Somewhere in the City of Toronto -- not the Toronto we are all familiar with, you understand, but the Toronto found in that curious parallel world known as the World of Darkness -- there is a nightclub by the name of Dangerous Visions (avid readers may note that this name was stolen from a Harlan Ellison anthology, but that is really neither here nor there).

To the average, mortal patron, it is merely another trendy nightspot, albeit with a little more atmosphere, perhaps, than most. Outside, it looks strikingly ordinary, housed in the basement of a slightly run-down building that was once a hotel, and perhaps still is, though no one really know exactly what goes on in the rooms above. There certainly hasn't been a vacancy sign posted since the current owner took it over, many years ago.

But inside is another story: entering, you almost feel you have crossed into another world as you pass by the surly bouncers at the door, one an extremely tall, muscular, taciturn young man, vaguely Nordic-looking, with a shock of pale blonde hair hanging over bright blue eyes; the other a shorter, stockier creature of indeterminate age and gender with numerous facial piercings, a perpetual snarl on its face, and short, spiky, fire-engine-red hair poking out from under a darker red leather cap. Closer inspection might reveal this individual to be female, and decidedly on the upper side of 30, but few of the club's patrons wish to get that close.

Still, as you descend the steps into the club, you feel as though you have somehow crossed a threshold, entered into a space where anything -- good or bad -- might happen. The very air seems alive, with both beauty and danger, fascination and fear. Some find this sense disturbing, and leave, declaring the place "creepy". Others are fascinated, and stay, some becoming regulars.

These, the regular clientele, are a strange assortment, as varied as the different kinds of performers who grace the stage. The prevailing tone seems to be vaguely gothic, but not everyone fits that image. In the centre of the dance floor, a man seemingly in his early 30s whirls to the music as if lost in trance; his long hair, flowered shirt and excessive jewelry give the impression of a '60s relic, but no one seems to object. Indeed, several people seem to be trying to unobtrusively get closer to him, as if to bask in some kind of aura he might be radiating. Over to one side, at a table, a young woman with shaggy hair in stained travelling clothes stares dejectedly into her beer; her battered leather jacket is ripped on one side as though clawed by a large animal, and she has an almost animalistic presence herself. Beside her, a young Native man tries to comfort her. Standing at edge of the dance floor against a pillar is a tall, striking redhead in a long tartan skirt, black shawl around her shoulders like the wings of a raven, who might have been more at home at a Celtic festival. Sitting at another table, and occasionally glancing warily at the woman in the ripped jacket, is a pale, slender young man in paint-splattered jeans. A sketchbook is open before him, and his eyes flit about the club as he quickly sketches various patrons. He doesn't seem to be drinking anything. Dancing near the long-haired man is a slender black woman in colourful diaphanous robes; she could have stepped from the pages of an African storybook.

None of them look as though they would belong in the same social venue, and yet all seem perfectly at ease here, with the possible exception of the young artist, and he seems like he'd probably feel much more at home if the woman he keeps glancing at and her friend were to leave.

Your travelling companion directs your attention to yet another table, where a regal-looking woman in a perfectly tailored black suit sits surveying the club, the glass of red wine in her hand matching perfectly her dark red nail polish, lipstick and silk blouse, the latter unbuttoned just a little too far to be respectable, but not quite far enough for scandal. Her legs are crossed, the slit in the side of her skirt revealing just a glimpse of lace-topped black stockings and garters. A subtle smile plays across her lips, as though she knows she's attracting attention, and enjoys it. Yet none of the patrons whose eyes wander towards her dare to approach her, despite the fact that she is sitting alone; she is surrounded by an air of authority that suggests that offending her might be a very bad idea. Your travelling companion whispers: "That's the owner!"

You've heard the rumours -- that the building, which had housed one nightclub after another for longer than anyone can remember, was bought some years ago by a wealthy, mysterious lady by the name of Daria Lunardon, who turned it into the strange place you now see. You know little about her, except that she's drawn attention both for her legendary beauty and apparent agelessness, and that she seems to be surrounded by never-quite-substantiated rumours of shady associations. Her husband, Connor Callahan, is apparently a highly sought-after business consultant with a reputation for being able to salvage any company's reputation, no matter how tainted, and engineer hostile takeovers that would make Machiavelli pale. But no one has ever been able to pin any solid evidence of wrongdoing on either of them. Rumour has it they are separated now, but judging by the volume of business the club is doing, you doubt that her fortunes will suffer any in the event of a divorce...

Your travelling companion leans close and whispers in your ear, confirming what you had been suspecting: that Daria Lunardon is not entirely human -- and that neither are many of the club's patrons. Dangerous Visions, she tells you, isn't just an ordinary club -- it's a gathering place for many of the supernatural creatures that haunt the World of Darkness.

"All of them?" you ask. "Like, vampires, werewolves, the works? But I thought I thought they, you know, didn't get along with each other..."

"A lot them don't," replies your companion. "But they don't fight with each other here. I mean, think about it: would you want to piss her off?" She indicates the red-haired bouncer, who spots you looking at her and scowls, displaying a disturbingly sharp-looking set of teeth. "She's been known to eat vampires! Or -- worse -- could you imagine getting on her bad side?" This time she points to Daria Lunardon, who turns and smiles knowingly, as if she has overheard your entire conversation, though she is not within earshot. Something in that smile sends a shiver down your spine, and somehow the very idea that you could even theoretically end up offending her makes you want to get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness in advance.

"But anyway," your companion continues, "any of the people that have caught your attention tonight can probably tell you more... Who would you like to talk to first?"

• The woman in the ripped jacket and her friend
• The young artist
• Daria Lunardon
• Back to main page
• Other options coming very soon...