Father Grigori was tall and lean with dark hair and sharp, thoughtful features. Wearing a cassock beneath a weathered greatcoat, both stained by years on campaign. He has a faded cyan sash is tied around his waist. Patient, compassionate, and quietly courageous. He comforts the dying as readily as he blesses soldiers before battle. Grigori never promises survival. Only purpose. He believes every soul can still be redeemed, even those touched by darkness. Whether or not he is right or wrong, only time will tell.

Antoinette, or 'Toni' as she insists her "friends" call her. Is utterly beautiful in an unsettling way. Wrapped in fine lace garments inherited from forgotten nobility, Toni will often throw an old army overcoat over herself along with an orange sash. Long black hair frames a permanently amused expression. Because every night she walked the city streets, she was in on a joke that nobody else was. When the opportunity presented itself before the sun broke across the horizon, Toni's jaw unfolded impossibly wide into a nightmare, filled with rows of needle like teeth. Eyes become empty black voids. Grotesque talons extended from her fingers. The transformation made the ornate sabre she carried more like an accessory than a weapon. Antoinette was cultured. Patient. Dangerously charming. She genuinely enjoys human company. She simply doesn't see humanity as her equal.

Joseph had spent years serving Noircote. Patrolling the forests. Burying friends. Every successful year of survival simply guaranteed another year of siege. Even when he was struck with lycanthropy in a night raid gone wrong, he fought it for months. Until one night, running through the Blackwoods outside the city walls, beneath a full moon, something inside him changed. Not his body, but his perspective. For the first time in his life... He felt free. No walls. No orders. No ration lines. Only instinct. Strength. The forest. He realised the happiest moment of his life had come after he stopped being a man. He never returned to the walls. Now he relished in the hunt of his former comrades. The city badge of Joseph's uniform has long since been cut away, but the deep blue scarf remains tied around his neck. His white left eye, scarred from his fateful encounter with a werewolf sits uselessly in his head. Moustached and unarmed with a powerful build, Joseph has total faith in his lycan form.

On paper, Rowena was an unranked member of Noircote's militia. Fresh soldiers, shipped in by the sea, mistake her youth for inexperience. Arriving in clean uniforms with proper training, confident that Imperial discipline has prepared them for the city, it has not. They may understand formations, but she understands which alley floods during a bombardment. Rowena is a wiry young woman in her early twenties. A physique built by climbing walls, running rooftops, and crawling through woodland undergrowth. Her wavy brown hair is usually tied back loosely. None of her uniform, if you could call it that, matched. But it was functional. With a weathered green scarf that denoted her as a militiawoman, she bore a pistol and sabre on her belt as well as an ivory horn to warn fellow citizens.

Viscount Renauld DuBouis, appears as a distinguished older gentleman, with silver hair and an impressive mustache. He dresses impeccably in civilian formalwear with an embroidered gold sash denoting Imperial authority. Officially, Renauld is the man who saved Noircote from starvation. Food was rationed. The harbour functions. The city still worked. There was no doubt that the outwardly tempered man had a mind for logistics and systems. But truth of the matter, was that Renauld stole. Never enough to break the system. Never enough to be obvious. Every incoming convoy contains flour. He quietly diverts a sack. Every shipment of imported wine loses a crate. Individually, each theft is insignificant. Over a decade, Renauld has become quietly wealthy. Telling himself, he is not greedy, Renauld convinced himself long ago that no one who carries the burden of the city of Noircote should die poor.

Captain Henri was broad shouldered and powerfully built, with silvering hair and a tired expression. He wears a heavy military greatcoat over his decorated uniform, with a crimson scarf and sash marking his command. At this point, he is comfortable wielding any weapon. Often peppering his sentences with French words, it's a small comfort of his homeland as he helps hold the line in a city that isn't his. Henri is a professional soldier before he is anything else. Believing discipline is not about blind obedience. It's allowing frightened men to function when courage has already failed them.