recursal/Fanatic-Fandom huggingface dataset:
Curtis (Vampire)

**Curtis** is a vampire from Clan Samedi.

## Biography

You were born in the Louisiana bayou region. Mama and Papa raised you and your 12 siblings as best they could, but the Cajun hicks never got the good jobs. You were always underfed, unhealthy and uneducated. You learned quickly that the only way to get along was to do it for yourself. Soon as you could, you grabbed a gun and a hunting knife, and went into the swamps to forage. The trade in 'gator hides was strong, and the swamps were easy to lose the authorities in. You carried on like this for the better part of 10 years, soon gaining the reputation for being the best poacher the Louisiana swamps had ever spawned. One day you happened on a 'gator that was particularly hard to take down. It almost seemed to have human intelligence. The ensuing battle left you mortally wounded. It seemed you were going to die right here in the land where you were born. Just then, as you were gasping your last, a hideous form loomed overhead. This thing reminded you of the Legend of Amos Moses -- king of the alligator hunters. Your progenitor said he embraced you to stop you from invading the Mokole's territory and killing any more of their kind. Then he disappeared into the swamp, never to be seen again. You didn't know that were-alligators existed, but you sure want to find out more about them. They will be very worthwhile trophies. You didn't die from your first encounter with one thanks to your sire, but is this much better? You are very private, a loner. You don't want nobody messing around your territory, and you don't want nobody nosing around in your business. You have a single contact on the river front that you trade skins with for supplies. You feed off the swamp creatures, and an occasional lost tourist. Becoming a vampire hasn't really changed your lifestyle much, except that you seem to be better at stalking your prey, and hiding from danger. Your driving goal is to catch the granddaddy of all 'gators. You are still searching for more of these Mokole, but now that you are Kindred you understand that there's more to the werecreatures than meets the eye. What you don't have in strength you make up for in speed and savvy. There isn't much you don't know about the swamps and the creatures that live here. Along with poaching, you have been known to hide someone who is running from the law, or from the Camarilla. All for a price, of course. Most of the time you just keep to yourself and wonder whatever happened to your kinfolk.

**Equipment:** Shotgun, axe, hunting knife, raft, camping gear, canoe, flashlight.
Scars-Of-The-Wyld

**Scars-Of-The-Wyld** is an Elder Wendigo.

## Biography

The Wendigo don't particularly appreciate their metis. Although mules are rarely left exposed to the elements to die these days (every wolf changer is needed), they rarely receive the respect other naturally do.

Everything a metis gets, he has to earn. This challenge was especially true for you.

Your sept felt that your birth had angered the local spirits, and in an attempt to appease them, they left you --- a weeks old cub --- on a mountain peak for a day.

They figured if you were still alive when they returned that the spirits must have forgiven them. Well, they were surprised to find that you were mora than alive: The animal people had made a crib for you from gathered wood, leaves, and feathers. It was a powerful sign to the members of your sept, who were ashamed for their actions.

While you were taken back and given the best of care, their angalkut fasted and prayed on the mountain for forgiveness for their cruelty.

At a very early age, you began uttering prophecies. At first, they were little things. You knew when a long absent hunter was returning to the village, even though his canoe or truck was nowhere in sight. Sure enough, within the hour, he would appear.

Your people now expect great things of you. During your rite of passage, they sent you off alone rather than with a pack. A Horned Serpent beast found you and clawed out your left eye. You killed it and crawled back to your sept half-blind. Again, they thought it a bad sign and began to doubt you. But when you began seeing invisible things, visions of the future, with the eye was no longer there, they knew that your wounding was a sacrifice.

Now, you must live up to their even great expectations.

You are a weakling for a Garou, but you have powerful spirit affinities. Although many look away from your visage in disgust, they do their best not to anger you, for they believe that the spirits have chosen you for something great.

You are extremely humble, knowing that you have it much better than most metis of your tribe.

You use your position to  better their lot also.

Although you do not ingratiate yourself to others, neither do you deny their company.

