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  • #31
    #35 Simon Billinghurst-Mumford had always vaguely known there was more to life. Some vast universe just outside his limited perception, and perhaps an even vaster one inside. His friends, family and teachers thought him an aimless daydreamer, obsessed with books about magic and fantasy. The more he read, though, the more he researched real world history, the more it seemed like magic must be real. Waiting there, just outside of his high pressure world of a student passing multiple A-levels, including Computing (A*), Further Math (A*), Physics (A), History (A), Classic Studies (A), and Latin (B), was a world of magic.

    His parents thought him mad for studying Philosophy at University. Why not something more practical like Engineering or, at least, Philosophy, Politics and Economics? His family had some social connections to some Tory back-benchers who could turn one of those into a career, but Philosophy? They may have posh connections, but little inheritance beyond the double barrelled name. At least he passed the entrance exam at Oxford and was offered an exhibition at Magdalen. He excelled in his coursework, earning a BA in Philosophy with first class honours.

    About this time he caught the eye of a powerful patron. His mentor explained the situation one night, over dinner, which the patron did not eat. He could offer him great power, but it would require tremendous commitment. No, it's not in government. No, not business. It's something bigger. A secret world, a very long-term commitment. Interested?

    Simon spent seven years studying Hermetic magic, while maintaining a cover as a minor civil servant involved in importation of art objects from India. His awakening was a polite affair, a ritual arranged for Lammastide, cloaks and sigils and all that. Finally, he had all he wanted, the world of magic layed bare for him. He excelled in the study of Spirit and Correspondance, with a minor interest in Entropy. He never knowingly met a technocrat or other enemy of the Order of Hermes, but then he was a minor scholar, really, organizing the libraries at the Chapter House, on weekends and evenings.

    At his day job, he became involved in a tariff row over the importation of a certain sarcophagus. Was it simply a dead body being transported for the grieving family or was it an art object in it's own right? Legally it fell into a grey area and had to be kicked up the chain of command. It became a minor scandal, with the PM of India accusing Britain of stealing India's cultural heritage and descendants of the Indian Raj in question saying they simply wanted their great-great-great, etc grandfather buried where belonged, in Hounslow with them. Preferably in a modern coffin, thank you. The fact that Sotheby's was involved was irrelevant, they said.

    One night, while reviewing paperwork in the warehouse, the sarcophagus in question and who stepped out but the Raj in question, looking far too fresh for someone so old. Simon threw up some basic defensive rotes, but the Raj started asking him questions. The evening ended with Simon driving him to a Tremere chantry and being embraced.

    Simon will never, ever forgive his sire. All real magic left him. Once, he could mumble a few words in Enochian and touch a clay tablet to his forehead and listen to any conversation in th world, or other worlds. He could spend his evenings listening to Bach, the actual Bach, play the organ either through past viewing or by asking his Wraith to do him the honour. He could apport to Mykonois for a quick holiday or turn base metals to gold. And, now? The rituals are so basic a random child off the street could do them.

    He held the power of a god in his hands, and the Tremere took it from him. He knows he must be obedient for now.

    But he will have his revenge someday. These stunted freaks will pay, and pay dearly!

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    • #32
      My favourite character concept is a female Russian Brujah anarch who was a Bolshevik revolutionary in her breathing days and still looks, walks and talks the part. She wears the revolutionary paraphernalia such as a telnyashka and a commissar hat (worn backwards) mixed with more modern Brujah biker/punk fare, to look less out of place on modern streets. Her weapons of choice are the Mauser C-96 Broomhandle and an old Rdultovsky engineering grenade, and her speech and mannerisms of choice are something that can be found in a Soviet Ostern movie character. She's also an expert on creating blood-based concoctions spiked with alcohol and/or cocaine that have the effect of corresponding drugs on any Kindred (this is a reference to the practice of use of the "trench cocktail", a vodka-cocaine mix, among the real Bolsheviks).

      You guessed it right, the sire of this character was Antonin Zilkha himself, detailed in Victorian Vampire.

      Another favourite, though less original, character concept from mine is a counter-cultural Toreador. Rather than delighting in mainstream culture, this Toreador is crazy about subcultures and counter-culture, things like punk and metal music and lyrics; this character is more poor and unglamorous than the stereotypical Toreador, and likely to be an Anarch as well.

