Vampire The Masquerade RPG
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The Times
The Kindred Chronicle
Key Figures
THE MONSTER OF EALING
Last night, several people reported the sighting of a "screaming red monster" in a quiet neighbourhood of Ealing. After a power shortage in the area, a building caught fire. It was then when, what was described as a "man shaped, footless creature" emerged from the flames, leaping, running, and screaming. One woman has told our reporters that the man had "teeth like a wolf, and the face of the devil". Police officers are still trying to get to the bottom of this; neither the power shortage nor the fire have still been explained. A spokesperson from Scotland Yard has stated that the "so called monster" might be a wounded person, escaping the fire.

TRAGEDY IN TOOLEY STREET
The police has found the bodies of three TFL workers in the construction site at Tooley Street. One of their colleagues raised the alarms last week, when the three workers didn't attend their shifts. The bodies of the men have been found in a deep hole, uncovered by the refurbishment works that are taking place in the area. According to the Police, the bodies were horribly mutilated, which has led to the wildest speculations. The names of the three workers are being kept anonymous, following the wishes of their families.

HOROSCOPE
MARCH 8 - PISCES
You are used to making sacrifices, to prioritising the happiness of others before yours. Even though that is a noble attitude, there are times in life where the only healthy alternative is to embrace your own selfishness and allow yourself some enjoyment. Reserve one hour per day to do something you really like. Treat yourself! Your colour for this month is blue.
Echoes from the past ring back into London. Their intensity increases until they are deafening. What once was a faded memory of a glorious time, now becomes a shocking reality. The consequences of actions taken decades ago ripple into the present, altering the lives of everybody in the City. Unguided and blind, Kindred wander around, trying to make profit out of the reigning chaos.


The appearance of four mysterious figures turned the city upside down. Mistrust and jealousy became the official currency of London. Serpents and fiends rise to power, misdirecting the blaming eyes of the Camarilla towards imaginary enemies. Only those with clear vision and the ability to trust each other strive, while the rest run towards a shallow grave.



Across The Board
Current Chronicle: Dragons and Lions; Pride and Fire
Current Season: Spring
Controlling Sect: Camarilla



Index
Getting Started
General Information
Central London
North London
East London
West London
South London
Miscellaneous
Out of Character


Population: 31

Camarilla
Anarchs
Other
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 5 (6)
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 7
Tremere: 2
Nosferatu: 3
Gangrel: 1
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 0
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 0
Nosferatu: 1
Gangrel: 1
Setites: 5
Sabbat: ???


THE CAMARILLA

Prince

Nobody

Sheriff
Meredith Furlong
Hounds
Robyne Sheridan
Rosella Marie Allain


Keeper of Elysium
Davvad Bisset

Grand Harpy
Catherine Wilke

Primogen
Ventrue: Marcus Antonio Russo
Brujah: Thomas Krusen
Gangrel: Alexa Mallik
Malkavian: Ellora Reese
Tremere: Hannah Sundling
Toreador: Arsenio Pozzi
Nosferatu: Dogan Khojak



ANARCHS

Baron

Khoza

Baronets
Enfield: Leslie
Haringey & Barnet: Clarice Harris
Harrow: Jelena Korolenko

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Welcome To The Night

You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality.

This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories.

Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness.

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[CLOSED] - P&P - Character Submission; Throw your character here
Topic Started: Monday, 9. February 2015, 11:36 (2,162 Views)
Graham Mason
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Steak Tartare (YODO)

NOTE: P&P = Pawns & Puppets

Post your characters here. Use these template, please:

Portrait:
Name:
Age:
Place of birth:
Age of embrace:
Clan:
Derangements:
Disciplines:
Appearance:
Haven:
History:
Path of Enlightenment:
Notes:
Oh no! My souffle!
"Words", stress level, "MetaMason", "THEVOICEOFREASON"
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Iris Jacobsen
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Skuld of the North
* * * *
Portrait: Posted Image
Name: Grath
Age: 45
Place of birth: Montreal
Age at embrace: 30
Clan: City Gangrel
Derangements: After his embrace Grath speaks using Illeism. He cannot control it, and resents people thinking he is stupid for it.
Disciplines: Obfuscate 2 / Celerity / Protean 3
Appearance: Grath has a very pig like head a spurt of black hair above it. He wears a deep hoodie and wears mostly black jackets and jeans to hide in the shadows.
Haven: Communal haven.
History: Grath was once known as Phillip Donovan Case. Philip was a very intelligent boy with a bright future cut short by the poverty of his family. He made it through high school with highest marks. When other amazing students went to college he went to work for his father in construction. He put away the childish goal of furthering his education and began to lift weights to deal with the frustration of his future. His intelligence would never be recognized, what was the point of studying on the weekend if knowing all these facts got him nothing in life?
He made a decent amount of cash monthly but even into his adult life his father took over half his paycheck to gamble with. His father was always saying he would pay Phillip back when they were rich. Phillip felt he had no escape, he could physically demolish his father, but the idea was something that was wrong. The world had no justice, why fight it?
When his father stopped working, he needed to support dad and mom himself. They controlled his bank accounts, he was forced to move back in and deal with the endless berating. At first he slept on the couch, then his mother who liked to wake early and watch her soaps demoted him to a dog bed. The only thing that made him relax was his workout and work. He was never a hit with the ladies, he was too much of a push over to ask for a raise. All the strength in the world was worthless without the will to act. He generally worked a 70 hour week. He never wanted to move from what he had become.
One night after he discovered his phone was missing. He believed he left it at the construction yard, and that was where he was taken. He tried to fight, he tried to run, but even his immense strength meant nothing. Bound and thrown in the back of a van he thought it a bizarre kidnapping, but why kidnap him? He had never had his own money, his own life or his own freedom.
Then the blood was sucked.
Then...
Then down the hole.
The others surrounded.
The others died.
Wrath filled him to the bones.
When he immerged he found his face had changed, and he screamed his Wrath. When the madness subsided, all they called him was Grath, as his screams with a new throat, a new mouth simply sounded like.
After he tasted his family he was given a new task. He was to destroy his parents, in the worst ways he possibly could imagine. He knew what to do the moment they asked him, he had been fanaticizing this moment for his entire adult life. That night he conquered his old life. He found lusts at home in his heart, he left their one bedroom where he had slept on the dog bed. When the cops found the bodies they called it madness. His new family called it Grath.
Grath had no job, Grath had no worries of money. Grath finally had peace to find what he loved, and that was testing the limits of his new form and learning the way of the ancient that had given Grath such immense power. Grath loved Caine. He read the stories, memorized them to heart. Lived with his way.
As years passed Grath worked on his own style of battle. Grath was a good scout. When battle was struck Grath stuck to the shadows that love Grath so. Grath waits for the right time. If a family member is under great threat, Grath will come to save them. If Grath's strike destroys morale, Grath strikes. If a worthless enemy vampire is about to die, Grath sucks them dry to be closer to Caine. Some call Grath a craven. Some call Grath a thief. Some call Grath an idiot. Grath is NOT DUMB. Grath waits and watches to help the family. Grath teaches others the way of Caine those who are worthy. Grath's old ductus sent Grath to London. Grath think he's tired of Grath. People get tired of Grath because of how Grath speaks...
Grath understands, Grath hates it too.

