We'll finish this later. Only discovered the OoC late yesterday. You should mention it in the IntCk.

Faction Name:
Allegiance:
Location:
General Information: (alternative to summing up the foundation/general character of the faction in character biographies)

Character Sheets:


Name: Eilwen Ferch Gruffydd ap Llywelyn ap Gruffudd ap Rhys ap Ellis ap Dilwyn ap Taliesin (these days, she skips all but Eilwen ferch Gruffydd, or sometimes just Eilwen Gruffydd. However, she might also use other last names instead of her primary when being subtle)
Generation: 8th
Clan: Malkavian
Age (physical): 25
Age (actual): 684
Appearance: Eilwen is a woman that doesn’t stand out in a crowd. She isn’t stunningly beautiful or ugly, has no disfiguring scars, birthmarks or anything like that. She has longish, pale hair, pale skin and light gray eyes. Her face is fairly narrow, but not enough to stick out.

When it comes to clothing, she likes to wear clothes that favor mobility while not being revealing. It is not at all unusual to see her wearing a hooded cloak or robe of some sort over otherwise average clothes. When it comes to colors, she is very fond of darker hues, and her clothes reflect this.

Disciplines: Dementation (5), Obfuscate (3), Celerity (1), Auspex (3), Animalism (1), Fortitude (2)

Biography:
Eilwen was born in the year of 1330 somewhere in Wales, but she no longer quite remembers where. Not that it matters. She has no plans to go back there, and even if she could find it, it would not be home. Born the day after Frederick III of Germany died, her earliest memories were of a fairly small Welsh village. Descended from the bloodline of the last Welsh claimants to the title of Prince of Wales, her national patriotism and and dislike of the English was quite marked from an early age. In fact, her grandfather had even tried to claim the title, ensuring that he got imprisoned and she never met him.

Had it but been for a certain event in her early twenties, she might even have tried to find a way to make a claim on said title herself. That event, of course, was her Embrace. It happened late upon a dark and stormful night. She had left home for some reason she can no longer remember. One moment, she was wandering alone, the next she felt something biting into her neck, moments before she fell unconscious. When she next woke, there were strange whispers in her head, telling her to do things. And there was the thirst.

Following her becoming one of the Kindred, Eilwen left her family behind, never to see them again. The first several years, she spent alone with her Sire, learning the ropes of being a Kindred, as well as learning several disciplines. Granted, considering that her Sire was utterly insane, some of that instruction was quite… odd.

As the years went by, Eilwen grew steadily less sane and less connected with the mortal world. It was not that her beast took charge more, but rather that she grew disconnected from the humanity she had left behind. As a Vampire, she was meticulously in control. She did have a few unfortunate habits, like being possessed of the habit to, on a steadily rotating basis, hunt and kill people possessing certain physical traits. To Kine investigators, when such started appearing, there was no discernible pattern to her kills, for they could not see the full scale of a system in which a full cycle takes a century to pass.

While most malkavians lost Dementation during the event now known as the Great Prank, Eilwen did not. It is impossible to say why, for she too had to answer the call sent out through the Cobweb, but the fact remains that she did not switch it out for Dominate. This put her a bit at odds with many other Kindred, but since her clan never was much for mingling frequently with each other, that did not matter much. And since virtually all malkavians had lost Dementation, her continuing access to it ensured that many took all the wrong precautions when trying to deal with her.

While many kindred left for the Americas shortly after their discovery, most to get out from underneath the heels of the European Elders, Eilwen saw no reason to leave. Her sire was one of them, and she was slowly heading towards the same point herself, even if she was two generations or so higher than most the current elders. It was only in the early 20th century that she departed the continent of Europe on a ship headed for the Americas. Unfortunately, she found herself forced to walk several hundred kilometers when the ship she was on sank. As one of the Kindred, she did not need to breathe, but the immense pressure at the bottom of the ocean made the going slow. If someone asks whether she had anything to do with the sinking, she will vehemently deny it. Eventually she made landfall, barely managing to find someone to feed upon in time to avoid entering torpor. Following that, she made a vow that she would not go on another journey ship. Especially not another journey anywhere close to the polar Icecap.

For several years, she stayed near smaller villages and towns, preying upon the people there, rather than heading towards the bigger settlements. However, when the first World War ended, she chose to move to the city of Boston, where she set up shop. But seeing as the city was ruled by a Malkavian at the time, she could not exactly stay isolated. She wasn’t overly fond of authoritative persons or institutions, but she would pay lip service to them, if only to avoid being persecuted or otherwise be bothered.