      There is also a villain I will someday unleash onto someone when I'll be Storyteller: a serial diablerist Caitiff inceptor who invented the Discipline that mimics the effects of other Disciplines, and founded a bloodline called the Mimicrians. This inceptor and the whole gang are hated by both Camarilla and Sabbat (the former because of the diablerie thing, the latter because the founder once served the Sabbat as a Pander but defected). But they still exist because they can successfully imitate normal vampire clans, and there's no easy way to identify a Mimicrian (they are also minor Viss users and can use it to steal identities of others). All Mimicrians, not only the founder, are serial diablerists, because diablerie is necessary to "unlock" mimickable Disciplines, but they all have Hidden Diablerie. So, in this chronicle, anyone not showing the telltale stripes after diablerie is under suspicion of being a Mimicrian.
      Last edited by The Caitiff Antediluvian; 07-29-2016, 03:59 PM.

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      • #33
        #36: A trio of Elder Tzmisce hedonists and artistic flesh-crafters have long grown bored over the centuries. So when a lone Caitiff (knowing he would get his ass kicked) suggested that their boredom comes from thinking only of themselves and that perusing a more virtuous path would help them expand beyond this, they took the advice. So now they challenge themselves with elaborate games of punishing the wicked and rewarding the virtuous. The thing is when it comes to ancient Fiends, their take on the advice was not what anyone expected. Think along the lines of Hellraiser: Inferno for the punishments. The virtue rewards are odd, but makes things better in a messed-up way. Example: A virtuous old bag lady is given a job as a live-in maid for a very wealthy family and eventually become an unofficial member of the family and later, a down-to-earth, charitable matriarch. Which was achieved by major amounts of dominating every member of the main and extended family (including some personality changes).

        As for the Caitiff, he was let go, but he does receive recordings of their latest achievements, thanking him for this more rewarding pursuit.


        See my splat, Angel: The Revelation (With a MUCH better link): https://docs.google.com/document/d/1...qUnP1fcl-0/pub

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        • #34
          Is this supposed only to be Modern Nights or are Dark Ages welcome as well?

          #37: A Malkavian who escaped his tyrannical Sire and knows the Sire is still there, looking for him. The Malkavian can have periods of depression when greeting the sun seems like a good idea to avoid further suffering at his Sire's hand, mixed with periods of intense, frenzied activity when the Malkavian makes ready for a confrontation with the Sire, building relations, ghouling and getting hands on arms, only for all of it to fall out of his hands in his periods of depression.

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          • #35
            #38: She's a rumor among the street gangs of the city, or even several cities, for after the fighting is done and sometimes before the guns are silent, she appears from the dark to raise the most worthy into everlasting life on the streets. Like a modern day Valkyrie the Gangrel seeks out the modern day warriors, violent gangbangers, brutal police officers and more among the American cities and there give them the chance to keep fighting forever.

            ​While some may Think that she's ancient Brunhild was born as Maria back in the early 1900s and influated with the ancient Norse myths seeks to gathered a small army for one reason or another. And when its done, there will be hell unleashed. But until then she adds to the folk lore and urban legends while granting the Embrace to the most violent and brutal members of the human race.

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            • #36
              Dark Ages: Vampire[39] (Death of Wings) In the Omen War of Eastern Europe, horrifying magics are unleashed, careless of the consequences.

              Such is the case of the Angel-Maiden of Warsaw, a most...unusual...Gargoyle. (8th-generation [thanks to diablerie], to be precise.) Though originally a hideous monstrosity, she partook in the diablerie of a Cappadocian aide to a Tzimisce warlord, during an attack. The change was slow, barely noticable---at least at first.

              The soul of that Cappadocian had changed her; though he did not overtake her mind, his soul still brought far more with it than 'mere' power. The Angel-Maiden's features became beauty incarnate---the sweet lure of death---and she began to hear...something...whispering to her.

              The blood oath to her Tremere master too faded away, and the Angel-Maiden made her escape. There, the whispers grew stronger, and now, she was seeing things...and those things now told her secrets, hidden things.

              She needs to know more. She must know more!

              [In game terms, she swiftly gained mastery of Auspex, despite it being an out-of-clan Discipline... Furthermore, her stolen powers drive her instinctually to learn Mortis, though, sadly for the Angel-Maiden, she CANNOT learn it without a Cappadocian teacher.]
              Last edited by Demigod Beast; 09-14-2016, 10:50 PM.