Path of Enlightenment: Path of Caine
Acts of Virtue:
1- Practicing Diablerie.
2- Studying the book of Nod and the history of Vampires.
3- Seeking the teachings of those noddists who are wiser.
4- Meditating.
5- Developing your willpower.
Sins:
1- Befriending humans, or considering them as allies.
2- Feeling guilty about killing mortals.
3- Acting against the Sabbat.
4- Succumbing to Frenzy.
5- Drinking from animals when human vitae is available.

Notes: Phillip and Grath both were and always will be beta males. Following what he is told to do, when he is told to do it is his usual response to demands. This makes him usually the bottom of any sabbat totem pole. His intelligence and tendency to want to read rather than fight makes him a bit of a homebody, possibly filling the role of an Abbot. Grath always speaks about himself in the third person, something in his mass embrace caused this strange mental block. While annoying to outsiders to the pack, they at least know not to insult his intelligence over it. In battle he loves shock appeal, if enemies believe there are fewer pack members it makes them over confident. He fights with his claws and teeth, and has no interest in ranged weapons. He has a tendency when he does engage to focus on one enemy until he drains it. He celebrates in study of Caine but generally isn't Montreal kind of religious, he sees his following Caine a personal quest. He does perform the rites as any good conformist does. He usually tunes out and does what others do, enjoying social outings when he sees others enjoying themselves. He speaks, reads and writes in English and French.
Edited by Iris Jacobsen, Sunday, 22. February 2015, 23:57.
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Clover Greene
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Aminal
* * *
Portrait:
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Name: Alexandra ‘Bambi’ Barreau

Age: 28

Place of birth: Montreal

Age of embrace: 19

Clan: Toreador Antitribu

Derangements: Sadistic Personality Disorder, Sexual Sadism Disorder

Disciplines: Celerity, Presence, Auspex

Appearance: Bambi’s brunette, chin-length hair is often unwashed and unkept. She’s got a very animated, untamed countenance, which is only amplified by the layers of drooping make-up. Standing at around 170 centimetres in height, her body is athletic (aka; hot) and highly advertised by her wardrobe choices. Her items of clothing are subjected to a capricious mind, yet, most oftenly, she wears stockings, a short, pleated skirt, and a cardigan of some kind. All other vestiges (including underwear) are subject to the occasional non-existence.

Haven: Communal Haven

History:

This contains descriptive scenes which readers may find disturbing. It contains scenes of sexual nature, child abuse, and mutilation. All at once. Reader discretion is highly advised.


Bambi received her nickname during elementary school, just after it was found out that she had skipped a few too many classes with a wide assortment of her male peers. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal were it not for a certain someone who stole a certain sum of money from his parents so he could give it to her (in both senses of the word). Parents got involved, and her new reputation sparked the formation of her nickname.

Her parents were a nice bunch. Her mom was unemployed, yet she was also verified on a cam-girl website. Guys loved milfs, apparently. Because of her, they lived pretty damn well off. Her step-dad worked in construction. Despite his menial occupation, his somewhat blessed features, streetwise, and investment in working out had made him attractive enough to marry. Bambi didn’t know who her real father was, nor did she care. Her parents were good to her. They stayed out of her business, and she stood out of theirs. It was a genuine familial success. Fuck yeah.

In grade eleven of high school, Bambi dropped out. She lived with her boyfriend, who was about eight years older than her. Besides some minor kinks, her life was peachy, and it would only get better. One night, at an underground party, she got introduced to the entourage of Lady Sammiyah Wajd Shadid (‘Sammy’, as Bambi would call her whenever Sammy wasn’t within earshot). Sammy and her little group of asskissers spread the good word begun by Paschal Beverley Randolph. To be specific, they preached sex magic. Overnight, Bambi had been talked into Gnosticism, orgies, and sex rituals.

In a mere year, Sammy’s little cult following had captivated Bambi’s entire schedule. She had long since dumped her boyfriend, finding him unsuitable to pleasure her in the way Sammy’s sex rituals did. The night in which she achieved her first minor spiritual awakening was the night she was allowed to brand, crush and remove a man’s testicles. There was no catharsis in the procedure, she’d never been raped or abused by a man, yet the sensation of removing those fragile testes which influenced so much of a man’s behaviour was euphoric. An irrevocable action that would permanently affect the afflicted. For Bambi, the most amusing part of this spine-tingling action was the unimaginable pain wrought about in the victim. It was purifying suffering. It was the most exquisite of sacrifices. It was an opportunity for the man’s soul to transcend his carnal desires and devote his whole being towards a spiritual focus.

All things, good or bad, must come to an end. Sammy was one such thing. She had made enemies with the wrong crowd. One night, Bambi and seven other members of Sammy’s cult were woken up in their apartments by contemptuous vampires, who proceeded to murder them. It could have ended right then and there - Bambi might’ve finally escaped the shackles of the Demiurge’s physical world. Alas, it was not to be. She had awoken as a Cainite. She was fed and ordered by a being which she could only perceive to be divine in his requests.** She was desperate, to the point of obsession, with pleasing this Aeon incarna, and, so, she obeyed. Bambi and the other seven newly-created pups were given individual tasks. The details weren’t explicitly stated, yet the orders were clear: the eight of them would infiltrate Sammy’s lair. Five would proceed further into the bowels of her lair, while three, Bambi included, would wait by the entrance. Ten minutes after their group divided, Bambi and the other two pups would proceed to start killing anyone that got in, or tried to get out.

Although her task was that of impetuous murder with no specific targets, she would still have appreciated to be told that some of the mortals possessed preternatural strength. She would have also appreciated to be told that the five other pups were fitted with explosives that would cause the entire building to be leveled once detonated.

Just like the five pups, Sammiyah Wajd Shadid, the Follower of Set, had met her Final Death in the explosion. One of Bambi’s two companions met his Final Death at the hands of Sammy’s ghouls. Bambi and another pup had survived, if only due to the explosion having kicked their Beast into top gear, making them bite at anything and everything which stood in the way of their survival, including each other.