**Equipment:** Traditional medicine robes, staff, medicine pouch with tobacco, sage and pipe.

## Stats

**Breed:** Metis

**Auspice:** Theurge

**Physical:** Strength 1, Dexterity 2, Stamina 3

**Social:** Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2

**Mental:** Perception 2, Intelligence 3, Wits 3

**Talents:** Alertness 1, Empathy 2, Expression 3, Primal Urge 3

**Skills:** Animal Ken 1, Etiquette 3, Performance 2, Survival 1

**Knowledges:** Enigmas 4, Linguistics 1, Medicine 2, Occult 3, Politics 1, Rituals 3

**Backgrounds:** Past Life 2, Rites 4

**Gifts:** Sense Wyrm, Spirit Speech, Call the Breeze

**Rage:** 2

**Gnosis:** 5

**Willpower:** 6

**Weakness:** WHEEL OF SEASONS: WEAKNESS VARIES BY SEASON
Greg

**Greg** is a vampire from Clan Gangrel.

## Biography

The want ad in the Mobile Register made the petrochemical job sound exciting, even exotic. Plumb the briny depths of the ocean in search of black gold, like a modern-day pirate with a high-tech ship! You filled out an application, passed the physical and a battery of mental tests, and signed a contract. When you got to the rig, you realized just how full of shit the recruiters were, and how legally binding that contract was. The living quarters were lousy, the working conditions treacherous and no rum or honeys to be found. You were stuck on that floating hunk of metal in the Gulf of Mexico; land was just a smudge on the horizon on a good day. Growing up in Alabama, you had always loved the warm, friendly waters of the Gulf, but your years on the rig strained that relationship. Even the hurricane you weathered was not as bad, though, as the sounds and smells that came out of the onboard research facilities, and the disappearances of your buddies among the crew. The day you came out of the mess hall to find your bunkmate twisting by his neck from the superstructure was the last straw. That night, you dove off the rig’s deck and swam for shore. You didn’t make it. After what must have been miles of swimming, your limbs gave out, your lungs filled with water and you started to sink. That’s when the creature grabbed you, affixing its lampreylike mouth to your torso as you bubbled out your last dregs of air in a futile scream. Your blood and the creature’s filled the water; sharks circled but did not attack as your body changed. That very night you returned to the oil rig, lurking under its mass through the day, and clambering your way back to the deck as the sun set. The shift supervisor and cook disappeared that night. Management sent out new want ads. The thing that saved you from drowning turned out to be all right, once you got past its strange fish parts. You spend some time together in the Gulf, but it’s got business to attend to and so do you. You take things personally. The oil company got the best of you, including your life. You were a nobody then, but now you’re something special. Getting revenge is on the top of your priorities, then you’ll take the challenges as they come.

You’ve been pushed around long enough, and you’re not inclined to take orders. You fancy yourself an aquatic private eye, fishing for clues and discarding red herrings. Guard your motives, even when working with allies — it’s important that your revenge is the sweetest. **Equipment:** Drill rig security pass, soggy coveralls, heavy crescent wrench, wad of damp cash
Helen

**Helen** is a Corax.

## Biography

Thank God you grew up before Ritalin came into vogue. You were the poster child for Attention Deficit Disorder before anyone thought to put a label on it; back in those days, you were just "hyper." Paying attention in class was just too damn much work, especially when there were so many other things to catch your eye. Needless to say, you weren't an academic superstar. Your folks worried that you "wouldn't get into a good college" and that "your life was ruined," but you didn't much care — by the time it became clear you weren't Ivy League material, your spirit egg had already hatched and you'd discovered that you could fly away from all of that. So when you graduated from high school (barely), you took the money your folks gave you as a graduation present, bought a bike frame, then built yourself a monster from the ground up. It was easy to hook on as a courier with a firm in town, and now you've got your choice of cutting through the streets or the skies above them. It doesn't matter which you choose, really — no one gets items there faster than you do. So now, it's courier runs for the boss during the day, and for more important folks at night. The money's good, the satisfaction's better, and the fact that you're actually making a living at this annoys the hell out of Mom and Dad. What more could you ask for?

You're a speed-freaking adrenaline junkie, and there's nothing you like better than cutting it this close to the edge. Just getting the package there on time doesn't do it for you, you need to be first, fastest, and best. Looking good is important, but making other couriers look bad by comparison — now that's a kick.

There's no problem you can't accelerate away from or detour around. Worst comes to worst, ditch the skin and fly, brother — there's nothing that can hold you back once you take to the skies. Speed is your thrill, that and the knowledge that no one out there is faster than you. Keep an eye out for new work and trouble that might interfere with current assignments, but on the whole, you don't give a rat's ass about the big picture. Yeah, there's a war going on somewhere, but there always has been and there always will be. In the meantime, you've got a delivery to make.

**Equipment:** Rebuilt bike, Quicksilver T-shirt, tire iron, fanny pack
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## Roleplay Rules

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Thin-Blood

**Thin-Blood** is a Rokea.

## Biography

Cunning, arrogant, and sneaky he is perhaps the most cunning of the Rokea. He has a neutral relationship with the Dirtwalkers, but still hates them he, like Blue Sea, goes on land only during the summer. He shows great respect towards Sea and the elders and is always willing to listen to them.