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              • #37
                I'll throw on a couple concepts I've worked up lately.

                - A blue collar, complete schlub, knucklehead (think Ash Williams level and flavor of stupidity)...Ventrue. With Charmed Existence, Lucky, and a few choice social flaws to accentuate the dumbass nature of the character. Why would a Ventrue embrace a person like this, and why would they suffer him to love, you ask?

                He embraced...himself. His soon-to-be sire was drinking him dry, and as a last, desperate act of self self-preservation...bit him right back, and ended up with enough vitae in his system to turn once the Ventrue dumped the body. His sire doesn't know what really happened...yet.

                - A burnout hippie Toreador, who happens to be a medium. Along the way, they learned Animalistic because they wanted to talk to and befriend all the beautiful animals of the world. So you have a Torrie of all vampires, who can communicate with and manipulate people, spirits, and animals. So, basically, the ultimate spy master and information broker...if they could stop being a hippie long enough to put their skill set to productive use.

                - (my favorite). A restaurateur. Famous restaurateur. As in "multiple Michelin starred restaurant" restaurateur. He's also a nosferatu, much to the local Torries' chagrin, and tends to put "extra special" ingredients in the meals of those he deems worth taking down a notch or two.
                Last edited by Theodrim; 08-22-2016, 01:40 AM.

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                • #38
                  #42: Bob McCrory grew up in Huntington, West Virginia. In high school, he bagged groceries at the Save-A-Lot and played varsity football. He fixed up an old truck and dated Debbie, the actual girl next door. He and Deb weren't the most popular couple in town, but they were the best looking. They had known each other before they looked good, so it didn't really matter. And he loved her. Really, truly, deeply. So much it hurt. So much he was terrified to tell her how much. Then, they had a pregnancy scare their senior year, but she had a miscarriage two days before they were named Prom Queen and King. After that, it wasn't the same. Debbie went off to college in Ohio. Bob got a job changing oil at the local garage.

                  Sometimes, when he was sitting at the corner bar, listening to some old Journey song on the jukebox, he'd just sit and think. "Life had been great. It really had. I can't say exactly when, but it had. Now, it's just life."

                  Bob worked on his Camaro. He dated pretty girls, but nothing really solid. He played softball with a local team, and worked out at the gym to stay solid. He rented one of those little apartments out by the strip mall, and no one but him ever went there. As the years went by, his old buddies all got married and got a paunch. The girls all dressed up every Saturday night, until they only dressed up for Sunday mornings. "Bobby," they'd all say, "When are you gonna grow up and get a real life? You're gorgeous. You could marry any woman you want." He'd just smile and ask how their kids were doing in school. He knew they talked. Maybe he was gay, or depressed or a secret drunk. But he wasn't any of those things. He just never met a woman who looked at him like a person and not Mr. September from the pinup calendar.

                  By the ten year reunion, he had had it. He didn't want to go, but the old gang made him. Then Deb walked in, with her husband. She was a math teacher in Cincinatti and her husband, was, umm, something with a suit. Bob almost lost it right there in the gym. He made his apologies and left.

                  Driving home, a six pack between his feet, he came round the bend and saw a crashed car by the side of the road. It was a Jaguar. As he got out and walked toward the high beams shining up from the ravine, the horn was blaring in the night. He thought, "Amazing the first Jaguar I've seen with a working electrical system and it's crashed in a ditch." Only the front of the hood was visible, but as he shimmied down the slope, he saw a woman at the wheel. She looked dead. Like days dead. There was no blood anywhere, but she could not possibly be alive. Her head was at a right angle to her neck.

                  He looked inside to see if there was anyone else and jumped when she moved. Her head swiveled around and he could hear her say, "Open the door. Now lean in. Now turn your head."

                  He hadn't realized it, but he had done those things. Then he began to die as the blood flowed out of him. But he didn't, well not exactly.

                  Seems even the Toreador prince of Columbus can hit an oil patch and skid out. She had planned to just drain him dry, but at the last moment, she looked at him. Those powder blue eyes. The soft blonde hair. The flawless skin and chiseled jaw. He was simply the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And considering the circles she moved in, that was saying something.