To the pack that created them, the two pups who had survived their tasks were worthy of having passed the Creation Rites. However, they also agreed that ‘two’ was an ugly number. ‘One’ was a much, much nicer number. It would not be Monomacy- not anything like Monomacy. This was the simple pleasure of gazing as two vermin gouged out, avulsed, and twisted bone to gain supremacy. Their arena had been the top level of an abandoned apartment skeleton. Bambi’s adversary experienced the misfortune of falling off, having his tibia perforate through the posterior side of his calf muscles as a result. After his execution, she was finally allowed to become Sabbat.

The Pack had been good to her, and she to them. She received guidance in the teachings of Albigensianism, and was a surprisingly adept learner for someone who didn’t even finish high school. Her soul had been denied the escape of the mortal realm. No Aeon had come to whisk her away to the The Absolute. Yet, in exchange, she was awarded with an unaging body that suffered no sickness, could tolerate pain and injury, healed wounds at a rapid rate, and afforded her abilities which placed her above humans on the food chain. She had become the Demiurge’s own variation of an ‘Aeon’. An Aeon incarnate. Bambi had cried bloody tears for having misunderstood the Demiurge who had awarded her with so much. In life, her loyalties had been misplaced. In death, Bambi had found the absolution which she so frantically sought in life. It was a different sort of absolution--not a spiritual awakening, rather a physical evolution to a higher plane of existence--yet it was an absolution nonetheless.

A year after her Embrace, she had decided, purely on a whim, to visit her mortal parents. Coercing a couple of packmates to come with her, she sought out and found her parents which, having been exceedingly worried about her disappearance, were only too happy to let her and her friends inside their home. It was due to the events that transpired that night that she had grasped the meaning of her faith. The root of their material world consisted of depravity. Wealth, influence, carnal acts were merely ungerminated seeds-- buds which could only allude to the power of the Demiurge. Yet, depravity ran a deeper course. One could not truly embrace the wonders of the world created by the Demiurge unless they witnessed true, uninhibited depravity. She had seen her answer in the eyes of her mother, just as she was raping her step-father in front of her. She had seen her answer in the eyes of her step-father, just as she crushed his balls right before he could cum. She had made her parents see the world in all its splendor. She had made them see the weight of physical depravity created by the Demiurge. Even as their minds fell into traumatic comas, she knew that they were now enlightened. She did not kill either of them. Her packmates did it for her.

Bambi was plighted with certain impulses. Some of those impulses involved listening to really loud punk rock, nu metal, and rapcore in the communal haven, which would, occasionally, annoy her packmates. Other impulses, however, made her packmates respectfully dread her. One such impulse had made her so excited that rivulets of blood had begun to drip down her thighs throughout the procedure. It occurred to a young adolescent boy, perhaps a sophomore in high school, who had tragically decided that he wanted to fuck her. It had been of relative ease to have him tied up naked to the bedposts. She could not experience the plights of cold, yet the heater was on. Cold temperature would make the Scrotum tighten and contract, she did not enjoy that. The stove was also set to HIGH. It lacked grates, and there four empty fry pans atop the burners, heating up for some yet-unexplored reason.

The most prized gift Bambi had received from the Demiurge was her blood. To be precise, it was her blood’s effect on kine. She did not care for their servitude. What she cared for was their ability to survive greater injuries by ingesting vampire blood.
Even though she had so carefully impeded blood flow via cable ties and cauterized his lacerations with the scorching pans, were it not for her blood, the boy would have surely died mere moments after she had severed off his legs. His mind had already collapsed while she desperately tried to stabilize his condition, yet even if his physical senses refused to respond, she was sure that the soul was there, within him... knowing. She would enlighten the soul of the world in which it lived. She would display to the soul the flourished bloom of depravity, and just as the soul transcends, it will remember what world it lived in. It will return, and it will know that this world is hell, and the soul will become hellish, too.

Hours later, she was drinking from his testicular vein and artery. She would have to regurgitate his scrotum and testes later. The boy, unfortunately, died. She wished he would have survived, at least for a little while longer! His soul, like all souls, belonged to this world. His soul will not be able to transcend, not after what it has experienced. It will suffer. It will agonize. It will stay, and be reborn.

The Demiurge rules all.




Path of Cathari:

Acts of Virtue:
1- Acting on impulse, for the sheer pleasure of it.
2- Seeking immediate pleasure.
3- Succumbing to Frenzy.
4- Hoarding material wealth.
5- Siring new Vampires.

Sins:
1- Exercising self control without a compelling reason.
2- Behaving in an altruistic way.
3- Acting against the Sabbat.
4- Refusing to kill mortals.
5- Allowing romantic relationships last too long.



Notes:
** Presence: Majesty is being used on her at this point.

*She is not aggressive against her packmates, although she does demand respect.
*Her sadistic impulses exhibit themselves as rare as once every 4-5 months, or as often as once per week.
*She is an excellent driver.
*She will monopolize the pack’s sound system. As a Toreador, she loves her music.
*She also loves destroying people.
*Be weary for the safety of your nuts.
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Franca
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A person
* * * * *
Portrait:

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Name: Alice

Age: 22

Place of birth: Detroit

Age of Embrace: 10

Clan: Malkavian Antitribu

Derangements: Dissociative Disorder - Alice's immature mind, fractured by the traumatic Embraced and even more deranged by her Malkavian blood, cannot really tell the difference between reality and imagination; she perceives everything as unreal and dreamlike, experiences not feeling like her own; she's also doubtful whether she is exactly herself, either, or some imaginary projection of a dreaming creature.

Sadism: Alice, maybe due to an (un)natural inclination of her blood, maybe thanks to the loving nurturing of Mistress Eve, takes great pleasure in causing pain to her victims. She doesn't have enough self control for prolonged, elaborate tortures, however, and she sees it as a shortcoming.

Dependent Personality Disorder: Alice is stuck at the mental age of 10 and is always expecting her packsmates to take all important decisions for her.

Disciplines:

Appearance: A deadly pale kid with long brown hair and sharp teeth. Her clothes and her own person are dirty most of the time. If some of her pack mates makes her wash or change her clothes she will do that, but she won't ever remember to do it on her own.

Haven: Communal haven. Since she's a kid vampire with little self control, her pack mates often keep her in a trunk when they not need to have her around.

History: I had been dreaming for so long. Dreaming of little girl called Alice, but she wasn’t really Alice. Although - she had her face and her name and all. But you know - dreams. Huh. Raised by three puppets - one had curly hair, another had a tie and a beard - the tie, not always the tie, though. Sometimes he had just the beard.

Oh, and the third puppet? That one, it was small, so very small but still they claimed it was her ‘brother’. They seemed to think it was real. But then, they seemed to think they were real, too. They were not real, but only the small one was really fake.

So. It was like a fairy tale, but longer and more boring. Little Alice brought up by two big puppets plus the small fake one. Little Alice goes to ‘school’ and puppets laugh and puppets cry. The small puppet cries the most. And little Alice has a birthday and then another one and another one and little Alice is not so little any longer.

