wigan taught. However, if you repent you may be redeemed, even if that redemption means suffering a fiery torment.
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Never had grey looked so vibrant. Light and dark battled for centre stage as greyish faces watched the artist from the shelving. Some were finely carved, almost human. Most were still waiting for their features. They had survived the abortion of the carver’s knife.
The artist looked at the shelf above him. Another clay face smiled back knowingly.
“You will just continue to fall downhill.”
The words WASHED UP were carved across it. The shame of this realisation was deeply embedded. The artist ignored it at first. He lifted the carving knife and reached for the clay in front of him, unborn, formless. He wet his hands in the bowl. The cool water did nothing to relieve his intoxicated mind. He reached out and caressed the clay carefully, searching for the curvatures.
“You are nothing.”
Three identical masks observed him, perched high. Each of them bore the word DOUBT. The artist leant back on his stool but his drug-addled mind was too far-gone to keep his balance. He leaned back too far and as he jerked forward he knocked the water bowl over and cut his finger on the scalpel he used to carve details into his creations.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed as the vibrant red began to gush from the wound, spilling onto the grey. His vision was blurry. He didn’t normally feel this way after a hit. Joe must have gotten purer than usual.
At age twelve the artist had turned to smoke. The calming effects saw him through pre-pubescence. It calmed the storm of his teen years. He tried powder and pills along the way but when he reached his twenties only needles would do. He had come off them for a while as his career as an artist took off. He had it all then but the high of life shook him, gave him unrealistic expectations, sucked him dry then left him with nothing but the needles for comfort. His friends encouraged him but no matter what he did, his work could never reach those heights again.
The needles didn’t think he was washed up. They were always there to make him feel better. They even numbed the pain as he put a deeper cut in his hand as he tried to grasp the scalpel again.
“A pathetic excuse for a human being.”
The artist looked at a clay face that lay discarded on the bench. The word FRAUD was embedded into it.
The artist swung his legs round but it threw off his balance again. This time he tumbled to the floor. He looked up towards the window. A figurine of a slim woman was hanging by it’s feet.
“He’s just a little down on his luck.”
The figurine spun around on the wire that held her captive. Her face was flat. It had no features yet. Only her buttocks had any detail. The words HAS BEEN were written into her.
“Fuck off the lot of you!” the artist cried, climbing to his feet. “What do you know about it?”
He swung his arms in a meaningless gesture but it caused him to fall into his bench. The corner caught his hip painfully.
A hand fell on him. He shrieked. The clay digits clasped his shoulder.
“You had it all. It’s gone now. You are nothing. You had no real talent.”
The artist cried out. Hooks, shelves, walls, more clay faces and figurines watching him, accusing him. Whatever he did have it was gone. His artistic vision was gone and all the needles in the world would never numb that kind of pain.
The faces closed in.
“Lost!”
“Broken!”
“A talentless junkie that got lucky!”
The artist hated that he had become a tortured cliché. He hated even more that everything he turned his hand to lately fell flat. It wasn’t inspired. It wasn’t bold. He struggled to get even those closest to him to give a second look. He was an artist cliché without the talent. He thought he was giving birth to kings and queens whose reign would be spoken of for centuries. Instead he held still born after still born. So he hung them, scraped away at their skins and occasionally, when provoked, he smashed them to pieces. Paintings, carvings, models, all deserved incineration. Burn them all. Never let those failed experiments see the light of day. They would tell everyone how uninspired their creator was.
The artist turned on his stool. Dizziness overcame him. A large male figure was looking down on him from the shelf. He had no legs and was leaning on muscular arms. The muscles in the arms and abdomen were painstakingly clear and well-defined. As strong as the figure looked, he would never have those legs. Below his waist would remain as absent as the creator’s mind.
“Why bother even trying?”
The question startled the artist. He stood up again and kicked the stool over. The eyes of the legless figure had more life in them than the artist’s own. The last time he dared look in a mirror his face was vacant. He looked dead. He might as well be. The dark roots were showing through greasy, bleached hair. His lips were grey.
“Leave me alone!” he warned them.
He stumbled out of the workshop, falling to his knees on the sodden grass as he missed the last step. He looked back up. The statues would always be there. They would always mock him for the ridiculousness of their existence. David Finn’s career as an artist was all but over.
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Centuries ago in the area of Northside, just north of Bellfield, there existed a knight named Niall Tulloch. Through his successes in battle Niall became known as the greatest Northsider. His family went on to rule the area. The central point of this rule lies within the Northside Precinct.
Since the disappearance of Mayor Feltz, the Northside counsellor, the area has suffered a great deal. Feltz’s daughter, Ruby, has been left with a lot of mess to clear up. This isn’t helped by the precinct now being in the hands of Liam Tulloch. Liam is Hell bent on proving himself on being just as successful as his ancestor leaving the precinct falling to ruin.
The stirrings of war, the mistrust of Feltz’s legacy as well as the moronic ramblings of Liam Tulloch have left the Precinct a shadow of what it once was. One day perhaps someone will shine light upon it again.