While she does not openly consider herself part of the Camarilla or the Anarch movement, Eilwen has a noted dislike of the Sabbat. The exact reason for this isn’t quite clear, but that doesn’t really matter much. In recent years, pretty much ever since boarding the ship to the Americas, she has had very little or no contact with her Sire. The reason for this is unclear.

Personality:
Eilwen is not all that bad to be around. Except when she’s hungry, of course. Or rather, when she’s thirsty. As an elder, she can be a force to be reckoned with, but she isn’t one for involving herself overmuch. In anything overt. As old as she is, she can at times come across as a bit jaded and disconnected. Kine do not matter to her beyond her next meal. She has connections among them used for gathering information, but her network is (naturally) not as expansive as that of the Nosferatu. People who get on her bad side tend to find themselves driven mad. Mostly just for a short time, but on occasion it can be permanently. Eilwen lacks the raw power of the elders of lower generation than her, but she knows how to use what she has to its full potential.

Sabbat Arch Bishop[/b]
Name: Hallr Gunnarson

Generation: 8th Generation

Clan: Lasombra

Disciplines:
+Potence
+Obtenebration
+Dominate

Personality: Gunnarson is, first and foremost, a manipulative, powerhungry ruler. Wielding a vicious intelligence and brilliant strategy, Gunnarson can often be found at the true, black heart of many a Sabbat plan or scheme, pulling the strings and playing men and creatures against each other as easily as one would go about a casual game of chess, or discussing the weather. He lies as easily as he speaks truth, and many times such falsehoods are indistinguishable from the truths he might reveal for the sake of his own plans. He enacts all these plans and schemes without mercy, and without heart, for if one allows their heart to get in the way, they will taste the bitter defeat more often than the honey sweet nectar of success.

But do not take these scheming, underhanded means as the only facet of Gunnarson. No, he is a warrior, and proud of it. His power was earned through bloodshed, violence, and stubborn determination. His merciless nature shines as a warrior, ruthlessly hounding any in his way, his strategical mindset guaranteeing that such enemies will not get far. And one will quickly notice how proud he is of all this. His ego is second to none, gladly basking in the glory of his work, of the fear others have of him, and the envy that others have of his power, confident in that none of them will ever eclipse his glory, nor will they ever escape his thumb. Such is his ego, but one cannot argue there being just reason, after all, he is an Archbishop of the Sabbat, and one does not arise to such a post without merit.

Biography: Hallr Gunnarson has spent many, many years upon the face of the planet, and almost none of them have seen peace or a lack of bloodshed. True to his name, Gunnarson was born of Viking tribes, at the height of their activity and power, and he was the son of a notable warrior. This, of course, would put great expectation upon the boy and his family, the family to train and raise him well, and the boy, of course, to bring them glory and the spoils of raiding and war. Growing up, he was naturally gifted with the tools of war, from the spear and throwing hatchet, to sword and shield, and every weapon you could imagine a viking warrior using, he rapidly mastered. As a leader of men, he was no slouch either, capable in commanding respect and giving wise orders, rallying them better than some men many times his age and wisdom.

While this would make him some enemies, too many men would realize that young Gunnarson was destined for great things, and would make, in time, a fine addition to the halls of Odin, but until then, a great commander of raids and attacks into the trembling realms of Europe and beyond. Of course, his coming of age was well earned amongst the ranks of men like his father and warriors like his teachers and mentors, and he was quick to rush out to try and get his place onto the first raid he possibly could. But it would be a few months before this would happen, as they were returning, rather than leaving, so Gunnarson would have to listen to the tails of glory and see the spoils of war, lustful for both and grew more eager and bold with each passing day, hounding the men who led such raids when they planned to sail again.

The days would come that he would prepare to set sail upon his first raid, the young Gunnarson was seen off by his family and friends as he set foot upon the boat, chain hauberk and armaments of war in hand, gifted to him by his father. Armor sturdy, weapons sharp and thirsty, and the man eager and brave, he set sail with his fellow warriors out into the ocean, where a boy fresh into manhood would prove just that, that he was a man, brave in heart and strong in arm, that would bring great wealth and glory to the Viking people. They would find themselves sacking a well to do priory and surrounding lands, taking many lives and collecting many spoils, and loading them onto the longboats before sailing back home, Gunnarson himself having found and claimed some of the greatest items hidden within the ruined Priory, and was received like a hero back home, the blooded warrior with the grand spoils of war.