Then I woke up. So I’ll never know how the dream would have continued. I was dreaming that Alice had got lost. She didn’t want to go to ‘school’ because she was a grownup now. 10 is the perfect number. Two digits and all. Two digits are enough to walk on your own - you walk on two legs so two is what you need to walk, two legs plus either two big puppets or two digits. So Alice walked alone on her two digits but the street wasn’t the same street although it looked the same. There, she should have understood it was a dream. But in dreams you can’t believe you are dreaming. So not-so-little Alice kept on walking round and round until she woke up.

It hurt. Waking up hurts. Like a sharp pain in the head and claws tearing pieces of you everywhere and sand deep down your nostrils and something else tearing from the inside. But it doesn’t matter. Pain you feel in dreams doesn’t really hurt.

Because, you see

I know the secret now

I woke up

in another dream

so

in the end

there is nothing else but dreams in dreams in dreams in dreams.

Except it’s not true. Mistress Eve taught me later - everything is a dream, except reality. But reality - you don’t really touch it, reality. What you touch is hell. Now I am not sure about hell and the soul and everything else Mistress Eve taught me. Because my head hurts. It is like Alice in school but worse no no no Alice is little cannot learn that hard it hurts even though she’s dreaming in a dream.

But that was much later. Or a little later. Or - I am not sure. You see, it's all fuzzy in this new dream.

After I woke up it hurt and there was dirt and pieces of corpses and I missed pieces of myself but they came back later so it’s okay. I crawled on my two arms since I was missing some piece of my two digits. I crawled and licked the juice from the piece of corspses but no no no no good Alice wants SOMETHING GOOD! SOMETHING GOOD AND WARM so someone took me somewhere - still dreaming you see, can’t always recall all the pieces. Too many pieces of memory and corpses and also pieces of glass - they said, they said my mind was like a piece of broken glass and that was good because BIG PEOPLE TALK DIFFICULT STUFF BUT I AM HUNGGGGGRGRGGRRRYYYYY so they took me to the puppets. Someone had tied them. Tied them tightly. Alice jumped on the puppet with all that curly hair on her puppet head and OHH THAT WAS GOOD! It was a dream - but that was oh so much good!

Not sure how I ended up on the other puppet. The one with the big beard - no tie that day, tied but no tie, huh. I thought I was still drinking from the curly one, so how did I end up on the bearded puppet? Alice must have done that. Alice likes that. But Alice didn’t like the small puppet. That was FAKE! She had always known it was fake! It cried so loud it must had been fake. It cried even louder as Alice pierced its ‘eyes’, its fake eyes although the BLOOD WAS SO REAL SO REAL DELICIOUS BLOOD INSIDE A FAKE PUPPET but Alice wasn’t happy when she saw it was over. It didn’t cry any longer. Alice liked it better when puppets cried - this is something I discovered in my new dream.

And there came Mistress Eve. She told me all that difficult stuff on hell and good and evil and she taught Alice how to make puppets last longer. And cry louder. Alice LOVES IT SO MUCH SHE WANTS MORE OF IT and Mistress Eve always happy little Alice loves to play with the little puppets and the big puppets.

She told me really a lot, not sure about all that evil and good and stuff talk but Alice likes her evil so it’s all good. Mistress Eve told so. She told Alice how to do her fun stuff because when Alice has fun no need to think twice that is right always right even when Alice doesn’t know what she does but later there are all those pieces around, just a shame they didn’t cry that much but it takes PATIENCE to make them cry. Alice doesn’t have much patience. Although, she likes to make puppets cry.

Also Mistress Eve always put her back in her box when it was good for her because Alice sometimes can be too much and it’s not right for the Sabbat - have I told about the Sabbat? Other difficult stuff, but the Sabbat is the place to be because their blood tastes so good that you love them and they always help Alice to make the puppets cry. And Alice not so good on her own, she doesn’t have much patience, have I told? So it’s Mistress Eve to put her back in her box, but Mistress Eve not always there, so it’s the Sabbat to do the job and when Mistress Eve didn’t want me any longer it was the Sabbat who always kept me with them and helped little Alice when little Alice needed help.

All this was some time ago. Or a lot of time, maybe? In dreams, you never know. But when you wake up you dream again and then wake up again and die and come to life and dream and die again forever. So little Alice just keeps it going. She wakes up the puppets and tries to get some FUN if they cry enough. She doesn’t know much because she’s little, there’s people with more digist to do the hard stuff for her. There is the Sabbat with her so Alice is never alone.



Path of Enlightenment: Path of Cathari

Acts of Virtue:
1- Acting on impulse, for the sheer pleasure of it.
2- Seeking immediate pleasure.
3- Succumbing to Frenzy.
4- Siring new Vampires.
5- Hoarding material wealth.

Sins:
1- Exercising self control without a compelling reason.
2- Acting against the Sabbat.
3- Refusing to kill mortals.
4- Behaving in an altruistic way.
5- Allowing romantic relationships last too long.
Edited by Franca, Sunday, 22. February 2015, 21:01.
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Oliver
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Dork
* * * * *
Name: Ian Bratovich
Age: 37
Place of birth: Georgia, U.S. (old white house in the middle of nowhere - no roads lead to it)
Age of embrace: 22
Clan: Tzimisce
Derangements: Fear of children (very young ones - under 5yo)
Disciplines: Vicissitude, Animalism, Auspex
Appearance: Ian is skinny and six feet tall. He has shoulder length straight black hair, tawny bloodshot eyes, naturally frowning eyebrows and pale skin. He doesn't look particularely clean, his hair is oily, and his clothes look as if he's been wearing them for some time. His grin is easy, but doesn't augur anything good. And he as an expression, on his face, that could be described as 'creepy', the way he glances about, as if he's wondering what the others would taste like.

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His Hound, Raz
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Haven: None yet
History:

When Cardinal Almansa's assistant approached Ian, that one raised his head and stood, a deep and low growling coming from the black hound sitting at his side.

When the assistant bowed, Ian sat back in his chair and watched the mortal with renewed interest, his tawny, bloodshot eyes narrowing to study him more attentively... every inch of his face, his bone structure, the color of his eyes...

"My Lord Almansa asks that I note down some information, Master Bratovich. If you could please tell this ghoul your story," the young man said, without meeting his eyes. He sat across from the simple wooden desk, opened his laptop, and waited.

Ian remained silent for a long moment, watching the ghoul, noting the trembling of his body, as his hands hovered above the keyboard, the way that he blinked nervously, and then waited some more.