                  She embraced him, and took him to Columbus. He hung out in Elysium for a few months, but it just all seemed so fake. Yes, he was good looking, but that was it. He didn't care about the things her friends talked about. It was all post-deconstructionist poetry and cinema verite re-montaged installations and this and that. Bob probably could have understood it if he wanted to, but what was the point? He would never fit in, and he knew it. Art was meaningless, there was just survival. Blood. Or not, and take a walk in the morning sun. Whatever.

                  They called him a poseur, but posing as what? A NASCAR fan in a roomful of Edith Heads and Dandy Warhols? "This is just me, not a pose", he'd point out. So, they called him a burnout. But had he ever really flamed. Well, prom night, but that doesn't count. His sire grew impatient and dropped hints that he should leave, and maybe not mention his lineage. They talk every once in a while, on the phone. He thinks she's afraid he'll go anarch or sabbat or something, but he wouldn't. She calls him a blue-collar, burn-out autarkis. He always tries to sound chipper on the phone, but usually cries afterward.

                  He moved back to the apartment in Huntington. He works the night shift on a tow truck for spending money, but uses his supernatural charisma to pay the rent. He feels bad about cheating the landlady, but she doesn't seem to mind.

                  Nights off, he sits at the corner bar, some old Journey song on the jukebox, and pretends to drink a beer. He thinks, "Life had been great. It really had. I can't say exactly when, but it had. Now, it's just life."

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                  • #39
                    #43 Gavin Charbonneau MacCullough; BA, MFA, MA, PhD, EdD, was a professor studying literary theory at Concordia University in Montreal. He was well known for his novels, mostly focusing on middle class professionals trying to survive in a world that ignored their emotional and spiritual life. He won multiple awards, including the Writer's Trust, the Governor General's Award and Scotiabank Giller. He was a regular contributor to MacLean's, writing a column about popular culture and the arts. He was a regular at dinner parties at Margaret Atwood's summer cottage. He was quickly climbing the academic ladder, some predicted an administrative post or even a seat on the board.

                    In 1979, though, the local Liberal party committee asked him to stand for election to the Canadian Parliament. He had never had a strong interest in politics, but was assured that he was unlikely to win against the local Bloc Quebecois MP, a popular deputy party leader. The Liberals just didn't want the riding to go uncontested. Then the Bloc MP was caught with three under-age prostitutes in a van behind Tim Horton's at three in the morning. They weren't eating donuts.

                    Gavin entered parliament expecting to serve a short term, then turn things over to a successor. But an odd thing happened, he became really fascinated with the politics of the Centre Block. He delved into the interpersonal relations of the senate, examined decades of funding data on nearly every MP and became personal friends with the Governor General. He approached this research with the dispassionate detachment of a scholar, of course, which most members took as polite reserve. Gavin became a regular guest on several political panel shows, and a go to interviewee on internal parliamentary affairs for the National. He developed a reputation for calm, trans-partisan even handedness.

                    The elections of 2005 elected a hung parliament, with the Liberals in coalition with the NDP only able to form a minority government if several Bloc Quebecois MPs crossed the aisle and joined the coalition. But the Bloc was only willing to join the coalition with large concessions, such as a new independence referendum, abolition of the Senate and a Canada-wide referendum on becoming a republic without the British Monarchy. Wasn't gonna happen. The other parties in the coalition would collapse in the RoC, if they conceded to the Bloc's demands. Meanwhile, the Tories were short of a majority, but no other party would work with them. No one was able to form a government and the Governor General feared a constitutional crisis was brewing. Both the Liberals and Conservatives held angry party conferences with backbench revolts threatening to oust the party leaders.

                    Finally, the Liberal and Conservative Party leaders, meeting with the Governor General at Rideau Hall, agreed to a stopgap deal until new elections could be held. But under only one condition: Gavin Charbonneau MacCullough become the new (and temporary) Prime Minister, leading a multi-partisan caretaker government. He had remained a confirmed bachelor and had no children, so he moved into 24 Sussex Drive with four tweed suits, his briefcase and his toothbrush. He only served for three months, but had done his part in maintaining peace, order and good government. As part of the coalition agreement, he did not stand for election in his riding, rather retiring from government service. He also agreed to forego a senate seat.

                    Gavin entered a genteel semi-retirement and writing short stories. He spent New Year's Eve 2007 at his winter home in Charleston, South Carolina. It was quiet evening, watching television and catching up on some correspondence. But then a visitor arrived who offered him the embrace. Gavin agreed, and the deed was done.