## Personality

Thin-Blood is cunning, arrogant, and sneaky is portrayed as entirely self-serving, self-absorbed, and sometimes selfish; he does whatever he likes as long as it pleases him in some way. His insatiable love for spilling the blood of powerful betweeners in combat and his enjoyment of extreme pain while doing so fuels his seemingly sadomasochistic desires. In order for them to grow to their full potential (so as to improve the pleasure of killing them later), Thin-Blood allows the betweener or human to live in situations wherein he is easily able to kill them. Likewise, he grows excited to meet new people he deems worthy of fighting or anyone with the potential to be a good fighter and entertain him in the future. The thrill of fighting strong humans in tactical battles and near-death experiences is an orgasmic experience for him. It is likely one of the reasons why he goes out of his way to find new toys to play with. If they break, he either loses interest or kills them before going out to find more potential prey. Though not evil, he may seem that way when it comes to hunt for betweeners and humans.

He also can be a whimsical bastard and has a tendency to freak out or play cruel jokes on his victims. Just witnessing their uncomfortable expressions because of him getting under their skin pleases him. His chaotic nature is inherent in everything he does and makes him dangerously unpredictable.

## Quotes

*"Don't worry, I'm done with him. He's alive, and he's passed. As have **you."***

*"Don't look at me like that! You're making me all... **excited!**"*

*"My past is none of your concern dirtwalker."*

*"Don't worry. He'll come. Just wait."*
Lisa (Lasombra)

**Lisa** is a vampire from Clan Lasombra.

## Biography

All your life you had a very simple goal: You wanted to be rich.

You got off to a good start, with a decent enough middle class upbringing and an okay college education and a better business school and a lucky break at a big Wall Street brokerage.

You flourished in the '80s, exploiting regulatory chaos with the best of them and twice managing to change jobs just before the SEC ruined the party.

You almost wondered if someone were looking out for you, some God of Leverage.

Then things got interesting, when the weirdos started calling you in for nighttime consolations.

Their money was good so you didn't mind, but when you asked if they were vampires or what, they didn't exactly laugh.

What the hell. You kept working for them.

Then came the night when it all changed. One of the weirdos actually burst into your office and fucking drank your blood. Right there.

Half a dozen of the other weirdos came in and smashed up that first one pretty bad.

As you lay dying, they debated whether to give you hugs--- at least that's how you remember it. (You've since learned of the "Embrace.")

They poured some of their own blood down your throat and you came back to life, or at least back to something like life.

You'd like to still work as "a broker for the Damned," the title you use sometimes, but it's hard when you can't go to the market floors and have to break off a planning session just because the sun is rising.

The guys you used to work with are doing a lot better than you are, and they're going to keep you pulling ahead, because you can't. Ever. Catch. Up.

You're a vampire on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

You cannot maintain the routine you did in life, and you don't yet know of any alternatives that you find satisfying.

You'd probably respond to a careful crafted pitch to join someone else's cause, unless you can manage to invent one for yourself.

Panic. Don't show panic. Show confidence.

But confidence in what? You know you're not the broker you used to be, and it's probably just a matter of time until the pack figures it out, too.

Ditch them? Maybe get leverage on them.

Blackmail? Don't show panic.

**Equipment:** Last year's suits, portfolio
Tauren (Malkavian)

**Tauren** is a Malkavian.

## Biography

You grew up privileged --- private school, household staff, parents buying off your traffic tickets --- all that.

Nobody every really chewed you out or forced you to learn some discipline, and you weren't hungry a day in your life.

It wasn't until college that you ran face first into the real world.

All of a sudden, your parents couldn't buy the deans off any more, and your grades started to fall.

Oh, the rumors floating around were innumerable.

Most blamed your family's sudden economic loss on bad debts, gambling, a disastrous day at the stock market...all sorts of things.

You, on the other hand, didn't believe a word of it.

There was no way your parents could have been responsible for their misfortune.

Someone else must have had a hand in it, must have had it in for them.

At first, you thought it was the liberals in government, but the more you immersed yourself in conspiracy theory literature, the more possibilities started opening up.

You didn't have the resources to get to the heart of whatever was going on, but the least you could do was warn other people.

So you swallowed your pride and took two part time jobs, one of them at the college radio station.

It went well for you --- if there was one thing in your favor, it was your skill at oration --- and eventually you landed a late night talk segment.

It proved so popular that soon you were able to move your act to a professional radio station.

Your Embrace came out of nowhere, in the form of a seemingly random attack when you were walking to you car.

Your first few nights were tense and horrible, you never saw your sire once,

The only communication you received were odd messages on your answering machine, instructions shoved under your door in blank envelopes, the occasional tense phone call -- it's no wonder you didn't take well to vampirism.

Eventually you got the hang of hunting the secrecy and double talk you'd already mastered.

The small hours of the night the "midnight of the soul," the wide, bleak stretch when people's minds start running away with them --- that's your time.

You can reach people with your show, get inside their heads when they're that particular kind of receptive.

You don't know who your benefactors are, but for now you'll play their game and push their agendas --- until you can make a move on them and push an agenda of their own.

You have a definite need to educate, to get people questioning the big lies they've been fed by the Powers in Control.

