Beatrix "Sasha" Marshall

"I couldn't tell you
Why she felt that way
She felt it every day
I couldn't help her
I just watched her make
The same mistakes again

What's wrong, what's wrong now
Too many, too many problems
Don't know where she belongs
Where she belongs

She wants to go home but nobody's home
That's where she lies broken inside
With no place to go, no place to go
To dry her eyes, broken inside..."


Nature:      Addict   Demeanor:      Survivor     Willpower:



Strength:   2    Charisma:   2    Perception:   4
Dexterity:   3    Manipulation:   4    Intelligence:   2
Stamina:   2    Appearance   2    Wits:   2


Alertness:   3 Animal Ken:   0 Academics:   0
Athletics:   2 Crafts:   0 Computer:   0
Brawl:   1 Drive:   0   Finance:   0
Dodge:   1 Etiquette:   1   Investigation:   1
Empathy:   2 Firearms:   0 Law:   1
Expression:   0 Melee:   1 Linguistics:   1
Intimidation:   1   Performance:   1 Medicine:   2
Leadership:   0   Security:   2 Occult:   0
Streetwise:   3 Stealth:   2 Politics:   0
Subterfuge:   2 Survival:   1 Science:   0


Psychic Vampirism:   2   Pyrokinesis:   1   Celerity    1 
Presence:   1        


Allies:   2   Contacts:   3       


Awareness:   2   Seduction:   4       


Merits Flaws
  Flirt      Addiction: Cocaine
  Great Liar       Phobia: Wolves
    Romantic Notions
      Criminal Record: Prostitution

Manipulation: Playing People
Seduction: Whoring

Blood-Bound to Ammon Black

Allies: Her allies are Candice "Candy" Warde, a street whore who occasionally lets her stay at her place...but only from time to time, when the other woman's pimp doesn't know. The other one is her heroin and coke dealer, Bret Emery Harrison, a student at Columbia University. He's an ally because he will occasionally give her a score, in return for a couple hours of exceptionally rough sex (which usually leaves her with a few Health Levels worth of Bashing Damage).

Contacts: Her contacts are a beat cop, Shaun Gallagher, who occasionally tips her off to sweeps or other notable information in return for a trick, and Trina Houston, another whore who keeps her up to date on all the wierd shit that goes down.

Phobia (Wolves): Sasha was told by her ex-boyfriend, Micah, about Garou. He died under mysterious cricumstances, and she's convinced they killed him because of it, and she's scared to death of anything Garou-like (even regular wolves scare the piss out of her).

Romantic Notions: Sasha believes (perhaps rightly so) that her new life as a ghoul is light-years better then her old one. There was too much pain and trauma in her old life, and she's slavishly devoted to Ammon.

Addiction (Cocaine): Sasha went through most of her life as a heroin junkie. Micah Carrington fixed her of that, but when he died, she moved in with Alexia Rottersheim. Alexia was a cocaine user, and she soon found herself falling back on old habits; in this case, she transferred her addiction to Lexi's drug of choice, out of ease of availability.

Old Description:
This is what youth looks like when it's been tossed into a blender and set to "puree." Dressed in a dingy white T-Shirt with a picture of a pixie on it that's tied into a knot a few inches above the waist, a pair of worn jeans, and an old pair of sneakers, the young woman is very much a child of the streets. She can't be much older then the mid-20's, and her black hair, stringy and a little knotted, frames a youthful face that projects a simultaneous world-weary cynicism and innocent flirtatiousness. Her eyeliner is a bit heavy, circling blue eyes slightly dulled by years on the streets.

New Standard Description:

This is what youth looks like when it's been tossed into a blender and set to "puree." Dressed in a red And black lace trim cami, a pair of blue jeans, and a newish pair of shoes, the young woman looks very much like a child of the Modern Age, worn down by life. She can't be much older then the mid-20's, and her black hair, shoulder-length and straight, frames a youthful face that projects a simultaneous world-weary cynicism and innocent flirtatiousness. Around her neck is a small, tasteful silver chain.  Her make-up is just a hint toward overdone, with a vague impression toward being fairy-like. Her eyeliner is a bit heavy, circling blue eyes slightly hazed by whatever designer drug she's taken, desperate to have a good time.

