Among God's and Men: The Ambrosia Case
Project Overview
Amongs Gods and Men: The Ambrosia Case
In a world where gods have fallen from myth and now live alongside mortals in the sprawling super-metropolis of New Babylon, crime doesn't sleep—it evolves. When a powerful and mysterious drug called Ambrosia begins killing even demigods, hard-boiled ex-cop turned private investigator Vincent Ramirez is pulled into a case that threatens to upend the delicate balance between divine and human society.
With the help of sharp-tongued investigative journalist Lyla Ross and his court-appointed mythological assistant, a snarky Deer Lady named Doe, Vincent navigates the city’s supernatural underbelly—from sun gods and biker gangs to divine weapons and ancient secrets.
But as bodies fall and the clues point toward something more terrifying than just drug trafficking, Vincent must confront not only the darkness in the city—but the divine mystery lingering inside himself.
A gritty urban fantasy noir where myth meets modern crime and gods bleed like men.
This project's going to be a full cast podcast show. We're looking for voice Actors/actresses with good quality voice recording equipment who are ready and able. The deadline is flexible.
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Lyla Ross
Occupation: Investigative Journalist
Age: 27
Race: Human
Affiliation: Independent press, occasional partner-in-chaos to Vincent Ramirez
Physical Description:
Lyla is athletic, striking, and always dressed like she’s ready to chase a lead—or start a fire. Her short, dark hair is usually tousled from running down sources or sprinting out of trouble. Sharp green eyes miss nothing, and her expression constantly shifts between amused defiance and intense focus. She favors layered jackets, boots built for speed, and carries a worn leather notebook like a weapon.
Personality:
Relentless, witty, and fearless to a fault. Lyla lives for the story, even if it kills her—which it nearly has, several times. She’s charming when it helps, blunt when it matters, and clever enough to talk her way into places bullets can’t reach. While her curiosity drives her, it’s her empathy that grounds her—she wants the truth, but she also wants justice. Deep down, she admires Vincent, even if she never lets him get the last word.
- all american accents
- female adult
- british
1. (Sarcastic, playful): "What, no thank you? I only saved your brooding ass twice today." 2. (Focused, determined): "I don't chase stories—I chase the truth. There's a difference." 3. (To Vincent, amused): "You’ve got the charm of a busted vending machine, you know that?" 4. (Challenging, unafraid): "Say that again, and I’ll print it in bold—under 'idiot of the week'." 5. (Low and serious): "If this drug can kill a god, imagine what it’s doing to everyone else." 6. (Mocking a threat): "Careful. I bite harder than your ego." 7. (To herself, under breath): "Great. Another dead body, another ruined pair of boots." 8. (Defiant, fired up): "You want me to back off? Get a court order. Or a miracle." 9. (To a source, earnestly): "Help me tell your story. Before someone else buries it." 10. (Darkly humorous): "I’ve been chased by gods, sued by demons, and ghosted by three exes. Try me."
LYLA ROSS – Reflective Perspective (Narration style, private) Tone: Thoughtful, low, a mix of admiration and concern. LYLA: "I saw him do it once—just once. One shot, two monsters down. A centaur and a minotaur, both foaming for blood. Vincent didn’t flinch. He just watched them charge like he was watching the tide roll in. Then he drew that gun. You don’t understand till you see it—the way that .357 gleams like something pulled out of legend, like it remembers Olympus and resents the fall. He didn’t shoot at them. He shot the damn air. And it was like the street cracked open from the pressure. The centaur slammed into a wall. The minotaur collapsed like a sack of bricks. Vincent just stood there. Holstered the gun like it was nothing. Lit a cigarette with the same hand. People say gods can’t be touched by mortals. I saw a man with a coat full of trauma and a god-gun knock two myths into the pavement without breaking a sweat. But afterward, when the street was quiet? He looked tired. Not proud. Just… tired."