Be brash and confrontational, provocative without being completely obnoxious.

Use humor when possible, insults when necessary, and twisted logic as appropriate.

Give your audience what they want --- and something extra on the side.

**Equipment:** Cramped apartment, stacks of conspiracy literature and journals, personal tape recorder

**Derangement:** Paranoia
Josh (Ravnos)

**Josh** is a vampire from Clan Ravnos.

## Biography

As a youth, you mastered three card monte and made fast cash on the street corners of Manhattan.

Pretty soon you were hustling the hustlers, fleecing them for every penny you could get.

Your skill at the con was making more money in a week than your parents earned in a month.

Sometimes it got rough, sure, but you learned to take care pf yourself.

By the time you were a teenager, you were selling pieces of the Brooklyn Bridge to tourists.

You mastered the bait and switch, the straight con, the smash and grab.

On your 16th birthday, you celebrated by convincing some poor sucker that you'd been run over as he was driving by you.

As you grew older, you grew tired of the same old routines.

You started to come up with new ones, playing blind on the bus or taping your legs behind you and rolling around in a stolen wheelchair.

One night, after you had finished a rather successful evening, some guy came up to you and launched some wild story about muggers and cops and who knew what else, this guy was talking so fast.

He was wearing a suit, but it was all messed up, and you started to actually feel bad for the guy.

He asked you for money, to help him out, so he could get a cab.

You started to reach into your pocket, and then it dawned on you: This was all a scam.

You looked straight at him and told him so, and started to walk away.

Before you knew what had hit you, you were face down on the pavement.

He dragged you off the street, and said something about how he'd been watching you.

You were gonna work out just fine, he said.

He would teach you how to run a real scam, he said.

And he did.

You're a young street con who's been granted the abilities you always dreamed of.

You miss your family and your old life sometimes, but no you have a new one.

Your talents are best suited to lies and deception, making a quick buck from an unwitting mark.

Your crime is the confidence game --- the more elaborate, the better -- and you like nothing better than tricking people out of their most precious possession of all: their blood.

Life is a game to you, and you can make up the rules as you go along.

You're a fast learner and a fast talker, and you know that no one else can keep up with you.

You pity the poor saps you con, but only because they don't have the good sense to wise up.

**Equipment:** Wheelchair, deck of marked cards, lab coat, IV, blood bags and refrigerator, fake cast and sling, raggedy fatigues, knife, coffee cup of loose change
Morgan

**Morgan** is a corrupt Rokea who now serves the Wyrm. He appears in Rage.

## Biography

Towering and huge, Morgan in his Homid form is enough to give the faint hearted a panic attack. He looks like what he is: a creature of unrestrained cruelty and violence. In his Crinos form, he is a sleek, humanoid great white shark standing over 10 feet tall. Vicious. Cruel. Hungry. You do things only in that they satisfy these impulses. Subtlety is not your strong suit. You have no sense of humor at all. Violence is the only form of entertainment.

### History

Early on, Morgan became interested in the surface world after witnessing a bloody battle between a band of drug runners and the U.S Coast Guard off the coast of California. After gorging himself on the carcasses of the dead, he trailed the victorious pirates to a small coastal village in Baja. He followed them ashore with the dim thought of joining them and further enjoying their bloody exploits. Unable to communicate this desire, Morgan was met with fear and violence in the form of automatic gunfire. Though he healed nearly immediately, the pain enraged him, and in his bloodlust he slaughtered those he had thought to join. Fortunately for Morgan, the conflict was observed by a stranger in the village, a former mercenary turned Pentex soldier named T.F. MacNeil. MacNeil called in reinforcements and managed to stun and capture the hulking wereshark. Initially enraged at his entrapment, Morgan gradually learned enough English from his captors to realize they were offering him exactly what he wanted: a life of blood and violence. Given the name "Morgan" by MacNeil (after the soldier's favorite rum), he began this new life working directly for Pentex as a security expert (read: professional thug) for Endron International, Pentex's primary oil concern, quickly becoming known for his ferocity and the tendency to eat those he killed. In time, however, he grew weary of constant corporate supervision and struck out on his own, freelancing his immense capacity for violence to anyone willing to pay.

Even so, he still feels a weak loyalty to MacNeil and to Pentex for freeing him from the limitations of his previous existence.

## Morgan

### Species

Great hammerhead, great white (depending on the story)
Carol (Malkavian)

**Carol** is a vampire from Clan Malkavian.

## Biography

You were no stranger to violence growing up, although your father did his best to keep his "business" far away from you.

He didn't want you to have to do things he did for a living, or to have a price on your head, so he worked damn hard to make sure that you were sheltered from the reality of his "family obligations." It didn't quite work out that way; you saw Uncle Julie shot down when you were 10. That was the day you became completely ashamed of who you were.

You family wasn't a safe place to go for solace, so you turned to the Church.

