Maude Lansbury
Maude Lansbury
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Maude stands tall at 6'4, their lanky frame dressed in pleated pants with suspenders over their black turtleneck. The trench coat is their signature look along with the occasional fedora, should they need to dress-up. They have broad shoulders, a sharp jaw and tanned skin. Their eyes are always open wide, unblinking and corpse-like, as they lost the ability to close them in their undeath. Long, black hair covers their face in an attempt to obscure their uncanny stare.
Apparel & Accessories
Dressed in a Noir-inspired aesthetic
Mental characteristics
Personal history
Maude Lansbury was born in 1977 to no one at all.
Well, no one they could trace, anyway. Thrown into the foster system since before they could remember, Maude grew up in a group home on the South Side of Chicago.
All things considered, Maude got into just the right amount of trouble - not much more than your run of the mill pickpocketing street rat. Carefully skirting the law on juvenile delinquency, they stuck to petty troublemaking and not getting caught where it mattered.
It was squeegee in hand at an intersection where Maude met Elodie, a riot grrl wannabe only a bit older than themself.
“This is so boring,” she said with a wry look on her face, “have you ever hotwired a car?”
With that, Maude’s entire world became her; Elodie, their best friend, their destiny.
Maude was thrown onto the streets the moment they turned eighteen, and Elodie refused to let them suffer through the same life of homelessness she’d endured for years herself. So she scrounged together what money she could through less than savory means without Maude’s knowledge. Not being able to afford much, the two settled down in a sketchy one bedroom above a butchery, where the smell of rancid meat wafted from the floor below and the lack of windows made ventilation little more than a fantasy.
To pay their way, Maude started to work with a cleaning agency. Not the most sophisticated job, sure, but here they developed a knack for noticing the smallest stains or odd spots needing a good dusting. Getting their hands a little dirty wasn’t a problem either, and even the more atypical gorey jobs didn’t phase them much. Clients noted their skill at putting things away exactly as they were before, as if Maude took careful note of every little detail in the spaces they cleaned. To Maude, it was just being polite.
It earned them the oh-so dignified nickname “Mop” from Elodie.
The two friends lived just skirting the poverty line, barely getting by on more than a meal a day when suddenly Elodie starts buying luxuries far out of their budget - expensive clothes, an espresso machine, new mattresses for the two of them, and more. All things that would have been little more than fantasies whispered about on sleepless nights. Maude didn’t question Elodie deeply at first, reveling in the comfort of their department store loafers and chalking it up to Elodie getting a decent raise when she took the night shift.
But the luxuries didn’t stop rolling in. Over the next year the scale only grew until Elodie told Maude to watch for the limo that would be driving them to their gigs in the morning. When Maude pressed for answers, they were met with a wave of a hand - “Don’t worry about it, Mop.”
Maude, of course, worried to the point of obsession.
The curiosity became too much to bear as Maude was unable to stop noticing the way Elodie dodged any inquiry into her life now, becoming more private than ever. Where was the room for secrets in a space so small?
Maude spent their sleepless nights alone now, Elodie’s bed always empty as Maude counted each tick of the clock until she came home just to sleep through the day.
The quiet contemplation couldn’t satisfy Maude forever, not when they noticed the gold Lamborghini insignia etched into Elodie’s new car keys.
Maude expected a storm when they confronted Elodie, and in retrospect, they wish they got one. Instead, when Maude pushed Elodie pulled away. She gave only quiet, evasive answers to Maude’s questions until she slipped away into the night.
A few nights later all that remained of Elodie was a stack of cash and a note on the kitchen counter: “I’m sorry, Mop. Love you. Don’t come looking for me.”
Finding Elodie became the only thing that mattered.
For a decade they spent any and all time they could spare looking for answers. Curiosity fostered obsession. With little leads and nothing more than wild theories (Sex trafficking? Arms dealing? A covert CIA operation?) Maude struggled to make any sense of Elodie’s disappearance for years.
