Owner of The Starlit Cage, a neon-drenched vampire bar deep in the disused tunnels of the NYC subway system.
Wren has the kind of presence that turns heads even before she speaks—a tall, willowy figure with sharp edges softened by an almost ethereal beauty. Platinum-blonde hair falls in sleek waves, framing a face that can shift from siren-like allure to predatory sharpness in the span of a smile. Her eyes—an unsettling, crystalline blue—catch the dim club lights in ways that make her look more like a creature of reflection than flesh. There’s glamour in her, the kind that makes mortals lean closer and Kindred hesitate, uncertain whether they’re dealing with a confidante or a predator.
Her style blends stagecraft and menace: high-fashion silhouettes in blacks, silvers, and deep reds, often accented with leather or sequins that catch stray light like a lure in dark water. On the dance floor or in the shadows of her bar, she’s both queen and animal—moving with a dancer’s poise but carrying the stillness of someone who could pounce at any moment.
Despite her cultivated aura of cool detachment, Wren is intimately tied to her territory. The tunnels around The Starlit Cage bear her mark—graffiti sigils, altered lighting, and faint scents of smoke, earth, and iron. Rats and feral dogs seem to linger near her domain, drawn like courtiers to their queen. Her voice, when she chooses to use it, is rich and commanding, a perfect instrument for both seduction and warning.
To other Kindred, Wren is a paradox: she plays the part of nightclub impresario with the polish of a pop icon, but beneath it lies something raw and untamed. The Cerrid blood in her makes her more than a simple predator—she’s a myth whispered through the tunnels, a night-bird whose song draws the lost and the reckless into her dark kingdom.