"I was born in Georgia", he began, with an appropriate southern accent, if a rather good elocution. "My family lived from the land around our house. We hunted dear, rabbit and humans, and we ate them all," he said with a malevolent grin, hidden behind his folded hands. "A boy like you wouldn't last a day, and we didn't even bother cooking them - hell, often we didn't even kill them. When we did, we bled them first... not to waste the blood, you understand?"

"Yes, Master," the ghoul quickly replied, doing his best to concentrate on his typing.

"I bet you do," Ian breathed, never taking his eyes form the ghoul. "One night, a pack stayed over. An Elder knew of our family. They needed shelter. When they left, the Elder's childe asked my father if he could take me. My father refused. They killed the whole family, and took me anyways - with my dog -, so that I could lead them out of the woods, and take them safely, to another pack that they were supposed to meet a few days before that."

Ian didn't show much emotion as he told his tale. He was merely getting the task over with. "My Master ghouled me, and used me to hunt during the day for him. I brought him humans for his work, protected him, and he gave me Vitae and allowed me to live. A few years later, he Embraced me. We travelled all over the U.S. and Canada, for about..." he made a face and looked away, clearly unable to remember exactly how long he'd been with his master. "A long time." And with this, he fell silent.

He didn't speak of his Sire having performed incredible changes to his appearance, removing the deformities that his inbred origins had cursed him with. He wouldn't reveal that to a mere mortal. He didn't mention what had happened to his pack either, or how he'd learned that the Cardinal was looking for meat shields to go into his battleground. Not anyone's business.

Said mortal waited patiently; but when it was obvious that the Cainite was done, he dared, in a gentle voice: "Would Master please tell this unworthy ghoul of his skills?"

Ian tilted his head, elbows on the table, joined hands still hiding his mouth. "I can train hounds as any Bratovich, for hunting and tracking. I can tell lies from truth. I have been educated in the Path of Caine. I was taught the art of Vicissitude, and can make mortals and Cainites alike scream their secrets with agonizing pain, until they loose their minds - and if you ask me one more question, I will show you."

The ghoul saved his document, closed his laptop, rose and bowed low. "Thank you, Master Bratovich."


A few days later, Ian was standing amongst others, his hound at his side, listening to the Cardinal.

Do not fail me...

Guess now wasn't a good time to mention that his Sire had said much the same words, to him, before their entire pack had been destroyed, he reflected as he turned to make his way out to the truck.


Path of Enlightenment:
Path of Caine: Also called noddists, the followers of this Path accept the role of Vampires in nature without considering it evil or good. They see in Caine a father figure, and a model that deserves being followed. For that reason, the spend as much time as possible seeking relics and proofs of his existence, and trying to make sense of the fragments of the Book of Nod.

The noddists appreciate measure and restraint. Succumbing to Frenzy, or giving in to strong passions is something they avoid at all costs. Meditation and self control are the basis of their philosophy. On top of that, they seek to get closer to Caine every day. That is why they consider the act of Diablerie a sacred one; by draining the souls of those older than the Vampire, they get closer to Caine in more than one sense.

Acts of Virtue:
- Practicing Diablerie.
- Studying the book of Nod and the history of Vampires.
- Meditating.
- Developing your willpower.
- Seeking the teachings of those noddists who are wiser.
Sins:
- Succumbing to Frenzy.
- Feeling guilty about killing mortals.
- Drinking from animals when human vitae is available.
- Befriending humans, or considering them as allies.
- Acting against the Sabbat.

Notes:
- Ian was born with many physical deformities, having been inbred, and has kept the habit of hiding his mouth when he speaks (as he suffered from prognathism, and had too many (and crocked) teeth. (nothing seems deformed anymore, but old habit die hard).
- He has a ghouled hound with him at all times.
- He can often be heard murmuring to himself.
Edited by Oliver, Tuesday, 17. March 2015, 02:18.
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Hannah
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Name: Jonathan L. Dowd
a.k.a. Black Dowd
a.k.a. the Sergeant
a.k.a. Sarge

Age: 69

Place of birth: Chicago

Age of embrace: 52

Clan: Lasombra

Derangements: Nothing worth mentioning

Disciplines: Dominate, Obtenebration, Potence

Appearance: Tall, bald and well-muscled, the sergeant cuts an imposing figure. He has seen too much carnage and death for it not to have settled in behind hard blue eyes. His lined face is a roadmap of suffering and frustration. Small patches of darkness somestime appear to stretch and crawl over his arms and legs or pool in his eye caveties.

The sergeant keeps himself relatively neat and is usually found in a black shirt with or without a black vest and jeans. He still wears his dog tags from his time in the army.

Haven: Communal Haven

History:

"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." - Evelyn Beatrice Hall

Say one thing for Black Dowd, say he knows what's what. Charlie was the first to find out. On December 1, 1969, the United States of America conducted 2 lottery's to determine the order of call to military service in the Vietnam war for men born from 1944 to 1950. Jonathan L. Dowd, born March 1946 and a high school chemistry teacher, was shipped off only a few short months later to join the 82nd Airborne division. During the Tet Offensive, which swept across the Vietnam, the 82nd was en route to Chu Lai within 24 hours of receiving its orders. The 3rd Brigade, attached to the 82nd, performed combat duties in the Hue Phu Bai area of the I Corps sector. Later the brigade moved south to Saigon, and fought in the Mekong Delta, the Iron Triangle and along the Cambodian border, serving nearly 48 months.

Private Dowd, who in only 2 years promoted to 1st sergeant was a savage fighter for freedom. His brawn was fueled by ideological simplicity and a not insignificant testosterone level. His command powered by a powerful body standing over 6 feet and a deep, booming voice, all sprinkled with a little luck. Sergeant Dowd rapidly earned the regard of his comrades in arms. Communism, with its death squads, was a threat to the liberties of man, first amongst which was the 'democratic' South Vietnam. The strategic importance of South Vietnam was not be underestimated and it should be kept free in an effort to prevent the spread of communism throughout the world. Like dominoes, if South Vietnam fell to communism, Southeast Asia then New Zealand, Australia and even Japan would follow and thus Communism would soon become a threat to the U.S. national security and every peace-loving individual on this planet.

Dowd was as brutal and efficient as he was zealous. During a skirmish near the village of Tei Ding, the squad under Dowd's command was ambushed and pinned down by Vietcong. The situation looked grim. Then Dowd took 3 men to attempt a flanking maneuver upon Charlie's position. Advancing slowly in a wide circle around the enemy line, the 4 troopers ended up on the other side of the village. They had been slow, taking over 30 minutes, stalking through the woods and avoiding anything that smelled like it could be trap. Several troopers died fending off VC bullets while Dowd did his thing. The town was heavily defended. The troopers deployed grenades and increased the pressure on both sides, but the enemy had the advantage of numbers. They broke through the rear overwhelming Dowd and his men. In the ensuing scrap, the U.S. troopers were disarmed and Dowd escaped death by biting through the carotid artery of a giant Vietcong and narrowly escaping.
Several months later, in Da Nang, on bright hot morning, Dowd proceeded to quell mounting criticism on U.S. war efforts and killing 2 fellow soldiers by bludgeoning them to death with the butt of his rifle, one of which a senior officer. The next day he was court martialled, tried summarily, found guilty and shipped home to be incarcerated at the Disciplinary Barrack at Ft. Leavenworth, KS.