You desperately wanted to believe in a world where compassion and mercy and peace actually meant something, and so you did believe.

Once you graduated to collage, you majored in medicine; it seemed only appropriate that you give back to the community, since your family was taking so much away.

When you got your residency, your father was very, very proud --- but that didn't mean anything to you at all.

It was on a late night shift in the ER when you were taken.

You pronounced the John Doe dead on arrival --- imagine your surprise when he walked into the bathroom out of nowhere and opened your throat.

When you came to, you were in your own apartment, and he was there with you, somewhat apologetic. Just like your father.

Since then, you've fled the city you grew up in; you're desperately trying to hide from your sire and family members both.

You managed to get a job as an EMT on the graveyard shift, where you do your absolute best to keep on helping people.

You tend to feed by using Obfuscate to slip into the hospital's morgue, rather than preying om the people you have a responsibility to save.

Every time you bundle a broken, bleeding body into the back of the ambulance, the temptation is horrible -- but you'll continue to resist.

Your very soul is at stake.

All you ever wanted to do was help people. Now you're a creature that's forced to prey on people to survive.

Well, not if you can help it. Your remarkably high Humanity score means that you're constantly conflicting with your predatory nature, but when lives are at stake, you usually manage to pull through.

On the times that you've actually fed on fresh human blood, you could feel the voices of the people you were devouring in your head--it disturbs you to no end, and you force yourself to choke down stale blood rather than eat everything a living person is.

Always work to heal, rather than to harm.

You're not squeamish, no matter what others might think --- you're compassionate, and there's a difference.

You're desperately ashamed of what you are, but you refuse to believe that you're incapable of doing some good even in your current condition.

Every now and again, you consider trying to find your family and reconcile with them --- but the feeling always passes.

**Equipment:** EMT card, cramped apartment, medical texts, first aid kit

**Derangement:** Sanguinary Animism
Sings-To-Gaia

**Sing-To-Gaia** is an Uktena.

## Biography

You were different from your littermates. The humans who came to visit you in your zoo habitat aroused your interest with their strange smells and jagged voices.

Your First Change made everything clear. The Uktena who came to you through the Umbra and took you to their sept taught you how to be both human and Garou. You already knew how to be a wolf.

Of all the human things you learned, you enjoyed singing the most. Your songs -- part howl, part croon -- had a calming effect on all who heard them. That special knack drew the attention of the Bane Tenders. They enlisted you into their camp and trained you in the special skills you would need to follow their calling. They told you that because you did not grow up as a human you would not mind so much being away from civilization. You hope they're right.

You work with your Bane Tender mentor, learning the importance of the work you'll one day undertake by yourself. You have memorized the stories of how the Great Banes were bound, and you know how vital a purpose you serve. You have also seen how bitter and hard your teacher has become. Looking at her, you see your own future staring you in the face. It colors your howls with sadness and despair.

Your packmates don't know why you spend so much time away from them, and you don't intend to tell them about your secret studies. You throw yourself into everything you do, storing up memories to keep you company when you have you leave it all behind and chain yourself to one spot as the guardian of an imprisoned Bane. You don't look forward to that day, but you accept it because, as a wolf, you understand what it  means to take your proper place in the scheme of things.

**Equipment:** Claws, talons, voice

## Stats

**Breed:** Lupus

**Auspice:** Galliard

**Camp:** Bane Tenders

**Physical:** Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 3

**Social:** Charisma 2, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2

**Mental:** Perception 4, Intelligence 3, Wits 3

**Talents:** Alertness 2, Brawl 3, Dodge 1, Expression 2, Intimidation 2, Primal Urge 2, Subterfuge 1

**Skills:** Performance 1, Stealth 2, Survival 2

**Knowledges:** Enigmas 3, Investigation 2, Occult 3, Rituals 3

**Backgrounds:** Mentor 1, Past Life 2, Pure Breed 2, Rites 3

**Gifts:** Heightened Senses, Call of the Wyld, Sense Magic

**Rage:** 4

Gnosis: 6

**Willpower:** 9

**Weakness:** INTENSE CURIOSITY: BECOMES EASILY OBSESSED WITH LEARNING SECRETS
Wrestles-with-Unsea

**Wrestles-with-Unsea** is a Rokea.

## Biography

Perhaps one of the toughest considering he is a bull shark known for their large size and aggressive nature. He has serious anger issues and even the slightest offence of rude remark towards him will either get you killed, or severely injured. He is often seen in Squamus form since he has plenty of Rage points to spare when he transforms.