Gregory “Greg” Ironhoof
Species: Centaur
Occupation: NBPD Officer – First Responder Unit
Age: 42 (in centaur years; roughly mid-50s human equivalent)
Division: Olympus District Patrol
---
Physical Description:
Towering at over eight feet tall from hoof to crown, Greg is an intimidating presence on any scene. His lower half resembles a powerful draft horse—sleek gray coat, battle-scarred from years on the beat. His upper body is built like a linebacker crossed with a riot shield: broad shoulders, thick arms, and a chest like a brick wall. His face is weathered but kind—square jaw, dark eyes, and a tightly kept salt-and-pepper beard. Always dressed in reinforced NBPD armor customized for his centaur frame, complete with badge emblazoned on a leather strap across his chest.
---
Personality:
A gentle soul in a warhorse’s body. Greg is calm, thoughtful, and deeply loyal—especially to those he served with. Despite his size and gruff exterior, he’s a peacekeeper first, enforcer second. He walks softly but carries a stun baton that could down a demigod. He’s known in the department for de-escalating volatile scenes with patience and empathy, though when forced into action, he moves like thunder.
Greg was Vincent’s partner during his days on the force, and though the two went separate ways after Vincent left, Greg never stopped looking out for him. He doesn’t judge—he just asks the hard questions, and he waits until you’re ready to answer them.
- creature
- Gentle
- generic scottish
- deep
- male adult
- adult
GREGORY IRONHOOF (slight Scottish accent, nostalgic, steady): "Aye, I was there that night—well, not in the alley itself, but close enough to hear the shot echo three blocks down like a divine thunderclap. Two big bastards, a centaur and a minotaur—mean ones, too. Not like me. These were the type that sharpen their teeth and dull their sense. Word is, they’d been lookin’ for Ramirez. Grudges don’t die easy in New Babylon. Anyway… Vince don’t run. Never has. He waits. Lets ‘em come. And then—just one shot. Not into them, no. Into the bloody air. Whatever that gun is—blessed, cursed, forged in the furnace of some forgotten forge—it speaks loud. Real loud. And it listens to him. The centaur hit a wall so hard it cracked. The minotaur folded like a prayer in a house fire. Neither of ‘em dead. Just done. And Vince? He holstered that iron like he just flicked a cigarette. He’s got this look sometimes, y’know? Like he’s seen somethin’ bigger than gods, and he’s waitin’ for it to catch up to him. Folk say he’s just a man. But I’ve worked with him. And lemme tell ye—there’s nothin’ ‘just’ about Vincent Ramirez."
Vincent Ramirez
Occupation: Private Investigator
Age: 34
Race: Human (with a mysterious divine presence)
Former: NBPD Detective
Physical Description:
Vincent is tall, lean, and perpetually shadowed by a three-day stubble and a heavy trench coat that’s seen better decades. His dark hair is always a little unkempt, his hazel eyes sharp but weary—like someone who’s memorized every kind of regret. A faint scar runs just beneath his right eye, a silent story from his days on the force. He walks like a man with too much weight in his pockets and even more in his past. Always armed, always watching.
Personality:
Cynical but grounded, Vincent lives by his instincts and a code most would call outdated. He’s not quick to trust, slow to forgive, and even slower to forget. While his humor is dry and coated in sarcasm, it masks a sharp intellect and a fierce sense of justice. He’s haunted by choices he won’t talk about, and by something else—something divine he doesn’t understand and refuses to explain. To those who know him, he’s the last man standing in a city that forgot how to stand for anything.
- male adult
- all american accents
1. (Dry sarcasm, deadpan): "You want the truth, or the version that doesn’t get me killed?" 2. (Commanding, in control): "Drop the weapon. I’m not asking twice." 3. (Tired but sharp): "I've seen gods bleed and men beg. You're not special." 4. (To a suspect, quietly intense): "You’ve got ten seconds to convince me you’re not lying. Nine." 5. (Reflective, grim): "This city’s built on secrets and blood. And I’ve got both on my shoes." 6. (To Lyla, half amused): "You ask too many questions. I like that. It’s gonna get you killed." 7. (To himself, low and brooding): "Can’t outrun the past when it walks beside you." 8. (Mocking a threat): "If I had a coin for every god that tried to scare me... I’d still be broke, but amused." 9. (Low, dark warning): "Touch her again, and I’ll show you what a mortal with nothing left can do." 10. (Flat, to a deity): "You're divine. I’m disposable. Let’s see who bleeds first."