                    His sire faked Gavin's death by creating a home invasion gone wrong. As an American, the sire assumed this would the most plausible story, but the safety of traveling Canadians became a cause celebre in Canada, dominating headlines for weeks. Gavin passed quickly through the agoge, taking a small domain at a local college. He feeds exclusively on handsome undergrads. He is working on a new book, co-edits a literary journal, and very much wants to go home to Canada. That is, of course, completely impossible. Here in the States, no one recognizes him, but in Canada he is a household name. He occasionally runs into Canadian tourists and expats, and has had some close calls. He figures in four or five decades he can go home.

                    Meanwhile, elder Ventrue who don't grasp how clueless Americans are about Canadian politics are apoplectic. They are pleased at Gavin's skill set and demeanor, of course, but embracing such a public figure is not advisable. Not advisable in the sense that they consider Gavin a walking threat to the masquerade and have discussed a bloodhunt.

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                    • #40
                      Nosimplehiway I have to say I've loved your entries in this thread. Well, except one...
                      ​Columubs with a Toreador Prince? Really? Given this town, it has to be a Malkavian.

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                      • #41
                        A Follower of Set who models himself after the Serpent of Eden. He offers resources and knowledge to the underprivileged so they can rebel against their oppressors. Most of the time, they aren't wise enough to use his gifts responsibly.


                        A Sabbat Gangrel who's suffering the affects of dysmorphobia, causing her to feel uncomfortable in human form. She spends the majority of her time in animal shape, growing increasingly hostile when forced to take human form for extended periods of time.


                        A Ventrue Anarch who prefers to lead by example, rather than by force. Unlike most Lords, he is actually much beloved by his followers, which makes it harder for enemies to buy their loyalty.

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                        • #42
                          Livewire: Thanks. I really enjoy writing them. Good after-work therapy.

                          The Toreador prince is not the best fit, frankly. From the times I've been in Columbus it struck me as a straight forward Tremere sort of place, maybe Ventrue.

                          But for storytelling purposes, I wanted Bob to be from Huntington because I needed a blue collar city in Appalachia, large enough to barely support just one vampire, but not so rural that Garou would be thick on the ground. I needed the Prince to be Toreador from a city that could be driven to in a few hours. Pittsburgh seems too Sabbat-ey. Cincinnati and DC have poor road connections to Huntington. Roanoke is on the wrong side of the mountains, since I wanted the Toreador's snooty court to clearly be in Mid-America and not too Southern. That brought it down to Columbus or Lexington, KY. I was leaning toward Lexington, but decided it was too small to host both a full Camarilla court and an insular Toreador clique. If the general Camarilla population overlapped with the Toreador too much Bob would have fallen in with the Brujah, Gangrel or Anarchs. Columbus is in a more densely populated part of the country. This allows having larger and more exclusive Toreador functions.

                          And I never said the Toreador Prince of Central Ohio was *secure* in her position. Based on how she is presented in the character sketch (distracted by clan parties, siring profligately, and driving around other states unattended) I'd say she delegates nearly all of the actual administration of the city, and her days are numbered. Bob could very well wind up with someone crashing on his couch.

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                          • #43
                            Hell, I'll also throw in the single darkest, most awful, character concept which I have actually been banned from ever playing in my local group, I've ever come up with, too. And, considering I've played Baali, Tremere antitribu serial diablerists on the Path of Caine on the Red List, and Angellis Ater before, that's no light comment.

                            The character was a Setite. Her entire schtick was using Obfuscate and Presence to seduce mortals of power and influence, having kinky, totally fucked up sex with them, surreptitiously video recording the whole thing...and using those tapes as blackmail material, selling them on the black market, or even just sending them to the local news depending upon mood, profitability, potential recruitability to the Cult of Set, and/or whose pawn that mortal was. Pretty typical, bog-standard, Setite shenanigans, except for a certain three-point physical flaw which at this point is probably easily enough figured out by yourselves.
                            Last edited by Theodrim; 09-06-2016, 11:18 AM.

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                            • #44
                              I had a version of that setite, a nosferatu PC with the "false reflection" merit so "Mask of a Thousand Faces" worked on camara. It's very easy to fabricate blackmail material with a bit of effort this way.

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                              • #45
                                #49 A Cathayan Primogen.
                                Last edited by Pleiades; 09-19-2016, 02:42 PM.


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