Prison life did not agree with him. The sergeant had given every fiber of his being to the ideals of this country, the dream of freedom, of peace and democracy. He had fought with every ounce of his being, had trained men to be strong and reliable, and able to survive the wilderness, had attempted to instill ideals in his fellows and the steel will to follow through. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance. 'If' is the middle word in life. 'If' he could keep his head when all about him are losing theirs and blaming it on him, 'if' he could trust himself when all men doubted him, He went the extra mile and lifted these ideals up from theory and had gone as far to perform the sad duty of rooting out the backsliding element in the force. The first few years were the worst. He fought often, with other prisoners and even guards. Certainly a good fighter, but Down soon learned prison is no place for a lone wolf. His belligerent demeanor left him few friends and he suffered many a fine beating. And whenever the walls threatened to creep a little too close for comfort and the bile of confinement rose too high in his throat, the sergeant screamed and howled to the heavens outside the small barred cell window, rattling the bars, for days and nights. The rapidly familiar prospect of time in solitary quickly lost its sting.

Luckily, sergeant Dowd grew less restless over time and even seemed to resign himself to the 12 years in prison in front of him. Discovering the library, Dowd spend his free time reading anarchist literature from Pierre-Joseph Proudhon (Anarchy is Order), Mikhail Bakunin (who famously clashed with socialism), to Oscar Wilde (The Soul of Man Under Socialism).

Dowd left prison in August, 1988 with no money, no family or friends and precious few bankable skills. Moving to Detroit, he thought he might get a job in the auto industry, failing that in organized crime. The former was a bit of a long shot a military career ending in jail time, the latter was easier, but only barely. The next decade was spend as an small-time, alcoholic enforcer for an illegal fighting ring. If one was a committed optimistic, one could say the sergeant kept out of real trouble. It went well enough at first. Beating up fighters weaker than he was to convince him his legs were worth more than looking big in the next fight. Taking cigarette butts to managers convince their boy wasn't gonna take a dive. The bit of cash he earned by standing on the lookout, appear menacing and occasionally breaking something kept him well-lubricated and put a roof over his head.

Say one thing for Black Dowd, say he is consistent. A few years later, the sergeant was brought in on assault charges. He had beaten the girlfriend of a prominent businessman visiting a boxing match within an inch of her life. No one knows what made the old veteran lose his cool in front of so many spectators. But there it was. He added a first count of 'resisting arrest' to his tally of crimes and ran like the devil disappearing into the night. Booking a flight to Manchester, UK, the sergeant set off the next day into the old world and never again set foot on shaky American soil.

Living as a bum, moving from city to city suited him well enough. His vicious nature allowed him to carve out an existence amongst the homeless, managing to earn him the respect of few like-minded peers. Begging, extorting, petty theft and burglary ensured the company of a bottle in his hand and McDonalds in his gut. Not expecting much anymore from existence, tired of fighting long odds and looking at fearful, uncomprehending faces, the sergeant accepted his lot and settled in to spend the remainder of his days under a bridge, stinking like a dog, musing about women he couldn't have and football he didn't care about. 'Happy' was a bit much, 'too worn out to care' would be spot on.

"Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want, and deserve to get it good and hard." - H. L. Mencken

But you have to be realistic about these things. In the winter of '98, Bishop Rudd of Stockport, just finished a spell of thinking long and hard about pummeling that woman Eddie Scale and claim Macclesfield. Rudd would need bodies, plenty of hard and cheap corpses to throw onto the fangs of Bishop Scale's men while he aimed to firebomb his laundromat haven. People were snatched off the street, bit, turned and buried. The ones that managed to claw their way out of an early grave were grouped in packs and unleashed upon the good Bishop's territory.

A bit further off, Jenny One-Eye tried a different tack. She was of the mind that any group of fresh young shitheads, needed a someone to shout orders, one that was slightly less moronic, accustomed to violence and the stress of leading rabid dogs into battle. The sergeant had done his best, Jenny thought. Considering all the shit she'd thrown his way over the years. Getting him to pick the UK to run off to had been easy, considering the lazy fuck didn't speak anything else but English. Jenny had kind of forgotten about him as his beggar existence had done little to impress her. But now he would fit in, now maybe she could still get something out of the effort she spend. Better now, they expired so fast, these mortals. The sergeant was allowed a private shovelhead embrace all of his own, fighting himself clear from the scrap yard Jenny had left him in. 3 Dobermans and a fat neckbeard with a cap lay at his bloodstained knees before he came to his senses and looked upon his sire for the first time.

The move into Macclesfield was the orgy of blood, guts and glory everyone had relished. Dowd and his team managed to sandbag Scales' wasp-thin templar Mouse for an entire night. Mouse and her offspring, 2 hulking beasts of Nosferatu, were surrounded and pinned down in a decrepit abandoned candy factory near the edge of town. Small arms fire, combined with Dowd's rifle managed to keep the trio in place and low on blood. Taking a cue from his days in 'nam, tripwires attached to homemade explosives were placed around the area. Obfuscated attempts to breach the perimeter met with a bang. Mouse was brought in for questioning. In the following days, plenty young shitheads died and had to be replenished. After a week of infighting, a victorious Rudd drove away his rival and added Macclesfield to his bishopric. It turned out later that the area only changed hands for about 2 years after which old Scale returned guns blazing and the status quo was restored. But that wasn't Dowd's concern. He'd moved on.

Sabbat ideology was a near perfect match for Dowd democratic, even anarchistic bend. The idea that all were equal, after having proven yourself, sounded extremely sensible. The smallest rank fledgeling, 2 years out of the mud, could become a Bishop if he was savvy enough. Freedom from tyranny, and the opportunity to bring freedom to the huddled masses of the cams might just be what he was looking for. Humanity had never done him any favors and its dwindling supply never really bothered him. The Sword of Caine proved a natural fit for a stodgy war vet hell-bent to bring his brand of freedom to every corner of the world, whatever it takes. Or else...