But not all of his time was spent raiding the Europeans, he would spend plenty of time fighting the other Viking tribes, especially when the would encroach upon his people and his family. Feuds were fought, bloody and violent with less in the spoils of raiding, but honor and station of his clan above the others was at stake. The name Gunnarson would begin to strike fear into his enemies, and they would whisper that he was no more a man than the daemons were, that he was immortal and no mere man could ever bring him low. Such rumors would eventually spread, as the Europeans grew to fear this Gunnarson being as a spawn of hell itself, sent to pillage, rape, and plunder god fearing men and women everywhere. Such rumors would garner the attention of beings unwelcome, and would change the life of this viking warrior for eternity.

The stranger that arrived at their village by dead of night gave his name as Kavar, if history was to be believed, which it is flimsy and subject to the views of its writers. The details of this strange man are lost, as only Gunnarson knows them now, and he will not speak of such affairs. But arrive this man did to the village Gunnarson called home, and it was a night of celebration and festivity, one that was willing to be welcoming to such an odd being. This Kavar was impressed with the tales and exploits of Kavar, further still with the feats of strength displayed during the games and bets placed during that night's festivities, and as the vampire slept, using the excuse of a long days travel, he decided that the man would be his, but not without testing and absolute assurance that he would prove an asset, not a liability. By the morning after, both the strange man, and Gunnarson, were gone, much to the surprise and shock of the village.

Gunnarson was a ghoul, turned by the Vampire Kavar the moment the viking warrior had fallen into slumber. As the pair travalled, Kavar explained much to the confused, angry warrior, of his new place in life, and how he would perform his duties with the utmost loyalty to the vampire. Gunnarson would find himself stronger and better than he had ever been, with more power and standing gained under this man than he could have dreamed possible as a mere viking warrior before, all for the price of obedience. This was a price Gunnarson had been paying already, so he cared little for paying it to another being now, and for the sake of power and standing, he would pay it gladly. So Kavar would make him his favored servant, so long as Gunnarson would prove himself worthy of such a title, and in return, the Viking would know standing and power unlike anything he had ever dreamed of before.

Gunnarson would prove himself masterful at any task placed before him, learning fast and mastering faster. From extorting humans that lived in fear under the shadow of Kavar, to those that tried to muscle in on his master's territory, he was both underhanded, and fearsome, lying coming as naturally as swinging an axe ever did. He would protect his master's holding in both open and shadow warfare, while he would expand such holdings as well, through force of arms or, more commonly, deceit, falsehoods, and outright theft when the time came down to it. Kavar was impressed with his servant, having chosen wiser than he had previously imagined when taking the Viking as his ghoul many years ago. The man was earning more and more of a place in his permanent band, and soon would be prepared to bestow a gift unlike any that Gunnarson had received, and would be changing the ghoul's life drastically again, the source of yet another harsh shift in life that would require adaptation and skill to manage. But Gunnarson had proven himself able before, and would inevitably prove able again.

Gunnarson would find his master Kavar waiting for him upon return one night, and he would retire in the morning, Embraced by his mater and now a Vampire instead of a mere Ghoul. He would learn of his bloodline and lineage, the one that his master Kavar passed down to him through embracing, the Lasombra clan, and what would be expected of him, the powers he would gain, and the weaknesses that could be exploited. He was a fast study, knowing his weaknesses now would mean he could exploit the same ones that vampires hostile to him would have, and how he could ply his strengths against enemies of a more mundane nature, should they prove foolish enough to do so. Of course, he would not simply learn from training and instruction from his master, the outbreak of the Anarch Revolts wold give him first hand experience in combating his fellow vampire.

A civil war would rage between the vampires over and over, and Gunnarson was always in the thick of it, slaughtering for his master Kavar, and for the advancement of his clan's standing. Blood against blood, blade against blade, all the while humanity grew increasingly afraid, and angry, at the vampire creatures, starting to come up with the means to stop them, one way or another. Sure enough, with the revolts ended, vampire kind would face its greatest threat yet. The Inquisition arrived, purging by fire the Vampire infestation where it was blatant, carving great tracts of holdings clean of vampire control, restoring hope and power to humankind by brazingly exposing the weaknesses of their enemy, equipping many to defend themselves in ways that were never possible before. The political landscape was changing, and the vampires needed a new strategy.

