Inspired Cards:
- Knife of the Party
- Nice Cleavage
Hobby
Metalworking, Bladesmithing, Make Up, Taxidermy, Photography, Witchcraft, and Modeling,
Quote:
“The difference between violence and art is the creativity involved.”
Her Story
The town of Hollow’s Gate, just outside Salem, never forgot the smell of Reyes’ Family Meat shop — smoked meat, salt, and iron. The locals called him The Butcher of the Pines, though most said it with affection. His cuts were clean, his prices fair, and his daughter Blanca often stood beside him, a pale, quiet girl with a braid down her back and eyes that seemed to remember things she’d never seen.
By day, she wrapped sausages and weighed slabs of pork for the Sunday crowd. By night, she knelt beside her mother, Lilly, under the dim flicker of candlelight in their trailer. Together, they whispered to the old gods—hands slick with wax and rosemary—as smoke traced patterns that never quite faded from the air. Blanca didn’t see witchcraft as something evil; to her, it was simply inheritance.
That inheritance came calling one autumn night. The air was wrong—too still, too silent. When Blanca reached the shop, the front window was cracked, and inside, everything reeked of copper and cold. Her parents were gone—taken from her in a storm of violence that left only blood and salt on the floorboards.
In the days that followed, the police shrugged and moved on. “Transient junkies,” they said. “Wrong place, wrong time.” But Blanca knew better. She’d seen the mark scorched into the back door—an old sigil she and her mother once used to bind spirits. Someone had turned it against them.
She stopped sleeping. She stopped mourning. And instead, she started remembering. Every ritual. Every word. Every way her father held a knife.
The line between the living and the dead blurred, and Blanca stepped over it willingly.
She stopped sleeping. She stopped mourning. And instead, she started remembering. Every ritual. Every word. Every way her father held a knife.
The line between the living and the dead blurred, and Blanca stepped over it willingly.
Rumors spread through Hollow’s Gate that someone—or something—was hunting in the woods at night. The men who’d bragged about “teaching that witch family a lesson” vanished one by one. No one ever found their bodies, but strange things were whispered: that the old butcher’s tools were missing from his shop, and sometimes, on misty nights, the sound of sharpening steel echoed through the trees.
When the police came knocking, Blanca was already gone.
Weeks later, in a motel room outside Portland, a letter arrived—sealed in deep red wax and addressed only to Blanca Reyes. The message was simple, written in looping gold ink:
The local news and police don’t seem to appreciate your craftsmanship. We have a hungry community that will.
Your sanctuary awaits at the Murderville Luxury Island Estates.
Blanca didn’t question who sent it. She packed her father’s knives, her mother’s grimoire, and a single candle that never seemed to burn out.
That night, she boarded a small ferry that cut through the fog like a blade through flesh. And when the island lights appeared on the horizon, Blanca smiled for the first time since the blood ran cold in Hollow’s Gate.
In Murderville, she would no longer need to hide what she was.
She’d found her sanctuary.
Her next ritual had just begun.