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There once was a man who many despised. They wanted to rid of him but it took twenty tries. They shot him, they stabbed him, and they buried him in sand, But he would always return, alive and grand. They cut out his tongue and gouged out his eyes, But on the stroke of midnight he would always rise. They even immured him into the thickest wall, But on the following night they could still hear his call. They lost their patience, they had no hope, So they sealed him in a box, tied up with rope. The box was covered with heavy cement, There would be no returning for this nefarious gent. They were able to relax, sleep sound in their beds, Until a troubling thought entered their heads, What if their precautions weren’t enough? What if their treatment could be more rough? For the rest of their days they waited in fear, Flinched at every little sound they could hear, He would come back and they would hear him cry, For he was the man who would not die.
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Emmerson has been a life long Loyalist. The thuggish group of City Main have been his family for as far back as he can remember. His parents were interpreters for the Auction House and resided on the tenth floor of the Penn owned Faulds Park Building.
As a young man, Emmerson showed merit in his natural strength and protectiveness. Emmerson always accepts his tasks with dignity and respect. He is kind hearted to the point he often neglects his own existence. Loyal to the end he was often trusted to be by the side of the King of Main himself.
Emmerson is a keen rugby player and avid Coldford City fan. When he is not on duty he frequents the karaoke bars with his fellow Loyalists. However, if called, he can be trusted to always come through.
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Ruby the eldest daughter of Mayor Jim Feltz. Her father’s office was drenched in sleaze and dirty dealings but Ruby worked where she could to assure the mayoral hot seat provided what was best for the people of Coldford City. This was no easy task when her father was focused on his own gains.
Ruby has had a constant battle with bad PR. The Feltz name became synonymous with underhanded behavior. Her home area of Northside became widely hated when trouble stirred with neighbouring town of Northside. Then her father went missing.
Ruby could do much good for Northside and for Coldford City overall. It was always said she was real brains behind the best that came from her father’s office. She has an steep hill to climb if she is to be trusted. Until such times as her father is found all she can do is continue to what what she feels is best.
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Ozzy Perry is considered the most personable of the Kappa Elders. Whilst his closest bro Chick Owen can be ruthless and his other bro Marshall can be wild, Ozzy prefers a laugh. Nothing makes him happier than when there are some hijinks afoot.
Owner of Perry Zoo, Ozzy is well acquainted with wild animals. Originally from down under, he has made a home in Coldford City with his zoo in Coldridge and his reserve in Bournton. He is a loving father to Chad Perry. Although, some would argue he would really do with taking a firming hand with his son. Ozzy has the terrible habit of treating him like a friend rather than a son which allows Chad to get up to all kinds of mischief.
Whilst Ozzy is a friendly man, when it comes to his duty towards his Kappa So fraternity he won’t think twice about carrying out what needs to be done. The sudden switch from laughter to coldness can catch people off guard.
As Coldford City prepares to cage some real wild ones, Ozzy and his zoo keepers may be useful in rounding them up.
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Occupation: Legal representative of Penn Auction Houses
Having lived his life in the country of Luen, Jean Luc has a different view of Coldford City from his cousins. He holds the Penn name as one to be respected and can be ruthless in making sure this happens. He is a legal mind with specialist study in international relations. He is a charismatic, intelligent man with a natural pomposity that can often make him seem like a fish out of water in Coldford City’s notorious City Main.
He was one of the most trusted advisers to his cousin, REGINALD PENN. Early in his reign as the thuggish King of Main, Reginald had Jean Luc by his side as an enforcer of sorts. Reginald eventually asked him to take up the study of law. Jean Luc aquiesced to this request. Reginald told him it was because he was book smart and he needed ones he could trust to help with legalities but the truth was Reginald hadn’t liked what the violence was doing to his cousin. He wanted to spare him from that as much as possible.
They call them the Loyalists from the Loyal of Luen who came with the Penns generations previous. Loyality therefore is held as an important trait. Jean Luc is fiercely loyal to his family name and shrewd in his protection of them. Coldford will be an awakening for him as he comes to terms with life in the Shady City.
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Owned and operated by master chef Bastian Delphine, the Delphine restaurant opened with the sole aim of offering quality dining, using fresh seasonal produce and local where possible, which can be enjoyed in elegant and modern surroundings. Filton is the best place for fine dining in Coldford. Reservations fill up fast so book now to avoid disappointment.
Owned and operated by famed chef Bastian Delphine, the Delphine restaurant is one of the hottest spots for fine dining in Coldford City. Located in Filton, home of the infamous Beckingridge family, the Delphine is a regular haunt for the billionaires of Beckingridge manor.
Trained in the country of Luen, with all the charm of his Jolian mother, Bastian is a well liked chef for whom the dining experience of his guests is top priority.
George Beckingridge, the financial firm heir, is often found at the Delphine, quoting he’s worried his aunt Elizabeth would poison him if he ate at home. This wouldn’t have been the first time.
Like many places in the Shady City the Delphine is not without it’s history of trouble. The Fullerton family have been banned from the facility after construction boss, Jake Fullerton and his ex wife entered into an argument. There was also talk of members of the cult Church of St Wigan attempting to spike the food with hallucinogenic heether mushrooms from the island.
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