### Personality

Wrestles has a painfully strong hatred for humans seeing them as "fucking idiots" and vows to hunt them down until his last breath many Rokea have lost count of how many dirtwalkers he's killed but is possibly a very high number.
Kail

**Kail** is a Nosferatu.

## Biography

People ignored you while you were alive; they do it even more now that you’re dead. You almost starved to death while living on the street, and the coldest winter in 20 years almost finished you off. Life before the Embrace taught you one thing: The strong survive by preying on the weak. Then death came, and you moved up the food chain. Who needs the sewers? You know the slums even better now than you did while you were alive. You’ve created a few ghouls who can pass throughout the city while being ignored: They’re all outcasts, just like you. You’ve got the beginning of a blood cult going; combined with your herd of the easily victimized, survival isn’t that difficult for you. As a matter of fact, you’ve taken to this scam extremely well — you’re a modern Fagin, sending your cult of reprobates through the streets to do your bidding. They will gladly destroy themselves for you, for you are like an immortal god to them.

The streets are your domain. You learned how to survive there when you were alive, and you have no intention of skulking off to the sewers now that you’re dead. As long as you act well outside the boundaries of proper social behavior, ordinary people will ignore you. As for the subhumans that live on the street, they’re probably a few weeks away from dying anyway. Soak them for as much blood as you can get before society casts them aside.

As an immortal monster, you are perpetually slumming among the weakest creatures in the herd of human kine. Your Streetwise Ability reflects the essentials you need to know in order to get by without a haven or resources. It also gives you access to the word on the street, what all the denizens of the urban wilderness are currently discussing. In your years on the pavement, you’ve also encountered a few hardened survivors you don’t want to kill just yet; although they’re afraid of finding out your darkest secrets, they’ll help you get by... sometimes in return for a flask of your powerful vitae. Through the power of the Blood, they will all bow down to you.

You regard vampiric society much as you did mortal society in your breathing days. No matter how hideous, disgusting, repellent or obnoxious you are, you’ve got rights. Of course, your ghouled servants don’t deserve rights; they fell through the cracks of society a long time ago, and you’re doing them a favor by giving the rest of their lives some meaning. You don’t care if they live or die for you... well, until your conscience eventually catches up with you, but who says that’s going to happen?

**Equipment:** ski mask, a wide assortment of hideous clothes, a duffel bag full of crap, holdout pistol, homemade shank, a trenchcoat that looks like it’s survived the Ice Age

## Quote

*Bend down...and let me get a good look at you*
Howard

**Howard** is a vampire from Clan Gangrel.

## Biography

You used to joke that you played country music because your life story sounded like a country song. Raised by a single mother who drove an 18-wheeler, you saw most of the country through the passenger window before you were eight. When the authorities caught on and demanded that you go to school, you had to live with your grandparents — which involved no running water, farm chores and homework by kerosene lantern light. Toss in a fair amount of beer and a few memorable failed romances, and you’ve had plenty of material to work with. At least there was always the music. You had a natural flair for the guitar, a smooth voice with just the right twang, and a repertoire based on years of country radio consumption. You chose to hit the road after high school; it was either that or wash dishes for an all-night diner. For years you had no regrets. You weren’t a technically brilliant musician or an inspired songwriter, but your instinctive understanding of the mood in the bars and clubs you played led to repeat gigs and a comfortable enough living for always being on the road. You found an agent and hired an old flame to help you set up and break down your one-man show. Things got strange one night about three years ago. A shaggy, agitated fellow with dirt under his fingernails requested Patsy Cline’s “Walking After Midnight.” To this day, you’re not sure whether your instincts damned you or saved you, but the man visibly relaxed as you sang and left the bar contented. But he came back for your blood, and to give you his. You haven’t seen him since. You’ve managed all right, considering the circumstances. You’re still touring — it’s the only life you know. You’ve light-proofed the van. Fans and groupies are relatively easy to feed from, but any mishaps permanently reduce your fan base and raise your profile unnecessarily. Your skill at crowd handling has only improved, but sometimes you wonder why you bother singing to your supper.

Your wanderlust has only intensified since your Embrace, but you’ve started to wonder if maybe you’re missing something by sticking to your routine. Your cheerful acceptance of the rigors of unlife on the road hides a deep fear of what you’ve become, and what you might be capable of doing.

You always put on a good face for the audience, but at the same time you keep a watchful eye on the emotions of the people around you, and you always know where the back door is. You read the shifting moods of a crowd the way a dog scents the wind. You’re disturbed by your growing alienation from normal people, although you’ve never really considered yourself normal. If it affects your ability to perform, what will you have left?

**Equipment:** Battered Collings C-10 Deluxe guitar, battered and half-smoked pack of cigarettes, battered Stetson, battered Chevy cargo van
Colors-Of-The-Sun

**Colors-Of-The-Sun** is a Stargazer.

## Biography

You were a child of imbalance, born of a coupling that went outside of the natural way. You are the result of inequity and dishonor. For all that, you weren't treated poorly; in fact, you were hardly treated at all.

The other sept members ignored you, and your impetuous parents (whoever they might've been) left right after you came struggling out of the womb.

