It was the late 1800’s when it first happened.

Owing to a tear in the sky that seemed to stretch across the globe within seconds of its first appearance, another world opened up in front of the eyes of millions.

It was almost indistinguishable from our own, save for its inhabitants. Creatures thought to exist only in mythology, and in tales long passed down from mouth-to-mouth— even those thought to only belong in human imagination— began to appear and in no small numbers. Entire civilizations seemed to appear out of thin air, brought together with our own without warning.

There were violent skirmishes in those early days. The Rift, as it had been named, had frightened people. And frightened people lashed out.

It quickly became clear that our realm had changed as much as theirs, and that a new plan was needed in order to survive. It was late in 1902 that the Rift Accords were signed: cognizant races were recognized as having basic human rights, and were slowly introduced to human society.

Humans, in turn, sent their own representatives across the divide to their fantastical counterparts, and as the years passed, the animosity between the two realms became practically non-existent.

1952

You could always count on a crowd on a Friday night, especially at an establishment like Hell’s Handbasket— the city’s premiere gentlemen’s club.

Clouds of tobacco smoke swirled up into the air from the numerous tables that were scattered about the bar room. The walls and floors were dark wood, decorated with lavish silk curtains and imported rugs from across the Rift. Brass chandeliers dripping with crystals illuminated the space with a warm yellow glow.

The Handbasket’s customers— men of various races and extractions, wearing bespoke suits— found their every need catered to by a revolving door of waiters, while a jazz band to one elevated stage in the corner of the room played on. The club catered to its clientele as if they were kings, regardless of the walks of life they had hailed from: crime lords, incognito politicians, you name it. It was an unspoken rule that no questions would be asked regarding a man’s business dealings past the front doors of the club. The music was always just loud enough that the conversations about business and politics and the recent goings-on in the city remained barely unintelligible murmurs.

When the chandeliers began to dim, the band slowly faded into the background; the guests’ clamoring slowly rolled to a stop. Many regulars knew what was about to come next. The Handbasket, while infamous for many a good reason, was the home of the one and only Devil’s Songbird, after all.

Her likeness had been artfully rendered among many a flier the club had sent out to its customers: a red tiefling in a beautiful dress, seductively poised as she sang beside the printed letters of the time and date of her performance.

But no matter how beautifully she’d been depicted on paper in the latest artistic styles, nothing could compare to flesh and blood.

Motes of golden light descended from the ceiling, and flew towards the main stage, the central point of the room that all of the tables and booths were turned towards. The motes of light began to twinkle, and as the curtains of the stage parted, the woman of the hour stepped out, meeting the applause that rose up from the gathered crowd.

The Devil’s Songbird—Adora to those in the know—cut a striking figure on the stage. Her wine purple dress had no straps to speak off, and hugged her attractively buxom figure, sleek all the way down, like a second skin. Her skin was a bright ruby red, and twin bony protrusions in a shade darker sprouted out from the sides of her head, curling towards her cheeks like a ram’s horns. Her hair was beautifully curled, falling down her back and spilling over her bare shoulders like the spillage from an inkwell. Her heels clicked against the stage as she approached the microphone set out for her, and no sooner than her fingers brushed against the familiar metal, the band began to play one of the many songs she had chosen to sing for the evening.

Adora’s voice carried through the room, powerful and husky. As her performance began, the motes of light began to dance around the tiefling, as if drawn in by the emotion of her voice. The corners of her mouth curled up towards her eyes, her plump lips painted purple curving into the kind of smile that would have drawn in any man, any man at all.

But Adora had eyes for only one man in the crowd.

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