Hailing from Poughkeepsie, New York, Laura Nilan headed west with dreams of being a famous vocalist for a band. She left with her parent's grudging blessing and a promise to return if it didn't work out. A few weeks and several wrong turns later she found herself in San Francisco trying desperately to hook up with a band while waiting tables. After a half dozen auditions she realized the painful truth: Larana, as she was now calling herself, couldn't sing a note. Since she still wanted to be in the music business, she decided to go into the talent end of the industry. Again her dreams were beyond her capabilities and she ended up being a media personality/uber-groupie. She's referred to in the underground as "The Kiss of Death," both for her reputed talents in the bedroom ad the fact that every band she takes interest in eventually loses its bite. This is due, of course, to her habit of Ravaging her protégés and she has ruined many good bands. She is more selfish than malicious and loves to name-drop.
Long, thin, and slinky, Larana may well have resurrected singlehandedly the sleeveless crushed velvet dress. She is pale, with sharp features and long fingernails; the lates thing in post-goth pallor. She's never seen without her sunglasses, even in the middle of the dingiest of clubs. To the eyes of Glamour she takes on a whole new grace as her jewelry snakes around her in fantastical patterns.