VINCENT RAMIREZ (Low, introspective, slightly buzzed): "You ever stop to think about how loud silence can be? 'Cause I do. Every damn night. Yeah… I took 'em down. Centaur and a minotaur. Big guys. Strong. Dumb as temple bricks. One was pissed I arrested his brother; the other just wanted to make a name. Came at me together—like I was some kind of mortal warm-up. I waited. Let the thunder hit the ground first—those hooves, that charge. Then I pulled it—my .357. Not just any gun. It’s divine. Last gift from Vulcan before he vanished. Thing don’t need to aim. It listens. I fired once. Just once. Not at them. Into the air. The pressure cracked the sky open. When the dust settled… they weren’t dead. Just lying there. Breathing. Shaken. I didn’t want to kill ‘em. Hell… part of me wanted them to get up, try again, maybe walk away smarter. But they didn’t. They just… laid there. And me? I just holstered the piece, finished my cigarette, and kept walking. Thing is… it ain’t the power that gets to you. It’s knowing how close you are to using it wrong."
Doe
Full Name: Unknown (goes by “Doe”)
Species: Deer Lady (Native American mythology)
Age: Appears 17–18 (Actual age unknown)
Occupation: Vincent’s “intern” (court-ordered community service)
Charges: Petty theft, illegal divine scavenging, four counts of disrespecting local authority
---
Physical Description:
Doe is deceptively petite—lean build, tan skin, and big amber eyes that seem to roll at everything. Her long black hair is usually tied in messy braids with charms, bottle caps, or zip ties woven in. At first glance she looks like a rebellious teen with a penchant for combat boots and oversized hoodies. But catch her in the right light and you’ll notice the faint shimmer of her antlers beneath her hood, the unnaturally perfect stillness when she listens, or the sharp glint in her eyes that’s more predator than prey. Her legs taper into delicate deer hooves, silent on tile but deadly in a roundhouse.
---
Personality:
A smart-mouthed cryptid with a heart she pretends not to have. Doe is sarcastic, fiercely independent, and allergic to authority. She treats rules as polite suggestions and treats Vincent as an overworked babysitter. But beneath the snark and hooved sass is a sharp mind, a keen eye for danger, and a strangely profound sense of justice—just hidden behind layers of teenage rebellion and enchanted sarcasm. She claims to be “reformed” and 12% serious about it.
Vincent may have taken her in as a favor to the courts, but she’s quickly become the unofficial backbone of his chaos-fueled operation. Whether he likes it or not.
- female teen
DOE – Mockingly Retelling the Story (Performance, exaggerated) Tone: Snarky, overly dramatic, like she’s telling this to impress tourists or annoy Vincent. DOE: "Ooooh boy, you haven’t lived till you’ve heard Vincent's big ‘one bullet’ bedtime story. Picture this: moody noir man in a trench coat, trenchier than usual, brooding like the rent’s overdue on his soul. Suddenly—bam! A centaur busts outta nowhere. Hooves blazing. Angry. Probably hangry. And right behind him? A minotaur with biceps the size of tree trunks and exactly zero impulse control. But does our guy flinch? Nope. He sighs. Sighs. Like, ‘Ugh, again?’ Then—cue divine magic sparkles—he whips out his god-blessed, fate-kissed, probably-cursed .357 and fires one shot. Just one. Into the air. And reality cries a little. Next thing you know, the centaur’s faceplants into a vending machine, the minotaur folds like bad origami, and Vince just lights a cigarette like he didn’t just commit Greek-flavored crowd control. And what does he say? Probably something tragic and manly like, ‘Justice is heavy.’ Ten outta ten. Would watch again.”
Artist Wanted – Cover Art Commission
We’re looking for a talented artist to create the cover art for our upcoming story:
Among Gods and Men: The Ambrosia Case
A gritty urban fantasy noir where myth meets modern crime—and gods bleed like men.