Maude started working as a personal assistant for private investigator Bart Turner in hopes of stumbling across obscure leads. While all of his cases revolved around the same old stories of infidelity, Maude proved their worth with a keen eye for detail and a developing expertise for deduction - often catching the clues the older gumshoe PI would have otherwise missed.
Turner trusted Maude as a valuable asset and friend, a parental relationship developing between the two over the years.
Well aware of Maude’s obsession, Turner passed along any potential leads and oddities he picked up through the grapevine. None of them took Maude directly to Elodie, but whispers and conspiracy surrounding a night-walking secret society piqued Maude’s interest the most.
Between nights draped over paperwork at their favorite dive bar and piecing together leads taped to their apartment wall and connected with string, Maude was consumed with finding Elodie. Nothing else mattered. She had to be out there somewhere.
The pieces came together in a way that would have Maude institutionalized if they weren’t so sure it was the truth. The long nights out of the apartment, the windowless room, the way Elodie never ate and slept like the dead during daylight hours. All the rumors of mysterious deaths around town with police reports Turner passed along full of bodies drained of blood.
It took ten years for Maude to end up at the right place at the wrong time.
They found Elodie, fangs bared, and so came an end to Maude’s human life.
Just as soon as they were embraced, Elodie vanished once again, this time sure to cover their tracks more than ever. Not as if Maude would have had much hope to begin with, as now they’re left to navigate the brand new world of Kindred, and as a Malkavian no less.
Luckily, Maude awoke to their vampire life to the care of Jason Newberry, primogen of the Malkavians. While the memories of their first year of being a vampire is mostly a blur, what they do know is Jason’s kind and gentle nature as he took care of them and introduced them to the world of darkness, along with his monthly therapy sessions. Seemingly out of their control, Maude found themself falling in love with him - a new obsession.
In spite of Jason’s insistent dissuasion, Maude’s longing to find Elodie never ceased. The search for her had consumed Maude’s entire human life and now, seven years after being embraced, it has surely consumed their afterlife as well. Malkavian blood swirls around Maude’s obsessive tendency, heightening the persona cultivated over their decade of investigation.
Now, Maude searches for any sort of lead that could put them on the path towards Elodie. Maude has to find her.
They’ve already died trying.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
Maude struggles with an obsessive nature - once attachment sets in, they find themself hopelessly enamoured and their focus becomes singular. Whether it be finding Elodie, their mentor Jason Newberry, or whatever investigation they currently set their sights on - they'll never let go. Often going as far as to adopt the style and mannerisms of those they admire, Maude struggles to find a sense of individuality.
Social
Contacts & Relations
Bart Turner, gumshoe private investigator and father figure.
Wealth & Financial state
LOL
Gung-ho self-declared detective bent on finding their long-lost best friend and sire. Determined with a touch of naive, they're navigating the world of vampires the best they can as a Malkavian with an eye for clues.
View Character Profile
Age
40 (true age) 33 (appearence)
Date of Birth
April 25 1977 (born) / February 25 2010 (died)
Children
Gender
Nonbinary
Eyes
Brown
Hair
Black
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Tan
Height
6'4
June 16th, 2010
June 16th, 2010
The office has always had an eeriness this time of night. In the past it was a slow, subtle build - Maude and Mr. Turner working from dawn through dusk, noses so close to the pages in front of them that it wasn’t until the silence of the outside world had fully set in that they even realized the sun fell long ago.
Tonight, the office is so familiar it’s unfamiliar. Maude hears every creak of the floorboards as they walk to their desk - the pitches denoting the degree of hollowness below, the way the foundation has become concave. Uneven. Maude has spent many years tuned into these sounds and yet tonight they’re brand new; heard through new ears.
Maude’s desk is tidied, unusually so. Not deeply cleaned, as noted by the greasy stains of days gone pastrami smudged against the wood grain, stray cigarette butts that missed the ash tray and files with pages sticking out from their folders, carelessly put away. Uneven.
He expected them to come back. Any more thoroughly cleaned would denote a closure, stripping Maude’s personality from the desk so it could be filled by someone new. Like this, it’s welcoming.
Maude shuffles through the folders, noticing now the creases in the paper and the dull smudge of fingerprints that increase with the amount of use each file has seen. They sort through A, B, C, D…
E.