A knife, about three-inches long, that she uses in defense, in a last-case scenario. (Str+1L damage)

Several sets of "sexy" clothes (bought by Ammon Black)
Her knife
Cell phone
Usually, a tap or two of ecstacy

"What, you wanna know my life?"

She took a drag off of her cigarette, leaning against the wall of the subway stop, and looked my way. Christ, the girl's only 21, 22 much can it be? My eyes passed over her, and I couldn't help but appreciate. Was she attractive? No, I wouldn't go that far. But she wasn't ugly, either, and she obviously knew the game. The way she leaned, hips jutted out slightly...that slightly-impish look in the eyes. Yeah, she was a pro, however long she'd been out here. I nodded to her.

"Yeah, I do." An index finger pushed the glasses up my nose, and I looked around furtively. "I'm doing an article for the Times about teenage prostitutes, and their reliance in the drug culture."

"Ah ha." She nodded, smirking a bit. "And what makes you think I'm into drugs?" She looked me up and down, a little derision in her face. "What, the poor little whore must've been a druggie to get where she is, is that it?"

"N-n-no," I stammered out, shaking my head. "I'm sorry, I just...that was wrong of me. Sorry to take up your time."

I turned, starting to leave, but her voice stopped me. "Price is the same, whether you're fucking me or coughing up my autoibiography. A hundred bucks."

I blink...that was unexpected. I was hoping she'd go for fifty, or even twenty. At my hesitance, though, she gets that look in her eyes...that derision and self-pity. She must think I have no respect for her whatsoever...after all, I just assumed she was on drugs. A nod, and I fish out a couple fifties, handing them out. They're gone before I totally extend my hand, snatched up and stuffed into a pocket.

"Perfect." She grins, taking the last drag off her cigarette and flicking it away. "So, you want from just the drugs onward, or the whole shebang?"

" said you didn't do drugs."

"No, I asked what made you think I was into them." She grins like the cat who has the canary right in her mouth. "You assumed I didn't."

I blink, as I realize she's right. Damn, she's good. Guilted me into paying up. With a sigh, I look at her. "For a hundred bucks, you'd better give me the whole story."

She smirks, and nods. "All right, Poindexter. You asked for it." She flicks the cigarette away, out into the street, and begins.

"First off, my name ain't Sasha. You're probably not surprised by that, right? I mean, I'm hardly the first girl you've run into and interviewed...few of us actually us our real names. Name's Beatrix Marshall. Born and raised in Belmont, New York Population 952. That's big enough to be the County Seat for Alleghany County, if you can fuckin' believe that shit. Mom was a lawyer, Dad was the mayor. Yeah, we had it good as anyone in piss-fuck suburbia can have it, at least. Oh, except for Mommy's cocaine habit. Yeah, that wasn't quite so good. Or Daddy's fucking his scretaries on the side. His male secretaries. His 16 and 17-year-old male secretaries. Yeah. That kinda sucked."

She grins a little and reaches toward me. I frown and start to back away, but she's too fast, and she plucks the pack of cigarettes out of my shirt pocket and steals one, before putting the rest in the pocket of her black hoodie. I could protest, but it's kind of pointless at this point. She lights the cigarette, and moves on.

"So, anyway. Mayor Daddy Marshall got himself caught with his dick in the ass of an intern--this one was 15, by the way--and that was pretty much it for the fam. Daddy went away to jail, Mom lost her law practice. And we found ourselves, very quickly, livin' on the streets, doing what we could to survive. I was..." She pauses a moment, thinking. "Nine, I think? Something like that."

"Why didn't your mother try and get another job?"

"Oooh, good question." She rolls her eyes. "The woman was a cokehead, retard. She was too busy looking for the next fix to actually give a damn about paying for the fix." A drag off the cigarette. "Anyway, we found ourselves on the street, and pretty soon, Mommy Dearest forgot all about me. Of course, maybe it was the massive bleeding from the gunshot wound to the head that did it. Mom tried to steal some coke...dumb bitch. And she found herself in a dumpster. I was ten now, and I had no way of surviving, except for the obvious. Of course, that wasn't obvious to me. It was obvious to the guy who took me in and pimped me out, though."

"At ten??"

