WICKED
She answers only to the darkness.
Not to the legends. Not to the souls. Not to fear itself.
Those are tools. Wicked is the hand that wields them.
The darkness does not command her with words — it has no need for them. She feels its will the way the dead feel cold: completely, instinctively, without question. Where it points, she moves. What it wants, she takes. Who it marks — she finds.
She is the face and voice of the Underground Abode — the first thing the darkness chose to represent itself to the world above. Every artifact forged here carries her mark. Every soul that passes through these walls is known to her. She does not advertise the Abode. She is the Abode, made visible.
When you found this place — she already knew you were coming.
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TILLY FLUFF
Lounge Singer of The Pussykat Kills Speakeasy
Every note she sings costs someone something.
Nobody remembers the first night Tilly Fluff took the stage at the Pussykat Kills Speakeasy. That is not an accident.
She arrived the way all dangerous things arrive — quietly, beautifully, and without invitation. One moment the stage was empty. The next, the spotlight found her like it had been waiting its entire existence for someone worthy of its attention. She opened her mouth. She sang one note.
Three souls left their bodies before the chorus.
They didn’t mind. That was the enchantment of it.
Pull up a chair. Order something dark. Stay a while.
The night is young and Tilly Fluff is already on stage.
WRATHPAW
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He was never just a backpack. He was never just anything.
He does not speak. He does not warn. He does not negotiate.
Wrathpaw sits at the edge of Tilly Fluff’s stage every night — still, patient, watching everything with those eyes that miss nothing and forget less. To the uninitiated he looks like an ornament. A curiosity. Something dark and decorative perched in the shadows of the Speakeasy.
That misunderstanding has consequences.
He is bound to Tilly and the Velvet Bunnies the way darkness is bound to night — completely, permanently, without question or hesitation. He does not protect them because he was told to. He protects them because the alternative does not exist in his world.
And if you are foolish enough — if you are reckless enough — to raise a hand, a voice, or even a thought against Tilly Fluff or her kin?
There is no warning. There is no second chance. There is only Wrathpaw
SILAS HOLLOW
Exchange Officer of The Charnel Treasury
Where the damned are counted. And priced.
Silas Hollow has stood behind the counter of The Charnel Treasury since before the first horror legend claimed their first soul — and he has recorded every transaction since. Every soul that passes through the Underground Abode is weighed, assessed, and assigned its value by his hand alone. Not Wicked’s. Not the darkness itself.
His.
The ledger he keeps is older than language. Thicker than suffering. Written in an ink that no living scholar has ever been able to identify and no dead one has ever been willing to describe. Every soul ever traded within these walls has a line in that book. Every debt. Every exchange. Every soul that tried to pass through without proper tender.
He found them all eventually.
RAG & BONE
Unwelcome Home Goods, Est. 1348
There are two of them behind the counter — though “two” has always been a matter of interpretation. One body, two heads, one unblinking stare between them, and a business that’s been quietly furnishing homes with things they didn’t know they needed since long before anyone thought to ask permission.
Rag & Bone doesn’t sell comfort. It sells presence — objects that settle into a room the way old houses settle into their bones, with the occasional groan of protest. Every piece that leaves this shop comes home with a little something extra. We consider that a feature.
We are not for everyone. We are, however, for the unsatisfied.
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Every stitch placed by Skayn carries weight no machine can replicate. She does not make apparel. She makes second skins for the already haunted.
Her loom runs on grief. Her threads are steeped in suffering — pulled taut across the spindle until they’re worthy of burial cloth. That they end up on the living is simply her sense of humor.
When you wear something from her, something wearing you back
Spindle and Shroud.
Weaver of the Bound
CORPOREAL POST
​
The only legally sanctioned mail service operating within these walls. Spectral delivery guaranteed across all transient
and corporeal planes.​
Every parcel is bound by the Ethereal Seal, protecting it against theft, tampering, or interference by those who would impede its passage—living or otherwise.
And to those foolish enough to break it:
you invite a debt the Ledger does not forgive
​
Sole authority over Corporeal Post, zoning and construction permits, and all legal petitions within the Abode. Every parcel, every structure, every claim — hers to approve, or hers to deny.
She does not campaign. There has never been another name on the ballot.
MORELLA
Postmaster General & Chief Administrator, Dead Trade Division