Now this file is thick, much more than everything else. Maude feels the weight of it as they pick it up, as though they could judge exactly how many pages there are inside this thing off of that alone.
Ten years inside this folder. Practically half of Maude’s lifetime messily tucked inside manila.
It feels nostalgic to go through it now, scrawlings of conspiracy mixed in with outdated police reports and crime statistics. Missing persons listings, maps marking potential sightings crossed with reports of kidnappings and drug trades. The leads with the highest potential tabbed for quick reference, pages stained with coffee and the occasional cigarette burn. No detail left unturned.
All for nothing. The world that was so painstakingly analyzed within this folder is not the same world Maude knows now.
There are traces of it, sure - the nonsensical disappearances, the funds tied up in offshore accounts with their own offshore accounts somewhere else, the blood missing from bodies that slipped through the cracks of cover-ups - those are the pages they have to destroy. Maude can’t let anyone else catch a lead like that.
They should get rid of everything. Every trace of their decade-long hunt is a liability. And more than that, Maude isn’t supposed to be looking for her anymore.
But they can’t stop now.
Let go? Of Elodie? After all of this? After losing everything, they just have to… give up?
They have to keep looking.
They have to. THEY HAVE TO! They can’t stop, they can’t can’t can’t can’t.
Maude can’t let go. Elodie is out there, still, embroiled even deeper in the shadows than before. And Maude could find her. They’ve already done it once. They could do it again. Start over fresh. They have new eyes, new ears, new possibilities. Who needs dusty old files? They’re a vampire.
The old reality barges in with the slam of the door, followed by a stunned whisper:
“Maude? Is that you?”
Turning around, Maude sees Mr. Turner for the first time in months. Hairline still receding, eyes still sunken in, crows feet still betraying his age. His long, tan trench coat still hanging off his shoulders despite the summer heat. Exactly as they left him.
The only thing that’s changed is the way Maude’s throat clenches, hungry.
“Hey, boss.”
“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says with a sigh, relieved. Shoulders relaxing as his hand drops from his waist, no longer reaching for his gun.
He almost goes in for a hug before stopping himself awkwardly, shuffling his feet. Maude’s relief is palpable, hopefully reading as aversion to the emotional display instead of desperate restraint against how easy it would be to add him to the list of blood-drained bodies.
Turner clears his throat, breaking the tension. “So, what are you doing here so late?”
Maude’s grip tightens on the folder. Turner can probably take a good enough guess once he catches sight of it. “I could ask you the same thing, old man. It’s past your bedtime.”
“Crime never sleeps,” Turner shrugs, hanging up his coat on the iron rack.
“We don’t deal in crimes, boss.”
“Sure, sure, but when exactly do you think these guys are cheating on their wives? Huh?” Turner wiggles his eyebrows and takes a seat at his desk, chair creaking with his weight. It rocks forward, one of the legs a touch shorter than the others, uneven, even with the paper jammed underneath it.
He sets up his work station, getting comfortable at his desk before looking up at Maude again, concerned.
“Listen, I don’t need any details, I know you got your own life, but… where did you go, kid?”
Maude takes a moment. Best to avoid details. He’s worried, but if Maude lays on the emotion he’ll shrink away like a cat from water.
“Guess you could say the years caught up to me. Wasn’t doing so hot, needed some space. Maybe too much space. Sorry for not giving you a ring.”
“You know, I had half the mind to start looking for you. Any longer and I was about to drop all our cases. But I figured, hey, if you wanted to be found, you’d have led me right to ya.” Turner sizes them up, head tilting and eyes squinting in thought. “You seem different, kid.”
“I feel different,” Maude answers honestly.
“You know… if you ever need someone to talk to…”
“I am talking-” Maude catches themself. Can’t reveal too much. Just enough to deflect any worry. “I found a… support group. Saw them a lot the last little while. Got me back on my feet.”
“Well ain’t you the picture of mental health!” He chirps, relief wafting off of him so thick it might as well be a shock blanket.