A council was called, one that the master of Gunnarson, Kavar, and the viking vampire himself attended. The plan offered was a Masqerade, an illusion to hide behind and blend with the mortals, to hide amongst their kind like rats and cowards and survive like that. Like his master, they walked out on them, refusing to surrender what they had rightfully earned as their own. So another meeting was called, this time between those that were not ready to surrender to this new formed Camarilla, to found a group of their own to stand united against them with. Between those scorned by the Camarilla, survivors of the Anarch Revolts, and vampires like Kavar and Gunnarson, they had a new organization founded that Gunnarson himself had a personal hand in starting. The Sabbat, those that would reject what the Camarilla said all must accept, and would fight to see their beliefs vindicated.

Open warfare would break out between these two disparate groups, running warfare and battles that Gunnarson would not taste defeat in, but the Sabbat would suffer overall for the longest while. The Inquisition ran rampant, slaughtering any vampire of supernatural creature they could find, no one was safe from their torches, no one. Many would succumb fully to the Beast within for the sake of killing as many foes of their kind as they could, Gunnarson himself coming close a few times, only saved by his master Kavar. For they would quickly see that the transformation into a Wight was irreversible. With the warfare between Sabbat, Inquisition, and Camarilla so brazen, one would think that the world would have no choice but to plunge into chaos and darkness, constant conflict and fear ruling the day. But such is not the course of history, whether some would wish it that way or not.

But things would not always be this easy for Gunnarson, especially once his sire and patron in the world of the Vampire would be brought low. The Camarilla would utilize their greatest enemy, the Inquisition, against him this day, and while Gunnarson fought fiercely, he would fail to save his master. This final act would free him to act independently for the first time in his unlife, and he would take full advantage of this, despite the mourning he did feel for his sire. He would gather his own following of those enthralled by his words and impressed by his deeds, taking his master's place as a force of note within the Sabbat, but this would also bring unwanted, as well as wanted, attention from other Vampires. The obviously wanted attention came from his superiors, few as they were now, who granted him titles and power anew for his service and potency within the Sabbat, but his foes would hound him relentlessly.

As the Sabbat Civil Wars broke out and raged, Gunnarson found himself the target of many an attempt by the Camarilla to slay him. From ambushes after skirmishes with opposing Sabbat members during their civil wars, to chasing him to the ends of the world and back, the Vampire could never seem to shake his pursuers for long, the Camarilla did not want him to last long enough to grow powerful enough to face down their forces, and would hound him until the first civil war ended, and a united Sabbat would protect Gunnarson again, or at least aid the vampire as he had survived well enough with only his resources, while still fighting admirably during the first civil war. The Camarilla had failed this time, but it would hardly be the last time they would try, indeed, the history behind Gunnarson would be rife with attempts on his unlife, many trying to force the Final Death upon the vampire, and they all would fail.

Of course, history is long, and rife with such things. Gunnarson would live to see many great and terrible things, from the horrors of the World Wars, at least, horrors to human kind, to the various and bloody medieval wars that would populate time before that, Gunnarson would live and thrive within all of it. The Camarilla would not leave him alone, even after moving to the new world while he remained in the Old, fighting off the enemies to his power and holdings time and again, all the while time marched forward, bringing him into the time where things of note and importance began happening in his life, instead of simply building his holdings and power within the Sabbat, across old and new world alike, and becoming a force to be feared and reckoned with.

Gunnarson would confront a rival of some time once and for all, despite how the Sabbat constantly attempted to prevent infighting time and again, as it often had led to civil wars between their kind in the past. Sure enough, even though he had bested his rival, the confrontation itself cost him his holdings and standings within the Old World, a final stroke of vengeance from his former rival. This pressure from the Sabbat, and the blood smelling Camarilla who started hounding him with vigor anew, would drive the vampire Gunnarson to the new world, forever now, to start his holdings anew there, solidifying what he had and expanding, arriving in the city of Boston, to grow in power and prestige there, and would take the city for his own, and for the Sabbat of course, but he would gain greatly from such things, both from holding the city, and from the Sabbat themselves.

