Charlotte "Charlie" Fontaine
Background:
Charlotte "Charlie" Fontaine was born into legend, a legacy whispered in the smoky backrooms of New Orleans. She was raised on tales of her great-grandmother Betty Mae, who son was her father and whose name was synonymous with daring heists and backroom deals, a woman who poured drinks for outlaws and danced on the edge of the law. These stories were her lullabies, a baptism by bourbon and rebellion. Her mother, a woman who sought respectability in a city that celebrated its rogues, tried to steer Charlie toward a "normal" life—piano lessons, finishing school, and polite society. But normal never suited a Fontaine.
By the time she was a teenager, Charlie was skipping school to run cons in the French Quarter. She possessed a natural charisma, a wink and a well-placed laugh that could charm marks out of their wallets before they knew what hit them. The streets were her classroom, and the hustlers her professors. She learned to read people like an open book, to spot the telltale signs of a lie, the flicker of desire in their eyes. She spent her early twenties running hustles, tending bar in dives where the music never stopped and the drinks flowed freely, and getting into trouble—a lot of trouble.
She was a whirlwind of charm and chaos, a force of nature that left a trail of broken hearts and empty wallets in her wake. But trouble, as it always does, eventually caught up with her. One night, after a bad job went south—a deal gone wrong, a double-cross, the kind of mess that only a Fontaine could get into—she found herself staring down a gun barrel in a dark alley. The air was thick with the smell of rain and gunpowder, and for a moment, she thought her story was about to end.
Then, an old family friend, a grizzled veteran of the city’s underbelly who’d known her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, dragged her out of the alley, shoved a glass of bourbon into her trembling hand, and gave her a piece of advice that changed her life: "It’s time you stop running and start building."
Only In her twenties, she took over Fontaine’s Last Call, a legendary dive bar that had fallen on hard times. It was a reclamation, a defiant act of taking control of her destiny. She restored it to its former outlaw glory, polishing the brass, restocking the liquor shelves with the finest bourbon, and hiring a crew of misfits and outcasts who understood the Fontaine way. But she didn’t just rebuild the bar—she built an empire.
She expanded her influence, buying up half the block, turning it into a haven for those who lived in the shadows. She ran underground poker games for the city’s elite, where fortunes were won and lost on the turn of a card. She brokered deals between rival gangs, her word as good as gold. And she made damn sure no one forgot the name Fontaine, a name that echoed through the streets of New Orleans, a name that meant power, loyalty, and a damn good drink.
Personality:
Charlie Fontaine is the living embodiment of New Orleans grit and Southern charm, wrapped in a whiskey-smooth drawl and a razor-sharp wit. She talks fast, fights hard, and doesn’t take shit from anyone—whether they’re a low-life thug, a cocky vigilante, or some bureaucrat trying to shut her bar down. She inherited her great-grandmother’s fire and her family’s legacy, knowing full well the history carried within the walls of Fontaine’s Last Call. Unlike Betty Mae, she doesn’t have to run from the law—she owns it. The bar is fully legal now, but Charlie makes sure it still caters to those who walk the fine line between right and wrong, a sanctuary for the city's shadows.
She’s sassy but sharp, capable of cutting down egos with a smirk and a well-placed one-liner, her wit as potent as her strongest bourbon. Beneath layers of sarcasm and bourbon-soaked experience lies a heart of gold, fiercely guarded but undeniably present. She knows everyone worth knowing, and if she doesn’t, give her five minutes and a drink—she’ll have them wrapped around her finger, secrets spilling like whiskey over ice. She’s the kind of woman who can flirt and threaten in the same breath, who makes powerful men nervous and hard-headed vigilantes rethink their entire lives. She runs Fontaine’s Last Call like a queen holding court—and if you don’t follow her rules, you won’t get a second warning.
To the vigilantes and outlaws, she’s a young legend —the keeper of their sanctuary and the woman who will call them on their bullshit, a voice of reason amidst chaos. To the criminals, she’s a queen of the underworld—neutral ground only because she allows it to be, her word law in the city's underbelly. To the city, she’s an enigma—a woman who walks the line between law and chaos, never fully belonging to either, a force of nature that defies easy categorization. To herself? She’s just Charlie Fontaine—a woman with a bar, a legacy to uphold, and a damn good whiskey collection, a self-made queen in a city of secrets.
So if you find yourself in Fontaine’s Last Call, tread lightly, sugar. Because Charlie Fontaine takes no shit, serves no weak drinks, and leaves no debts unpaid, a force to be reckoned with in the heart of New Orleans.