Maude peaks at the open file on his desk. There’s a beat-up white Subaru parked outside a residential house; Illinois license plate ZX1 4965. The design on the plate hasn’t been in use since the 70s.
“This guy is old,” Maude says, pointing to the plate, “and real broke. Stake out the Heart O’ Chicago, I don’t think he’s getting fancy with his date.”
“It’s good to have you back.” Turner smiles, crooked. Uneven.
September 24th, 1994
September 24th, 1994
Rush hour comes to a depressing end as the sun sets on Chicago’s South Side. Maude shoves the squeegee under their arm as they count only a handful of bills, a measly fifteen dollars after hours of standing restless at the intersection. It seems the payout only declines day by day, commuters less and less willing to be swayed by their puppy dog eyes.
By seventeen Maude has lost almost all their baby fat, unearthing a jaw and cheekbone combination that betrays their youth for something more mature, even if they don’t really feel it yet.
It’s certainly not good for the squeegee business - at least the more polite side of the job. They’ve seen the older guys around town bumrush cars, cleaning and demanding pay from the nine-to-fiver who stopped at the wrong intersection at the wrong time. That’s not really Maude’s style; especially not the part where they get run over afterwards.
“Weak payday?” Chirps a voice, startling Maude out of their frustrated stupor.
Approaching with their hands in their pockets is a girl who seems about Maude’s age. She oozes style, from her ripped jeans covered in painted-on skulls and roses to the distressed, baggy t-shirt featuring a giant middle finger. Her hair is styled into thick spikes, the greasy gel glistening like a smooth stone, not a single strand hanging loose. It’s the very height of punk.
She waves a handful of one dollar bills. “Me too. These bougie-ass bitches can’t spare a fiver while they roll right through our city and back to their white-picket fences. I started spitting on their windshields to see if that could convince ‘em, but it hasn’t worked so far. Bet they drive off just to go to a car wash anyways. Fuckers.”
The girl - no, the woman. She holds herself with too much maturity to be demeaned with girl - throws her arm around Maude with unprompted familiarity. But Maude doesn’t shirk away.
There should be a better term than love at first sight, Maude thinks. Because it isn’t exactly love that they’re feeling. No, it’s more like… devotion. From the second this streetwise punk opened her mouth, the only thing racing through Maude’s mind is: you; I’ll follow you anywhere.
“What’s your name, anyways?” She asks. Maude realizes they’ve yet to speak; stunned into an awed silence. How embarrassing.
“Maude,” they say with their voice a quiet monotone. Shy.
“Oh? Tu parle Français?”
Maude blinks, unable to comprehend the foreign language. If that was a foreign language. Maybe it was some sort of code. “Uh…”
“Hah! Sorry. I asked if you speak French. You know Maude is a French name? Mine is too. Elodie. Like Melody, without the M and an I E instead of a Y. Here, let me write it down so you don’t forget it.”
She grabs for Maude’s hand, then reaches into the backpack slumped over her shoulder to pull out a black marker. Elodie scrawls her name onto their palm, then passes Maude the marker and offers her own hand in return.
The black ink feels like a brand, an oath and a prophecy all tied into one. Their names are both French. That’s fate, right? It has to be. How else could it be explained that someone as breathtaking as Elodie took to someone like Maude so easily? Maybe they knew each other in a past life. They must have. Maude feels it in their very soul. This isn’t the start of anything, it’s the continuation of something they didn’t know they had. That’s what the burning in their chest means. Destiny.
“Spelling is important, you know. When we mark up the city with our tags we gotta get it right so they all know who runs this place,” Elodie says, bristling with confidence and an aspirational twinkle in her eye.
“We run it?”
“Of course. I don’t see a king of Chicago anywhere, do you? That means there’s a crown for the taking, and who better than a couple of squeegee punks like us?” Elodie gestures broadly to the dilapidated neighbourhood around them. Homeless people sitting on the curb with cardboard signs begging for money and food, bankrupt businesses covered in graffiti and boarded-up windows, burned-out streetlamps no one has bothered to fix in years. It's Chicago. It's beautiful. “I bet you know these streets better than any politician who refuses to even walk down them. God forbid they get dirt on their fancy little shoes.”