Boston was a grand place for Gunnarson, and he would grow fast in power. But the Camarilla would arrive, and once again he would find himself driven off what was rightfully earned. But this time, this time he would not idly stand for letting such things happen. He had standing and influence, and it was time to use it, Gunnarson would come back to Boston again before long. He went to the Sabbat, and many would arise and stand with, and under him, as he called for the hounds of war to arise by his side, to ready the black banners of Vengeance, and many would answer. Gunnarson could count on many, many vampires and even more servants of such beings to support his Crusade into Boston, to reclaim it for the Sabbat, and more importantly. Gunnarson himself.

Appearance:

Name: Michelle Darrens
Breed: Homid
Auspice: Ragabash
Tribe: Get of Fenris
Rank: 2nd Rank

Ellri you're approved.

Rat you're approved though you need to add your gifts before you can post.

Position: Sabbat Priest

Name: Vasile Dalca

Generation: 8th

Clan: Tzimisce

Disciplines: Vicissitude, Animalism, Auspex

Personality: Vasile considers himself an artist in flesh molding, he can be vain, creative, and charming when he wishes to be. He lacks any empathy to the humans he carves up, seeing them as little more than subjects, pieces for him to use. He is a monster, in every sense of the word, a sadist. While he wears an attractive mask, he is able to mold his own looks into whatever is useful and he has long separated himself from humanity. What joy he does get out of life is usually involved finding the perfect victim and in his studio where he creates the horrible revenants.

He is not a leader, but a creator, following his own whims and desires unless confronted with a more powerful leader. He is content to create for the Sabbat, to help fill their ranks not only with shovelheads but with ghouls molded to szlachta and vozhd.

Biography: Vasile is a native what is called Romania now, when he was alive he was a lord in service of the Prince of Transylvania. In the beginning of the 18th century, they went to war against the Habsburg royal family to keep their independence but they eventually lost. He faced execution and hid away in his native Carpathians. He was found by the one who would become his sire, a dark figure in the history of the land. Vasile does not speak of it much, the long years of learning to be a vampire, to understand his craft and his purpose. As a man who is focused more on the goal than the journey, he looks ahead, while keeping with the Tzimisce traditions.

Appearance: Tall, lanky, pale skinned with dark brown hair, an elegant handsome face with sharp cheekbones and piercing dark grey eyes. He wears black, elegant clothing, a silver cross worn ironically around his neck. On his right hand he wears a silver ring with a large garnet cabochon carved with the dragon sigil of the Tzimisce.

Working on my hunter now, should be up later tonight for approval.

Idle, Due tot he almost NPC nature of the sabbat you are making. This is one approved lol

@EVERYONE the IC has started.

Fallen Muse said
Idle, Due tot he almost NPC nature of the sabbat you are making. This is one approved lol@EVERYONE the IC has started.

I might expand on the bio once I have more time to do proper research. :P

My Hunter is currently in development. With coffee for energy, moonshine for inspiration, and a day off tomorrow, I should have him up tonight.

Name:
Robert Chandler

Age:
33

Sex:
Male

Skills:
Research, Occult, Folklore, Musical Instrument (Violin), Academics (Anthropology), Linguistics (Indo-European and Semitic), Basic First Aid, Gaming (Chess and related)

Personality:
A quiet if eccentric scholar, Robert can be somewhat shy in social settings. Because of events in his life, he doesn’t trust easily and is often maudlin. When it comes to intellect, however, he shines! Robert can easily lose himself for days in his books if he’s not careful, and sometimes treats eating and drinking as annoying necessities. He does not escape his woes from drink or drugs but in research. A night owl, he is firm in his belief that no one should arise any earlier than the crack of noon at best; the quiet hours of the night are preferred. Despite not being able to hit the broadside of a barn, he will stand his ground as long as he can and then opt for a fighting retreat. He is not known to complain. When suffering a mental block, the violin (an instrument taught to him by his uncle from an early age) remains his preferred way of clearing his mind.

Bio:
The Chandlers that Robert is descended from have always been an eccentric family. There has always been something just a tad fae about them. Genealogical research pins them to Newfoundland in the mid-1600s but there remains no documentation as to how they ended up there. A wealthy family at the outset, their fortunes diminished over time. The First World War almost finished the line altogether, leaving only one brother alive to continue the lineage and records show that he took his sweet time about it! That trend continued throughout the future generations, with family members often marrying late in life. From the twentieth Century onwards, the family remained small and clannish. After the second World War, they moved from Newfoundland to a small town in Massachusetts called Haverton, not far from Boston.

