[b]Name:[/b] Varin Soralin 

[b]Apparent Age:[/b] 26

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Clan:[/b] Brujah

[b]Loyality:[/b] Nominal, He sees the Camarilla as the lesser of two evils; Has been accused of being a Promethean in the past, a true yet unproven accusation 

[b]Appearance:[/b] Varin stands at an imposing 6’3’’, but unlike some of his more, unsavory, clan brothers he is not a muscle bound giant of a man. Instead his has a more normal build, though at the higher end of strength without the bulk. His face has a few small scars dotted around it, the largest of which begins at the tear-duct of his right eye and traces its way to his right cheekbone. His nose is slightly crooked in the middle, evidence of a break that was re-broken to allow it to set.
His light brown hair is kept at a medium/short length and is usually unkempt, though it somehow becomes straight no matter what is done to it as the day goes on. For clothing Varin keeps a simple wardrobe, jeans, a plane dark grey t-shirt, combat boots, sometimes s shoulder holster, and sometimes a hooded leather jacket. On the back of his neck he has a tattoo of two serpents wrapped around the cross bar of the Brujah crest, one going left off of the crest, the other right. The serpents curve around his neck until they reach his shoulders where they wind their way down each arm, their head resting on the back of his hands. The one on his right hand has its eyes closed and clutches a sword in its mouth, the one on the left has its eyes open and clutches a scroll in its mouth. 

[b]Behavior:[/b] Calm, Varin strike a balance between the members of his clan and the idealistic elders. Instead he strives to be like the Philosopher Soldiers of old, finding comfort in philosophy and books as well as the field of combat and blood. This has tempered his mind and helped him to suppress the hot blood that has made the Brujah infamous to the other Clans. Now this calm control doesn't mean he has lost his killing edge, if anything its made him a better killer. Its just that now, instead of a quick spontaneous eruption of passion and anger, he is now more like a rolling storm, powerful and deadly, though he may still fall prone to the berserker like rage that has gripped the Brujah during combat, when this happens the storm of seething anger becomes a red tinted world where the only thing that matters is that the Offender(s) must die.
Though he knows the Carthaginian dream is long dead, what it stood for has not yet. In this Varin holds to some of the Promethean ideals concerning Mortals . Such as "guiding" them, and protecting them from some of the more predatory Cainites, if the needs arise. This is his drive, his passion, the drive that gives him purpose. It is the drive for something better, something more. 

[b]Background:[/b] [i] 19th of December, 1944 [/i] was the day Varin died. He died to a cacophony of gunshots and artillery shells, the light cracks and earth shattering explosions playing off of each other like some macabre symphony. Yet almost none of that mattered as he sat up against the side of his foxhole, his life ebbed out through the multiple bullet wounds and shrapnel tears. Seconds became hours, as he tried franticly again and again to crawl out, to crawl somewhere other than that god forsaken hole in the ground, but again and again he failed, gritting his teeth in frustration he tried one last time. This time as he clawed at the frozen ground and roots he got hold and finally pulled himself out. That’s when he heard it, laughing. “You finally did it, eh boy?” The speaker was a man, not far off of Varins right shoulder, though it was below freezing he still wore the normal American army fatigues. Varin tried to reply, what came out was a gurgle as he slumped down for what e expected to be the last time. The next thing he knew he was being picked up, the man had him around the waist and was hoisting Varin up with one arm “I don’t hope dying is on your agenda there boy. I might need you, besides we need to replace Thomas.” The strange man dragged him to a snow pile flanked by what looked like two large felled trees. As the man reached out and knocked the semi conscious Varin realized that the snow pile was actually a carefully constructed, and well hidden, den like structure. As they entered into the small hut Varin was deposited on floor. In the dim light, the human made out another figure other than the one who had carried him. “Demitri, this one is half dead.” One of the shadowy figures said
“I know darling, I know, but that can change. Did for me, remember?” He replied half jokingly
“All I remember was finding you with a musket ball through your left lung.” The other replied “In any case, why him?” 
“I, dunno, must have seen something I liked.” After this Varin began to convulse as his vision blurred, his breath coming in short sporadic bursts as he finally began to slip away “Please Serrana? You always do say that war makes good Brujah.”
“Fine. But the prince won’t like this, not that you care.” The other figure said as she glided over to Varin. Varin at that point was slipping away, his vision going dark as he felt the cool touch of something on his neck. 
He awoke soon after, wounds totally healed, and to the faces of Demitri and Serrana. He soon learned what had transpired, Serrana was the eldest of the two and Demitri’s sire. Demitri had been turned be Serrana after he had been wounded as a Prussian mercenary in the American Revolutionary War. Varin stayed with the two Brujah through the war and for about a decade afterword, Demitri training him in weaponry because as he said “A Brujah that cannot fight, is a dead Brujah. You will fight and you will live.”, and Serrana training him in the philosophy of old and the disciplines that come with the blood because “A Brujah must know how to fight with more than steel, they must be more. Or they are nothing more than disposable pawns.”
 After this decade they moved back to America, working at various jobs within the Camarilla, usually as a guard of some sort. It was here he began to learn about the ancient Brujah and the story of Carthage, becoming enthralled with it Varin began to read more and more into the Prometheans, going as far as adopting some of their practices and teachings. His breach of the Masquerade came when he learned that Demitri and Serrana had both been driven into Torpor by unknown agents. Varin did what any sensible Brujah would do when he learned his oldest friend and sire were driven into the death-like sleep. He lashed out. The long controlled passion and anger came flooding forth, by the end of the night he had mangled two other Vampires and used the dread gaze on a human, causing them to run down a crowded street screaming about creatures. 

[b]Training and general talents:[/b] Varin transcends the stereotype of the Brujah brawler, using his skill in the Presence domain he can appear as a great force to be revered or a storm to be feared, he uses this to keep his opponents off balance, unnerving them, or simply terrifying them. This mixed with his Potence makes Varin a frightening force, even his Celerity factors in, giving him a certain grace when fighting. In combat he generally uses either his handgun, or the two folding axes that he uses with practiced efficiency and lethality. 
Not a player of the political chess game, most would see Varin as an easy target, someone with no ambition, an easy target to use and discard. In this they would be wrong, although he doesn't play their game he has thrown his own lot and skill into an older game, and so views the subtle working of the Camarilla with no small measure of distaste. While he can use one, he is not that talented with computers. He can lock-pick most locks, provided he has the tools. And can repair, clean and upkeep most weapons. Like most of his clan stealth is a..... problem. Even though he is gifted with some grace from his celerity, the urge to fight an opponent head on, with savage honor, has always been on the forefront of any conflict hes been in. Finally, he is an accomplished Kindred scholar who has knack for the stories of old, this may have something to do with the "Book Of Nod" he keeps in a hidden lock-box, away from prying Camarilla eyes.