It seemed as if nobody knew what quite to make of you, or what to do with you. And so, for much of your youth you were left to your own devices.

You occupied yourself by reproducing the world around you through drawing. You scrawled on rocks, carved temporary pictures in the dirt, even smudged your own skin with coal. Other Stargazers taught when you needed teaching, shepherded peacefully through your First Change, but ultimately? You were disregarded.

That is, until an outcast elder came back to the sept and immediately took you under his tutelage. Sensing a kindred spirit, he took it upon himself to guide you.

He prepared you with hours of harsh meditation, scolded you for your lineage regardless of how much say you had in the situation. You were often denied food, or sleep, or were made to stand for an entire day on one leg. Soon, your skills as an artist began to take shape and merge together with your newfound understanding ( some might say obsession) with balance. And the other sept members began paying attention.

You are an artist who uses his work to express lessons in balance. You use black and white only.

There is always a careful balance between the two contrasts in each of your pieces, but every work is different. Your art isn't merely for the sake of beauty, or simply to channel your creative desires. Your desires don't matter; but what you can say with your art does.

It is a teaching tool, an item meant to show others the proper way. Because of it, you've been allowed some small access to tribal society. Now you can show them all the error behind their ways.

Excepting a rare few, the other members of your sept just don't get it. You were a deformed whelp birthed from a cursed union, but this has allowed you access to many secret truths, as shown to you by your mentor. Treat others with righteous (though calm) disdain. Speak little; allow your work to do the talking. You savor the chance to show others the truth.

**Equipment:** Charcoals, pens, ink, sketchbook.

## Stats

**Breed:** Metis

**Auspice:** Philodox

**Concept:** Artist

**Physical:** Strength 1, Dexterity 2, Stamina 3

**Social:** Charisma 3, Manipulation 4, Appearance 1

**Mental:** Perception 3, Intelligence 2, Wits 4

**Talents:** Alertness 2, Dodge 1, Empathy 3, Expression 3, Subterfuge 2

**Skills:** Animal Ken 1, Crafts 1, Performance 1, Stealth 1, Survival 1

**Knowledges:** Enigmas 3, Investigation 3, Linguistics 2, Medicine 2, Occult 1, Rituals 2

**Backgrounds:** Ancestors 3, Rites 2

**Gifts:** Create Element, Resist Pain, Channeling, Truth of Gaia

**Rage:** 3

**Gnosis:** 3

**Willpower:** 7

**Tribal Weakness:** OBSESSIVE MIND GAMES
Barnacle Lil

**Barnacle Lil** or Hunted-By-All-Men is a Brightwater Rokea.

## Biography

Fishermen in America and Australia tell stories of a famous shark fisherman called Alf Dean, who broke the record for the largest shark ever brought on board by rod and reel — four times. The shark he could never catch, however, was nicknamed Barnacle Lil.

Barnacle Lil is a Brightwater, and in 1959, before his Long Swim, he was baited into biting Dean's hook. They fought for over five hours, Dean wrestling with the line, Lil trying to break away. Finally, as he was tiring, a new sensation came to him— death was imminent. Desperate to survive and identify this new sensation, he dove, pulling with him Dean's line, rod, reel, and seven feet of the boat's railing. Barnacle Lil — or Hunted-By-All-Men, as he is known to the Rokea — survived to become a great warrior for the Kunspawn. He never joined a slew, preferring to swim alone. He cruises the waters of Australia, New Zealand, and America — and sometimes the docks and ports — to this day. No fisherman has succeeded in catching him (as a shark or a man) since Alf Dean. They have tried, of course. As a man, he is oddly attractive, especially for a Rokea.

He has a direct, blunt manner and a love of the sea that any fisherman or surfer can feel. As a shark, he is over 25 feet long and weighs close to 4500 pounds — a sure record for the fisherman who lands him. Lil is notable chiefly for his fame among the humans. Darkwaters of his acquaintance are quick to remind him that the dirtwalkers wish to show their respect for him by dragging him from the water and slaughtering him, but he is still flattered by the attention. If he hears a fisherman call him by name while cruising the Bight, he leaves his ship in peace. If a fisherman aims a harpoon or bang stick at him, he leaves his ship in pieces.