Robert was little different from his family. In fact, he seemed to almost be the epitome of what it meant to be a Chandler: intelligent, quick witted, odd and somewhat socially awkward. His high school and college years were remarkably… unremarkable! He was always in the background somewhere, working away at little projects of his own or enjoying himself in the library. By the time he graduated college, he had amassed enough grants, scholarships and awards to enroll in Cambridge so he might continue his academic interests. He grabbed whatever part time work as he might to help pay his way, often under the table. Employers were glad to have him at first as he was a hard worker regardless of the task set before him, only after time they began to feel un-nerved by his quiet presence.

Soon funds dried up. The death of his father and the lack of money forced him to return to the family home to help his elderly mother and bachelor uncle. Once more, Robert took whatever jobs he could find to feed habit of purchasing rare books and obscure texts. It was while working as a bar back that he met the first and to date only love of his life: Maria Ortiz. A few years younger than him, she was a lively firecracker in his life. She and a group of close friends frequented the bar on a weekly basis, taking over a private back room where they talked in hushed tones and raised voices alternatively. It seemed a mercurial group. Most didn’t pay attention to Robert, but the dark haired Maria always had a smile for him. The two began to form a friendship. It was obvious Maria had some sort of secret, but Robert never pressed her for it. Over the next year, the friendship began to become something more much to the consternation of her ‘drinking’ companions. When Robert’s mother passed away, he was devastated; Maria comforted him and kept an eye on the strange young man until she was sure he would be alright. His uncle Renfrew, however, seemed unaffected by the death of his sister. Robert always assumed it was because Renfrew was well into his seventies and bordered on senility.

Not long after, Robert was cleaning the bar when he came across a scrap of paper that Maria’s friends had left behind: it was a wax rubbing. Curious, he took it home and translated it; the words made little sense out of context but he relished the work as it was a rather obscure dialect of Phoenician from Canaan. The next meeting of Maria’s friends, he passed the translation to her.

That was when Robert was formerly introduced to the rest of Maria’s comrades, a group that called themselves The Forlorn Hope. It was then that he learned that much of the cultural tales he had studied both in his family’s home and abroad had some basis in truth, and that these mortal hunters were dedicated to being the first line of defense against supernatural incursions. Perhaps it says something of his nature that Robert accepted their word upfront, or maybe it simply speaks of his love for Maria that he asked for no proof. He became their official scholar. Best of all, it was a paid position from the Hope’s sponsor, a larger organization that covered a broad range of operations of which the Hope was only a part: ‘The Society’. Robert had no contact with them himself but reveled in his usefulness. The group taught him (or rather tried to teach him) how to defend himself, but after several hopeless lessons he adopted a shotgun for ease of use.

His uncle passed away a year later, leaving what little remained of the Chandler fortune to Robert, including the house and the rest of the family library. Among the family treasures was a variety of occult gear and two rather strange knives, one of iron and one of silver. Feeling the time was right, he proposed to Maria. She accepted.

Two days later, Robert’s world was torn apart. Receiving information that something was amiss in Amherst, he accompanied the rest of the team to investigate.

It was a slaughter.

On the outskirts of town, they unwittingly stumbled into the middle of a war. To this day, Robert is unable to say exactly what happened, merely that there were beasts with bloody mouths and savage cries and howls as the woods exploded. There was no rhyme or reason to the attack, and it seemed as though all fought one another without regard for friends and allies. The Hope was slaughtered, assailed on all sides and torn to bloody shreds almost incidentily. Robert only survived by sheerest chance, his last impression a flash of light and the smell of wildflowers. He awoke uninjured some ways away to discover that he was the last of the Forlorn Hope. The rest were dead, dismembered by savage animals, and if there seemed to be less blood splattered about than there should have been, he took no notice. Maria and all the others were dead.

Robert still does not recall exactly how he returned home. He can only assume he drove there in shock. Several days passed and he grieved by his lonesome in the Chandler house. He rose only from his depressed stupor when in the middle of the night there came a knock at his door. No one was there. What there was, however, was a folded piece of nondescript stationary. In a hand as neat as his own someone had written the words, “We are sorry to have heard of the fate of the Forlorn Hope. You will not be forgotten. Attend to future instructions. - The Society.” Beneath, almost as if in afterthought, was scrawled a post script: “Satis est quod timeas.” Know enough to be afraid.