A snort comes from her. "What, you think that's young? Shit, I've seen eight-year-olds pimped out, to the right people who can afford them. Yeah, ten. And I stayed with my pimp for a good six years, too. 'Big Ace,' he went by. Honestly, not a bad man, if you get past the fact that he was profiting off a pre-adolescent's snatch. Kept me safe, gave me food, never fucked me himself. He was a fairly honorable man, as pimps go. Only even ever hit me once. Sure, he hit me hard enough to break my arm, but at least he got it fixed."

I do my best not to look disgusted. "So why did you, ah, leave?"

She shrugs. "Didn't leave. Big Ace found out that a Full House beats Ace-High. See, the full house was the gangbangers he pissed off by trying to deal in his neighborhood. And Ace and I both were high as a kite hanging off the Stature of Liberty's big ol' flame when they busted in. They capped Ace, beat me senseless. Docs said I was raped five or six times...I don't recall, though. Probably a good thing, if I stopped to think about it." The casualness with which she's saying all of this is just stunning. "Stayed in the hospital for about two months, before being released to Child Services. They were able to hold me for about a week before I got away."

"Why didn't you stay with the CSD?" I frown. "They could have helped you."

She snorts again. "Oh, yeah, 'cause foster care's where it's at, right? I tell you want, Smart Guy. Why don't you take a survey of how many kids in foster care are still virgins, thanks to their new parents? How many don't have broken bones from not cleaning up the dishes right?" There's an anger there, suddenly, that surprises me. She shakes her head, expression dark. "No, bullshit. At least on the streets, I had a say on who got my ass, and made money off of it. Not some drunk 45-year-old electrician named Steve with a wifebeater and one too many Hamm's in him."

"All right, all right." I try to be calming, but I sound more scared. "So then what?"

She takes a drag of the cigarette, quickly calming. "Well...I was in Albany by this point, but not making shit. There's a certain market for the young types, and oddly, Albany didn't have it. So I hitch-hiked my way into New York City. And once here, I found a LOT of work."

"Uh huh." She actually seemed pleased at sad. "And when was this?"

"Five years ago."

"Got it." He nods. "And since then, you've been prostituting, and on drugs, as well, I assume?"

A shrug, as if it should be obvious. "Well, yeah. Not much else for me to do. Don't have a skill. And drugs are just a part of the business, you know?" She glances around the subway stop, then back to him.

"I see. And what drugs do you use, as a general rule?"

"Smack." There it is, just like that. The girl just tossed off that she was a heroin user, as easily as one might say that they say that their eyes were blue, or their hair was black. "Also a little coke on the side."

"Why heroin?"

"Why not?" She looks me over, that defensiveness flashing back into her face. "What, would it be better if I just did pot or X? Shit, man, sometimes, you get hurt. Bad. Heroin kills the pain."

"Until you get hooked on it."

She just responds to that with a shrug, and flicks the second cigarette butt away. It flies onto the subway tracks. "So, here I've been, since 2000, working and trying to make a living. Not the most fun job in the world, but hey, you survive however you can, right?" Her eyes flick back to me. "We done here?"

I nod, with a sigh. "Yeah, I think we're done. Thank you, Sasha. You have a nice day."

A derisive chuckle escapes her lips. "Yeah, you two, Poindexter. Have fun with writing that article." She watches me as I head off, shaking my head. Poor girl. She's had a rough life, it sounds like. I can't help but feel pity for her, as I head back home, to do some research. This was going to be one hell of a story.

Article in the New York Times, dated 6/18/93


Belmont Mayor William Marshall committed suicide, one day after allegations came to light that he had sexually molested his adopted daughter for several years. Marshall took his own life with a .38 revolver during a press conference, with his wife Alice and daughter Beatrix nearby, after claiming Beatrix had 'sucked his will dry and turned him into a monster.' Mother and daughter were under police protection following the incident...

And so Sasha found herself in New York City, the homeless junkie, selling herself for a high.  Things progressed along normally, until a streak of bad luck hit.  After insulting an albino woman at a carnival, she found herself in a rash of horrible luck.  She was tripping, clients weren't calling...she nearly got raped by a Voodoo priest who was trying to get her to work for a pimp he knew.  She found a friend of sorts, though, in Gunther Berg, a dealer who was willing to sell her shit.  Through Gunther, she met Ita, a well-known prostitute...and through Ita, she became re-acquainted with an old friend, Micah Carrington.


On her way to NYC