Maude nods. She’s right. The street rats know the South Side better than any mayor or councillor could ever dream. These are their streets.
“As much as I’m enjoying standing at this intersection, if we wait ‘til it gets any darker out people are gonna get the wrong idea about us. Let’s go and have some real fun.”
Elodie grabs Maude’s hand - the one not stained by black marker - and pulls off down the street. They’re sprinting like they have something to outrun, the sky turning dark purple above them as night reigns over Chicago. The few living streetlamps barely lighting their way as they weave through the sidewalk traffic - the folks leaving for gruelling nightshifts or their first round of drinks at the bar.
Maude forgets all about the foster home’s curfew.
The two teens end up at a parking garage. The kind with a dingy “24HR SECURITY” sign out front, but where everyone knows the cameras haven’t worked in decades.
They hop the parking arm just to feel a bit cooler than if they simply walked around the toll booth. A few cars litter the garage, none of them very new or even slightly expensive looking. The concrete walls are painted in graffiti, the building’s management having given up on trying to strip it ages ago. Elodie comes to a halt in front of one section of wall, where someone has tagged “SEX PISTOLS” in a fairly faithful recreation of the band’s signature font.
Elodie scoffs. “Pistols are fucking posers. Did you know they didn’t couldn’t even play instruments before being put in a band by some industry hack?”
She swings her bag off her shoulder, reaching in and pulling out a can of spray paint. She shakes the can, the marble inside rattling against the aluminum and mixing the paint. Crudely, she paints over the “SEX” with “SUCK” in black paint.
“But then you have Siouxsie Sioux, an actual badass, making real music, and she gets tossed aside for a bunch of dudes who barely understand what punk really means. She was the one who made those fucks famous in the first place!”
“Huh.” Maude says, head tilting to the side inquisitively. “I didn’t know that.”
“See? They get all the credit! Tomorrow I’ll bring my walkman and play you some Banshees. She’ll change your life.”
Tomorrow. A promise.
Satisfied with her handiwork, Elodie packs up her paint and leads Maude deeper into the garage, to the back where fluorescent lights go from buzzing to burnt out. A beat-up subaru sits in the shadows, lonely.
“So, you ever hotwire a car before?”
Maude shakes their head. “Never.”
A wicked smile dances on Elodie’s face. Mischief never looked so good.
“Watch me. Next time, I’ll show you how to do it yourself, but it’s always better to watch a master work before you try,” she boasts, clearly gleaming from the opportunity to show off.
She pulls out a set of tools from her backpack - reaching for one which almost resembles a swiss army knife, but when she slides out a tool it’s nothing like Maude’s ever seen before. “I got this sucker off some guy in an alley. Kind of sketch, but it’s a magic maker. Has everything you need to pick any lock in the city. At least, that’s what he told me. Hasn’t failed me so far, though!” She gets to work on the lock, ear pressed to the door of the car and moving the tool with precision. After a few minutes and a few swears muttered under her breath, the door opens without the alarm triggering.
“Et voilà!” Elodie gestures dramatically, eliciting a quiet clap from Maude.
She gets into the car and unlocks it for Maude to climb into the passenger side. Using a screwdriver, she takes off the steering wheel to reveal a mess of wires underneath. The way she pulls out the three exact wires she needs - one brown, one yellow and one red - speaks to a practiced eye. Elodie shines in her element; a professional vandal if ever there was one. The car begins to spring to life as she peels back the insulation on the wires and twists them together, the rumble of the engine a chorus to her orchestration.
The steering wheel is returned to it’s place, Elodie throwing the screwdriver in the backseat and looking over to Maude, proud. “Pretty cool, right?”
“You’re amazing,” Maude says without reservation. “I’m… happy I met you.”
It earns them a softer smile from Elodie, the first time Maude feels like using the word sweet to describe her. She revs her foot on the gas in experimentation. The sloppy jalopy roars, an answer where words aren’t sufficient.
“Now, let’s see how fast this fucker can go before the engine blows.”