Since then, Robert has very much become a hermit in his own house. The monthly stipend still appears automatically in his bank account each month, and every now and then he received an email or package containing a research assignment to be returned to a PO Box in Washington DC. He has taken to long walks at night, smoking his uncle’s pipe, and sometimes will wander into an all night diner to sit and rest.

It has been almost two years since the attack, and Robert remains very much a shellshocked man who has yet to fully come to terms with the loss of his beloved Maria.

Appearance:

Not overly tall nor short, Robert stands a fair five foot ten. Due to his recent diet, his weight has dropped down to 120 lb. His dark hair is usual tousled, and on a good day he remembers to shave. The most striking thing about him would be his deep blue eyes; large and doe like, they tend to have a haunted look about them that fires into intensity when pushed to anger.

Equipment
Personal library (occult, folklore, and language), laptop, smartphone, violin, pocketknife, black cargo van, camera, antique pocket watch, reloading gear, chess set

Weapons
double barreled sawed off .12 gauge shotgun, silver dirk, cold iron scramasax (knife)

Name: David Connally

Age: 34

Sex: Male

Personality: As a result of his upbringing, David has taken great pains to distance himself from any form of hatred or bigotry. He’s laid-back to the point of being described as “stoner-esque” and has a tendency to just go with the flow of whatever is happening around him. Drinking beer, listening to music, and wrenching on his truck are his favorite pastimes, and he learned early on that the same mouth that used to regularly earn him “disciplinary workouts” and even outright beatings can instead be used to gain the trust and friendship of those he works with, sometimes with alarming speed.

Simply put, David is a nice guy. He laughs, he jokes, and he uses his soft Southern drawl to beguile the ladies when he isn’t busy trying to get a Vampire or a rogue Garou in his sights.



Appearance:
5’11, 183 lbs of lean, toned muscle. No identifying tattoos, no major scars.


Equipment:








Toolbox

Ammunition Reloading Bench (in camper)





Camper : Clothes, food, First Aid kit, Fire Extinguisher, etc. All of the necessities for surviving on the road.

3-inch Folding pocket knife, for utility purposes. Essentially useless as a weapon.

A note on my character; I picked several weapons due to the massive class gap between humans and....basically everything else. He'll only be carrying a few of those at any given time, and I'll be sure to list what he has on him, and when.

As for explosives, I'll be detailed about what he is and isn't carrying. He doesn't have a magical "bag-of-holding" that he'll be carting all of this in, and most of it will be stored in his camper at any given time, to avoid god-moding and other Tomfoolery.

Bear in mind folks, that the Garou have the Veil protecting them if they are in Crinos form (or whatever the war form is for any other shifter breed.) It drives people into a delirious state and only a few, with very high willpower scores, can resist it.

This doesn't apply to ghouls -- they're immune to it.

Delirium

Here's also the W:TA Rules to describe it a little better and more thoroughly, from the books:

Werewolf: The Apocalypse said Werewolves preyed on humans for over 3000 years, and while most humans have no idea that werewolves truly exist, a part of them remembers. The horrible wolf-man, the Crinos form, incites a kind of madness in humans that Garou call the Delirium. The stronger a human's will, the more clearly she can deal with seeing a werewolf. Most humans, however, either panic and run, or they just collapse. Even stronger-willed people tend to forget the encounter later, either by rationalizing what they saw ("A bear! I'm not kidding!") or by omitting the entire incident from their minds. The Garou refer to this subconscious denial as the Veil, and they look at it as one of their greatest assets.

The following chart shows what a human will do when he sees a Crinos as per his Willpower score. The chart also shows whether and to what degree the human will forget the encounter, as well as what percentage of the populace will react in that way. Students of the occult might gain some bonus on this chart. Storytellers may choose to allow such humans a Wits + Occult roll (difficulty 9), with each success moving the human up one level on the chart. In addition, members of cultures that didn't suffer the Impergium to a great degree (such as Native Americans and Australian Aborigines) might also be granted a bonus. Photographs or such evidence don't trigger any fear reaction, although human witnesses will probably rationalize the photos away as publicity stunts or some such unless they have a Willpower of 8 or higher. Kinfolk are immune to the Delirium.

The reactions to the Delirium run from catatonic fear to the fight or fight reflex kicking in, and in most cases, even if the person does remember the incident (at a higher willpower rating) they will possibly rationalize it away.