True Sabbat status was not far behind. Dowd killed Anita Bad Enough in Monomancy. The deranged Nosferatu had started a bout of challenging every Sabbat she didn't like in order to cover up the fact she had her pack's haven get condemned and demolished. Outwitted by Cams and mortals, she'd become a laughingstock and she was having none of it. Reckless, desperate and more of a stalker than a fighter, Bad Enough's end was a given and Down was all too pleased to help her along. She was an uncreative opponent, never bothering to do more than charge in point-blank to tackle and smash her enemy into a fine paste. Dowd could match her blow for blow and the Lasombra smothered the lady Nosferatu in the inky black that was his blood's legacy. Without a fallback plan, the hapless Nos flailed about wildly. The shadow kept her pinned to the ground firmly, while the sergeant placed one hand in her mouth on the lower jaw, the other over the sharp upper teeth. And pulled. The sides of her deformed mouth split open bloody, her blackish tongue lapping at his wrists. Cheeks ruptured and then the entire jaw separated from the rest of the skull.

"The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter." - Winston Churchill

Over the years Black Dowd has been part of a number of packs; war bands that went down gloriously, except for the sergeant or scouting packs that sometimes did equally. Like many ex-military men, he was not fit for peace time and threw himself with wild abandon at all enemies of the sect, foreign and domestic. Earning accolades, jumping the fire, feeling warm blood on his face and the Beast exploding in his heart, times were looking up... But you have to be realistic about these things. Precious few good things had happened to Jonathan Dowd and things weren’t about to start now. The quest for freedom from tyranny and the right to choose ones destiny is not to be reconciled with hoary elders directing your every move on pain of death or worse. They reached their position based on age, back-stabbing and treachery. You are free to do only what your superiors allow. How can it be that the Sword of Caine strives to liberate the young from the yoke of the antediluvians who blood bound every single lick in the Camarilla all the while insisting you addle your heart and soul with magic and subject your free mind to a modified blood bond? To be free from bondage to unacceptable Cainites, one has to agree to be bound to acceptable ones. Why is it that creatures who are the apex of evolution, the scourge of mankind, more than human and mocking all enemies who hide in fear of sheep, practice their own kind of non-disclosure and exist in the dark? You are greater than human, hide it well.

Doubts raised and questions bubbled up as bodies and shit kept piling up. Is the Sabbat different from the Camarilla? Is the hand directing them different from the hand lodged firmly in the ass of a Cam? Why do we look like them so much?
At pain of death or worse, these thoughts haunted the sergeant’s mind. Where to find freedom, and what cost? What does it even look like? But how would he be able to escape this current pickle? The Sword of Caine tended to take a dissenting opinion even worse than the U.S. army, prison or a criminal gang. The Camarilla shared their archenemies' opinion here, at least. There was no way back. The Sabbat soldiers were fighting for the biggest nothing in history, but there was no helping it. Not expecting much anymore from existence, tired of fighting long odds, looking at fearful, uncomprehending faces, made him tired. Far better to stick it out to the end. Mad in mind, but clear in the soul. Far better to fight Cammy tyranny hard and fast and meet the end fangs first.

Say one thing for Black Dowd, say that he tried.

When Jenny came to him with a request from the Cardinal, he didn't hesitate. Maybe this would be it.



Path of Enlightenment: Path of the Honorable Accord

Virtues

- Treating your peers fairly and generously.
- Showing bravery in the face of the enemy.
- Following the guidelines of the Code of Milan.
- Observing all the Auctoritas Ritae of the Sabbat.
- Supporting your immediate leader.

Vices

- Breaking your word.
- Disrespecting other's honor.
- Refusing hospitality or help to an ally.
- Not honoring an agreement.
- Acting against the Sabbat.

There is nothing sadder than seeing dead eyes staring out of a dead man's face, particular when they're still moving ...
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Annabelle Strauss
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Name: Alaire Monroe

Age: 32

Place of birth: Detroit

Age of embrace: 12

Clan: City Gangrel

Derangements: Gluttony

Disciplines: Protean, Obfuscate, Celerity

Appearance: A bright young boy of perhaps twelve years old with curly black hair. Feminine and small, wears very simple clothing - nothing he can't throw on and look half way decent. He knows he's going to ruin them anyway.

Haven: The Pack Communal Haven - he's a very social Kindred, even for a Sabbat. Those he considers family come first, and thus he'll curl up with them.

History:

Alaire remembers (or has shared, perhaps) very little of his mortal life - mostly because it does not concern him anymore. A child of the system, Alaire was passed around from being very young when he was taking from his mother who was a rampant alcoholic. It wasn't that he was a bad child, or even that disruptive. The foster homes he was sent to simply never... stuck.

Unfortunately in a city like Detroit it was far too easy for a child to simply go missing from the system, especially in the turmoil of the early nineties. And that, unfortunately, was what happened to Alaire. In nineteen ninety four he simply up and vanished, taken by his soon-to-be-Sire.

Why? Well, Alaire hasn't been sure of that either. He remembers his Embrace being violent and painful. When he awoke something blazed to life inside of him, an endless black hole of need that eclipsed him, twisted him. His first frenzy - his hunger - drove him to drain the three people his Sire had brought for him, even to the point he was vomiting up the blood he'd drunk. Even after the Frenzy ended, the hole never closed. Most Kindred are sated when they're full; Alaire's hunger gnaws at him every waking moment, tempting him to just keep drinking and drinking until everything washes away. It's wormed away at him until he's almost unable to look at people as anything but food to ease the ache - which is part of what made him perfect for The Sabbat.

His hunger became his deepest need - that was why he found himself on the Path of Cathari. An excuse, more than anything.

That being said, he's still a child. Feeding in moderation is even more difficult for him than most; he almost always kills those he feeds from because he simply cannot bring himself to stop. But he's also a vicious fighter, driven on by his Beast - and equally, the sort who'll curl up with his family.

Twenty years of hunger and violence have warped Alaire into a childish predator who would drain the whole world dry if he could - and now he's come to London.


Path of Enlightenment: Path of Cathari

Acts of Virtue:
1- Acting on impulse, for the sheer pleasure of it.
2- Seeking immediate pleasure.
3- Succumbing to Frenzy.
4- Hoarding material wealth.
5- Siring new Vampires.

Sins:
1- Exercising self control without a compelling reason.
2- Behaving in an altruistic way.
3- Acting against the Sabbat.
4- Refusing to kill mortals.
5- Allowing romantic relationships last too long.

Notes:
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Leo Fleming
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Name: Ángel Reyes
Age: 40
Place of birth: León
Age of embrace: ~25
Clan: Brujah Antitribu
Derangements: Amnesia
Disciplines: Potence, Celerity
Appearance: 190 cm, 85 kg, athletic, darkbrown hair (Mohawk), left eye grey, right eye white
Haven: communal Haven

History:

2001 somewhere at the outskirts of Leòn. The handball club Ademar Leòn just had won his first championship title in clubhistory. Part of the players and staff was having a extended party. All wearing a mohawk, because they hat this bet, if they win the Championship. Alcohol and girls were plenty, the mood was high-spirited and heated up.
No one noticed a crowd of about 10 people sneaking up, securities were mostly not on their positions. The ones that still were, were the first to die...