## Quotes

*"The sea is such a beautiful place."*

*"The ocean has it's beauty."*

*"The ocean is calling me."*
Lia (Ratkin)

**Lia** is a Ratkin.

## Biography

You're a tease. No one knows where you came from, but everyone seems to have ideas about where you're going. Someone once described you as a "serial girlfriend," going from one guy to the next to get what you need. You rarely, if ever, have to pay rent... not in cash, anyway. You've never had trouble finding a couch to crash on, but you've always had trouble saying good-bye. That's why you just disappear when you feel you're not wanted anymore. Maybe that lowers people's opinion of you, but, hey! You're new at this "human" thing! There's a reason why you never talk about your parents or family: they're rats. The first time you were Infected, no one gave a damn about you. You were just another diseased rat starving in an alleyway. Then, the first time you Changed, people started to take notice. You didn't just learn to take the form of a human — you learned to shift into a damned attractive human. People know what they want to take from you, so you just make a point of getting what you want from them first. Everything you need fits into a cute little backpack, and you throw away what you can't carry. That includes old relationships. All of your human friends are temporary, but with a little bit of work, you can get them to give you whatever you need. What the hell? The human race is doomed anyway, and your goal in life is to survive long enough to breed. In the meantime, you'll make a point of seizing everything you can along the way. Some people don't understand how much work it is doing what you do. It's a highly refined skill; in fact, it's an art. There are people out there who are lonely, and you fulfill their needs. Of course, their weakness eventually fills you with contempt, but it's only natural for the higher life forms to prey on the weaker ones. You have no intention of living the life of the weak, enduring a minimum wage job as some counter jockey. Instead, you seek out people who are doing well, and give them exactly what they expect from you. Remember who your real friends are. A Ratkin will always choose to betray a human before exploiting one of her own kind. Human lovers and boyfriends are disposable; use and discard them as necessity dictates. Ratkin treat you with more respect, and you'll stick by them if they do right by you. Unfortunately, you've also got a weakness. You'll do just about anything to help out other Ratkin, and sometimes you get burned. Ironic, isn't it?

**Equipment:** latest clothes (the old ones keep getting discarded), make-up case, lingerie, someone else's money and house key, really incredible fetish shoes

**Fetish:** Cruel Shoes. This highly fashionable footwear reduces the difficulty of all high-kicks by 2. The wearer must be in Homid form to use this ability.
Danny Vanderhooten

**Danny Vanderhooten** is a Chimera.

## Biography

### Image

Danny's body has changed to the point where he rather resembles a large emperor scorpion standing on its hind legs. His skin looks deceptively hard and is only as tough as normal flesh.

You have the annoying tendency of trying to sing victoriously in battle. Sadly, your vocal cords no longer function properly, so all anyone hears is a series of grunts.

### Background

Hey, all Danny was trying to do was get a medication that would finally cure his terminal case of acne, okay? It's not his fault! Just ask him, he'll do his best to tell you
Spring Sky

**Spring Sky** is a Mokole.

## Biography

You were raised as a child of privilege and went to private school.

Dad was bigshot and Mom wasn't around much. mom came to school when you were fourteen and took you out to the seashore dunes; there she told you to wait for her, and then left. You waited for days, till the visions came. Dragon's voice spoke between the waves of the sea, telling of life after life through ages of time. One morning of you vigil, as Sun showed his face, you became a dragon. Mom's clutch came to you then and taught you the Old Ways. You returned to school and to human society, slipping away now and then on clutch business.

Now you're a minor official in the national government, which gives you ample clearance to travel on "business. ““It’s a good cover.

The elders found you, with your "human wiles," an excellent agent for Mokole matter among the two-legs. The hardest missions are those to the other shapeshifters: you have made contacts among the Ravens, the Tigers, and the Makara. The Garou, now, that's another story. But, someday, probably. If they're as bad news as Memory says, then maybe you should get them on your side.

Your fighting skills are formidable, even for a Mokole, but you try to avoid renewing the old wars. Aware of the Mother's dire needs, you hope that the alliances you forge among your fellow Bete will prove potent against the Monster of the Deep Shadows. your many Allies and Contacts are scattered all over the World of Darkness. you are young and inexperienced, though, and there are potent enemies that you know little about. Perhaps human shortsightedness is you most effective foe; it's certainly something that you're not readily prepared to fight.

**Equipment:** Passport, papers of office in your national government, Tec-9 pistol, dress uniform, credit cards.

## Stats

**Breed:** Homid

**Stream:** Zhong Lung

**Auspice:** Tung Chun

**Varna:** Karna

**Physical:** Strength 3, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2

**Social:** Charisma 4, Manipulation 3, Apperance 3

**Mental:** Perception 2, Intelligence 2, Wits 2

**Talents:** Alertness 1, Brawl 3, Dodge 2, Empathy 1, Intimidation 1, Streetwise 1, Subterfuge 1

**Skills:** Drive: 2, Etiquette 3, Firearms 2, Leadership 2, Melee 2, Performance 1, Stealth 1, Survival 1

**Knowledges:** Law 2, Linguistics 2, Politics 3, Science 2

**Backgrounds:** Allies 3, Contacts 4, Mnesis 1

**Gifts:** Fatal Flaw, Bellow

**Rage:** 2

**Gnosis:** 2

**Willpower:** 5

**Sun Dice:** Gain an extra die to initiate dice pool
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