The following is the chart from the rulebook -- I know we aren't using stats, but it's a useful sort of guide.

Delirium Responses, in ascending order of willpower rating:

Bear in mind also the degree that kinfolk and were-creatures (Garou are the most apparent of the bunch -- the others are even more secretive) tend to conceal themselves, not to mention that caerns, the hubs of their community, tend to be out of the way and well-guarded. They tend to kill on sight any intruders. If the kinfolk are bothered by hunters, they're bound to report that to their relatives...or if silenced by said hunters, it will result in bloody revenge. They can slip in and out of physical reality and into the plane of spirits (though it's harder if your character camps out in the most banal of places, like a gated suburban community or certain parts of big cities) and can be pretty hard to track.

That's the warm and fuzzy kind (Not that you'd think an entire Sept of Get of Fenris were, and the others aren't that much less militant about protecting caerns and kinfolk). Black Spiral Dancers tend to have all that going on plus the resources of the various Wyrm-Corporations out there.

I'm not saying hunting werewolves is impossible, I'm just laying out the difficulties here. They are, of course, very vulnerable to silver (and the werecreatures that aren't don't feature in this RP; Mokole and Corax are vulnerable to gold) and are not necessarily adept at hiding in society easily (though some are better than others) but they do generally manage to stay very under the radar and very hard to find. One doesn't just drop in on the Garou and chat. And a lot of them aren't inclined to chat with the apes either.

Hunting Vampires, of course, is a different story in the sense that they do not have a natural secrecy mechanism...just a lot of ways to subtly fuck with a hunter's life without ever revealing themselves through proxies, paid henchmen and the webs of influence that vampires tend to weave.

I understand how this works in regards to average Joes, but I think it's something Fallen Muse needs to make a judgement call on. It really limits those of us playing Hunter characters.

After all, these are people who know full well that werewolves exist, and it creates a major unfair situation if we have to curl up and scream every tinge a Crinos arrives on the scene. It also makes no sense that an experienced Hunter would try and "rationalize" a werewolf sighting.

It may work within the context of the original game, but I think it really messes things up for a written roleplay.

RoadRash said
I understand how this works in regards to average Joes, but I think it's something Fallen Muse needs to make a judgement call on. It really limits those of us playing Hunter characters.After all, these are people who know full well that werewolves exist, and it creates a major unfair situation if we have to curl up and scream every tinge a Crinos arrives on the scene. It also makes no sense that an experienced Hunter would try and "rationalize" a werewolf sighting.It may work within the context of the original game, but I think it really messes things up for a written roleplay.

I agree here. How are the hunters going to survive two steps if they are as vulnerable as regular people? Unless they are the .5%

Also, I got the impression, and maybe I was wrong, that not all werewolves hunted down humans as prey, at least not the in the modern era. I'm afraid I've only read the wiki and have not played the game.

I know for my hunter, I left it up in the air. Whatever happened, it happened so fast that there was no telling what was going on. Maybe Garou and BSD fighting, maybe Garou vs Kindred, maybe something else altogether! This way? I should be covered whatever FallenMuse decides for this ruling. As for how he survived... again, I'm leaving that to our Storyteller.

That's all well and good, but it still really impacts our character's effectiveness in the story as a whole. Garou pay a major role, and we can't interact if we're having to go fetal every time someone shifts into Crinos form.

Okay, so you want my verdict on this. Now I have to be fair on both ends of this, but at the same time Hunters are vastly underpowered as it stands (since you are not reckoning hunters) therefore I am going to give you a little bit of edge (not the reckoning power edge)

1. Hunters are not affect by delirium of a single garou in crinos form
2. Hunters in groups equal to or more than the amount of garou in crinos form are not affected by delirium
3. If the amount of garou in crinos form are more than the group of hunters then the hunters are affected by the delirium, but not in a way that makes them forget what happened. They will likely flee in terror, though if you wanna go the extra mile while roleplaying your character and have them shit their pants and pass out you can do that too.

Now that being SAID I HIGHLY HIGHLY suggest anyone playing a hunter to talk to others playing hunters. Plan on grouping up etc. Being a hunter by yourself in this world is just horribly dumb. Just about everything can kill you easier than you can unzip your pants

Sound good? Sounds good to me! Issue resolved.

Already being taken care of, actually.