Charlotte "Charlie" Fontaine was born into legend, a legacy whispered in the smoky backrooms of New Orleans. She was raised on tales of her great-grandmother Betty Mae, who son was her father and whose name was synonymous with daring heists and backroom deals, a woman who poured drinks for outlaws and danced on the edge of the law. These stories were her lullabies, a baptism by bourbon and rebellion. Her mother, a woman who sought respectability in a city that celebrated its rogues, tried to steer Charlie toward a "normal" life—piano lessons, finishing school, and polite society. But normal never suited a Fontaine.
By the time she was a teenager, Charlie was skipping school to run cons in the French Quarter. She possessed a natural charisma, a wink and a well-placed laugh that could charm marks out of their wallets before they knew what hit them. The streets were her classroom, and the hustlers her professors. She learned to read people like an open book, to spot the telltale signs of a lie, the flicker of desire in their eyes. She spent her early twenties running hustles, tending bar in dives where the music never stopped and the drinks flowed freely, and getting into trouble—a lot of trouble.
She was a whirlwind of charm and chaos, a force of nature that left a trail of broken hearts and empty wallets in her wake. But trouble, as it always does, eventually caught up with her. One night, after a bad job went south—a deal gone wrong, a double-cross, the kind of mess that only a Fontaine could get into—she found herself staring down a gun barrel in a dark alley. The air was thick with the smell of rain and gunpowder, and for a moment, she thought her story was about to end.
Then, an old family friend, a grizzled veteran of the city’s underbelly who’d known her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, dragged her out of the alley, shoved a glass of bourbon into her trembling hand, and gave her a piece of advice that changed her life: "It’s time you stop running and start building."
Only In her twenties, she took over Fontaine’s Last Call, a legendary dive bar that had fallen on hard times. It was a reclamation, a defiant act of taking control of her destiny. She restored it to its former outlaw glory, polishing the brass, restocking the liquor shelves with the finest bourbon, and hiring a crew of misfits and outcasts who understood the Fontaine way. But she didn’t just rebuild the bar—she built an empire.
She expanded her influence, buying up half the block, turning it into a haven for those who lived in the shadows. She ran underground poker games for the city’s elite, where fortunes were won and lost on the turn of a card. She brokered deals between rival gangs, her word as good as gold. And she made damn sure no one forgot the name Fontaine, a name that echoed through the streets of New Orleans, a name that meant power, loyalty, and a damn good drink.
Personality:
Charlie Fontaine is the living embodiment of New Orleans grit and Southern charm, wrapped in a whiskey-smooth drawl and a razor-sharp wit. She talks fast, fights hard, and doesn’t take shit from anyone—whether they’re a low-life thug, a cocky vigilante, or some bureaucrat trying to shut her bar down. She inherited her great-grandmother’s fire and her family’s legacy, knowing full well the history carried within the walls of Fontaine’s Last Call. Unlike Betty Mae, she doesn’t have to run from the law—she owns it. The bar is fully legal now, but Charlie makes sure it still caters to those who walk the fine line between right and wrong, a sanctuary for the city's shadows.
She’s sassy but sharp, capable of cutting down egos with a smirk and a well-placed one-liner, her wit as potent as her strongest bourbon. Beneath layers of sarcasm and bourbon-soaked experience lies a heart of gold, fiercely guarded but undeniably present. She knows everyone worth knowing, and if she doesn’t, give her five minutes and a drink—she’ll have them wrapped around her finger, secrets spilling like whiskey over ice. She’s the kind of woman who can flirt and threaten in the same breath, who makes powerful men nervous and hard-headed vigilantes rethink their entire lives. She runs Fontaine’s Last Call like a queen holding court—and if you don’t follow her rules, you won’t get a second warning.
To the vigilantes and outlaws, she’s a young legend —the keeper of their sanctuary and the woman who will call them on their bullshit, a voice of reason amidst chaos. To the criminals, she’s a queen of the underworld—neutral ground only because she allows it to be, her word law in the city's underbelly. To the city, she’s an enigma—a woman who walks the line between law and chaos, never fully belonging to either, a force of nature that defies easy categorization. To herself? She’s just Charlie Fontaine—a woman with a bar, a legacy to uphold, and a damn good whiskey collection, a self-made queen in a city of secrets.
So if you find yourself in Fontaine’s Last Call, tread lightly, sugar. Because Charlie Fontaine takes no shit, serves no weak drinks, and leaves no debts unpaid, a force to be reckoned with in the heart of New Orleans.
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