---

PAIIIIN! THIRSTTTT!! RRRRAAAAAAGE!!!

He grabbed the human closest to him howling in madness, wanting this pain to stop, wanting to kill.

A heavy blow hit him, slammed him against a brickwall, inflicting more pain, more rage.
Toddling up and screaming out, red waves before his eyes. Something warm hit him, less hard than before, but the wrath was racing his blood. Slashing his teeth in this warm screaming thing, sucking it’s blood, feeling it run down his throat like molten lead. Feeling stronger with each sip, biting again, drinking more until someone grabbed his hair and pulled him away from the warm carcass.

“She’s dry… now calm down or I change my mind and drain you too!”

Through the anger he heard a woman’s voice talking to him. She let him go and he slid down the wall to sit there slowly gaining back consciousness. Shaking his head and groaning. This pain! Touching his face with his hands, feeling his right side wet and smashed.

“Focus your blood you need to heal… you were so handsome... I want you to be handsome again my little angel”

A mocking laughter followed and he tried to remember what happened, why his head felt like a sledgehammer hit him and why his body burns as if inside a fire was eating him alive.

Ángel would stay his name… no more memory how his name was before. Ángel Reyes, the family name he took from his “mother” Dolores Reyes.

Sometime after his awakening he finally healed his face, but his right eye was permanently bust, white and blind it remained.

He learned he was a Vampire now, a Brujah antitribu, like the goodies called them. Dolores had turned him to replace her partner which was killed in a fight. She taught him, what there was to know, how to use his vampiric blood to increase his power and move faster than others. She taught him about the beast and Caine, about the Sabbat and the Camarilla. This useless heap of coward Vampires that denied their superior nature to live amongst the cattle.

Dolores made Ángel her toy, her partner in the way of the Cathari, enjoying pleasure in any moment. Pleasures of their bodies, pleasure of killing, spreading terror and he also learned how to turn Mortals into vampires if they needed cannon fodder.
The longer he was in the pack with his sire, the more he grew into it. The Ductus was a Lasombra named Gabriel, his abilities to rule the shadows impressed the Brujah and from him he learned some techniques to keep his beast under control, if it was expedient for the success of the pack. Even if Dolores and Ángel were actually a couple, for Ángel always the pack counted higher than anything. He was usually sociable and was able to handle most of the different characters in a pack. He had no special dislikes for Clans what made it easier. Dolores hated the molders, the Tzimisce. Fierce fleshcrafters and most of them rather nuts. But they made useful Ghouls and Ángel always was flashed when he saw them mold flesh like clay.
He was a bit envious on this controling the shadows or the flesh, but he understood, every Disciplin had it's reason and place in a pack. Together they were strong, individuals had powerful abilities, but forged to a unity they were the powerful sword of the Sabbat!

The only he couldn't accept were investigating and nosey questions about his past. He was fine to know what he was now, even proud on it, so who cared for the past? The here and now are important. Same was about his blind eye, there were pack-members, mostly recently turned ones, who found a sudden end because of playing jokes on his blind side.

The learning was a pleasure he discovered only over time, he strove for more than just fighting, killing and having sex. Learning was essential, it made the community stronger. So he also learned to handle guns of almost all sizes. In addition, he was the one in their pack to throw grenades into targeted areas. Dolores had suggested this once and since he was able to throw the grenades as far and as placed as no one else, this became his job.
When they sometimes sat together Ángel listened their priest, hearing the stories of the book Nod, of the code of Milan and asking about their sense of unlife. He felt proud to be a part of the tempting forces, corrupt the Mortals to the “bad” side, make them feel the joys a life or unlife on the edge of the limit. This insane balance on the burning wire was more than he ever dreamed of... at least he assumed, he did...

Giving the beast within face on earth was dazzling and intoxicating. Hearing the screams of the Camarilla vampires in the moment of their “final death” was such a ecstasy! To drink their blood, drink their souls shot him in a state of euphoria like nothing else!

The pack wandered from Spain through France. Gabriel affiliated their pack to a community of packs in the Marseilles area. The fights against the local Camarilla were ferocious and deadly. Many warriors of the Sword found their end and finally the packs were shattered and scattered. Ángel had lost Dolores as well, she felt apart in a fight in the outskirts of Marseilles. The pack had orders to clear the way into the quarter bordering to the main Highway. An orphanage was to burn. Ángel got the molotov-cocktails and already lit them to fire them into the houses around. Dolores felt in his arm. "Ángel... children... these are children!" - "So what?" He accomplished his order. The pack should be honoured for his good services to the Sword.
For breaking their path, their believe in at least three points Ángel asked a Monomacy on Dolores. She mocked on him, called him a silly blindworm, dazzled by power and wrong belief.
The fight took all night, it was an orgy of blood, pain and hate. Ángel fought for the honour of their path and the Sword and most of all he fought for the honour of his Sire. He couldn't let it happen, she turned herself down in the dirt. Dawn was near when he finally slashed her throat with his fangs. Draining her, but refusing to drink her soul as well, just ripping off her head and re-establish her honour with her death.
Since Dolores found her death from his hand, Ángel is searching for her mortal reincarnation to turn her into a Vampire again and giving her back her honourable existance.

The fights went on, more kindred felt to ashes. His Ductus Gabriel as well as the priest. Their ashes drifted with the wind. Packmembers joined other packs to fight on. So did Ángel, but the Ductus there didn't like to have him around. A Tzimisce hating all Brujah, just tolerating him, not offering the opportunity to bring glory to the Sword.

So after a while he made his way alone, hoping to fight his place in a better pack...

Path of Enlightenment: Path of Cathari

Acts of Virtue:
1- Succumbing to Frenzy.
2- Acting on impulse, for the sheer pleasure of it.
3- Seeking immediate pleasure.
4- Hoarding material wealth.
5- Siring new Vampires.

Sins:
1- Acting against the Sabbat.
2- Exercising self control without a compelling reason.
3- Refusing to kill mortals.
4- Behaving in an altruistic way.
5- Allowing romantic relationships last too long.

Notes:
-He doesn’t remember anything from his mortal life
-Right eye blind
-He owns a flare gun and a few ammunition for it
-Being too nosey about his past and silly jokes about his blind eye are no good ideas
-Sabbat is honour, Sabbat goes over pack, pack goes over individual.
Edited by Leo Fleming, Monday, 16. March 2015, 13:47.
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Graham Mason
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This mini quest has been officially

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Oh no! My souffle!
"Words", stress level, "MetaMason", "THEVOICEOFREASON"
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