What We’re Looking For:
-A gritty, atmospheric style that blends urban noir with mythological themes
-Experience with book covers or concept illustration preferred
-Willing to collaborate on visual direction and character vibes
- english
- adobe photoshop
- adobe illustrator
- clip studio paint
- procreate
*Say something you think would fit*
Poseidon
Age Appearance: Late 50s
Race: Olympian God (Fallen)
Occupation: Member of the Fallen Council, Mayoral Candidate
Physical Description:
Poseidon is the embodiment of ageless power dressed in aging glamor. Standing well over six feet tall, he exudes a commanding presence that mixes old-world divinity with political polish. His long, storm-dark hair cascades past his shoulders in disciplined waves, streaked with silver like seafoam against black depths. His golden irises shimmer faintly, catching light like coins at the bottom of a well — a trait shared by all fallen gods, though his seem particularly unreadable, like storm clouds hiding something worse.
His sun-kissed skin bears a strange, otherworldly sheen. Thin, translucent oceanic scales ripple faintly across his collarbone, jawline, and forearms — visible only in the right light, like water just under the skin. His wardrobe is flawless: tailored suits with deep blues and metallic silvers, always accented by a lapel pin in the shape of a trident or ancient helm.
Personality Description:
Poseidon is charisma with undertow — eloquent, regal, and deeply manipulative. He speaks like a savior, moves like a statesman, and thinks like a conqueror. Beneath his calm exterior lies a vast and calculating mind that never forgets a slight and never forgives weakness. He is known for his measured patience, but when provoked, his rage can be as catastrophic as the tsunamis he once summoned in myth.
While many gods have decayed in exile, Poseidon has adapted — mastering bureaucracy, media, and public perception with ruthless finesse. He promises to restore order to New Babylon, but what he truly wants is dominion, and he believes the city — and perhaps the world — is long overdue for a return to divine rule.
- english
- male adult
- all english accents
- all american accents
- Deep Voice
- condescending
- Cunning
(Mayoral Campaign Speech) > POSEIDON (deep, regal, condescending): "Citizens of New Babylon... I see your streets choked with rot, your sons and daughters poisoned by ambition sold in glass vials, and your so-called protectors too weak to lift a finger. But I am no priest, no puppet, no ‘man of the people’ — I am Poseidon. And if you grant me this seat of power, I will drown every den of filth, wash away the traffickers, the dealers, the liars, and the cowards, until this city remembers what it means to kneel before order. You want salvation? Then vote for the storm. Vote for me."
Astrid “Hel’s Blade” — Physical Description
Astrid is a 28-year-old human with dark tanned skin, wild curly hair shaped into a messy Mohawk, and more metal in her piercings than most people have in their kitchen drawers. Silver rings line her ears, a septum ring hangs at the center of her nose, and small spikes decorate her brows and lips.
She’s lean and wiry, built for speed and close-quarters violence — every movement quick, coiled, and deliberate. Knife scars lace her hands and forearms, trophies of fights she started and ended herself. Her eyes are sharp hazel, always calculating and dangerously alive. She wears biker leathers marked by the Sons of Odin, smelling of engine smoke, cold steel, and adrenaline.
Astrid “Hel’s Blade” — Personality Description
Astrid is volatile, charismatic, and dangerously unpredictable — a woman who treats fear like currency and violence like a form of art. She’s flirtatious in a way that feels like a blade tracing your jawline: intoxicating, but always one second away from drawing blood.
She’s fiercely loyal to Eirik, almost obsessively so, and follows his orders with a devotion that borders on zealotry. Astrid thrives in chaos, laughs at danger, and enjoys pushing people to their limit just to see them squirm. Impulsive, fearless, and clever in a street-savage way, she’s the kind of person who might kiss you or cut you depending on how the wind blows — and sometimes she’ll do both.
- english
- female adult
(Volatile • Flirtatious • Unpredictable • Knife-Ready) Five Audition Lines 1. (Flirtatious, leaning in close, tone sweet but dripping with threat) “Careful, handsome… the last man who tried telling me what to do left the room a little lighter. About a head's worth lighter.” 2. (Explosively angry, then suddenly calm) “You calling me crazy?—” (laughs, too long) “—Honey… I invented crazy.” 3. (Mocking a scared target) “Oh relax. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be bleeding. I’m just deciding how much you deserve.” 4. (Cold devotion to Eirik) “Eirik gives an order, I carve it into bone. That’s how things work in the Sons of Odin.” 5. (Playful, knife flipping between her fingers) “You know what I love about men? The good ones bruise easy… and the smart ones run.”
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