Hey all, I just thought I would put this up here, for flavor if nothing else. It is a bit of a work in process that I never got around to finishing, but I think it adds a little something to the character's motives and I thought it was going to waste sitting on my hard drive. There is really nothing in here that would be detrimental to game-play, but all the same, it is out-of-character info, though most of the Elders would know something about it.

All that being said, feel free to follow suit, I am in dire need of more entertainment.

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A History of Hyding

Hailing from London originally, where he spent his mortal days as a failing architect, Henry Edwards, as he was known in those days, just could not seem to catch a break. Born in 1806, to a poor family of serfs, his father died when he was 12, six years after Henry was put to work in the fields. When he was considered a man, he became determined to break away from the curse of poverty he was born to. He managed to lie, cheat and steal for the books he needed to study the finer points of architecture, though he was always in poor health and struggling to keep up with the demands of fashion that would all but ensure him a posh position with the leading firm. Then, as now, as always amongst mankind, clothes make the man and what you are on the inside does not matter one iota if you cannot manage to wear the proper facade. He was of a poor family which meant that regardless of talent or skill, without the proper social ties, he would remain poor the rest of his days. Eventually, and unknown to his peers, after working long, hard hours as a blacksmith’s assistant because he did not have the proper contacts to be given a chance at his desired trade, he managed to scrape up enough to pay dues at the local Mason's Guild, all he needed was to be noticed. At long last he was, and for a very short time, it seemed like he was finally going to get everything he was entitled to.

When the  letter arrived, he was in shock for hours, his thoughts racing. Was someone playing a cruel joke on him? How could this man even know of Henry? Perhaps someone at the guild had taken pity on him and dropped his name? At great length, he decided to go to the strange, nocturnal meeting. The esteemed and obviously rich gentleman, claiming to be the owner of a German firm that was quickly making a name for itself, seemed eager to review his drawings and -surely- offer him a contract.

The embrace was quick and forceful, the raw, animalistic power of his aggressor was insurmountable, it was over before it even began. Unfortunately it did not end there, Henry’s sire was a sick and twisted bastard and took great pleasure from locking him in a chamber and cackling madly as the torment of the Nosferatu transformation washed over him, wave after excruciating wave, distorting his body, rending his soul. He was starved of blood, threatened with fire and, at times, awoke to find people in his cell. People who looked vaguely familiar even after he had mutilated them to get at the sweet blood which pulsed in their veins. So much like his brother, his wife, it was uncanny.

With the last vestiges of his sanity, he made up his mind to focus, *Will* himself to grasp the insanity which surrounded him. He very quickly learned to hide his intentions and true state of mind and escaped his captor, never knowing who he truly was. For months he terrorized London, not understanding what he had become, only following his overwhelming and undenyable instincts. He punished all who had spurned him, brutally slaughtering anyone who reeked of money and influence. The local papers were selling more copies than ever before, there was a hulking, psychotic killer loose on the streets of London, more beast than man, but dressed in a tattered suit and top-hat.
 
His reign of terror ended when he was tracked down and brought in by the local Sheriff. The one now called Hyde wonders if things were really so different back then, if Kindred were not so quick to call a Bloodhunt, if they would go out of their way to ensure that one was truly a lost cause before putting you down like a dog, or if maybe he just got lucky.

Though he was treated like the dumb brute he was taken for, the local Camarilla did what they could to educate him in their ways. You could almost say they were patient with him, or they wanted something that he was in no state to give them. Looking back, Hyde still doesn’t understand why they didn’t just have one of the mindbenders yank it out of him but his memories of that time are blurry at best. The Beast was, more often than not, his master in those days. There was this uppity Malkavian though, that fancied himself a writer Hyde remembers him. He took a special interest in Henry, one might even go so far as to say it was an obsession, even wrote a book about Henry’s continuing failures at trying to go out in public, his frenzied rooftop exploits and methodical destruction of those he despised. The man was intrigued by Henry’s dualistic nature, the stark disparity between his true appearance and the one he tried to present to those around him. Of course the book was mostly embellishment, so much so that he himself did not invoke the wrath of the lawkeepers for breaching the masquerade. Somehow it was Hyde who was selected to be that scapegoat. The story was crafted to be more interesting to the mortals who would eventually read it, and that is where the trouble started. It was then that Hyde acquired his real name.

The mighty Prince said that Hyde was a liability, that he was drawing too much attention to the rest of them, like it was his fault the Malk went and spilled the beans, Ol’ Hyde’s killing spree would have been forgotten if it weren’t for that Kook, Prince said that as long as I was still around, they were going to have to continue to clean up my messes and that the locals wouldn’t calm down ‘til I wuz either gone or dead. WELL FUCK THAT PRINCE, AND FUCK THAT BLOODY KOOK WHOT FUCKED ME GOOD AN PROPPER… bloody wankers. The lot of ‘em.

So they banished me, sent me off to the colonies to be looked after till I could look after meself, by someone that was better equipped to deal with me, more sympathetic to my plight, as it were. So here I am ta’ this day. Who the hell wants ta’ go back ta’ that filthy ol’ place anyway.

Well. me for one. ‘Cept now they say that there’s no way outta this place, that we’re boxed in. But if i’ve learned anything in all my years, it’s how to be patient, ta make plans an’ follow ‘em through. I’ve learned to Hyde. (Maniacal grin) I will clear a path out of this place, even if I haf’ta make cobblestones from the skulls of any who stand in my way, mark my words.

Liam Tyihani wasn’t your average every day 27 year old man.  Well, I say 27 but truth is much time has passed since then.  Liam lived in a remote area of Melbourne, in the middle of the blasted outback.  His employer never really told him why he was here, but here he was none the less, tending a grove of old seemingly abandoned warehouses.  All he ever got was phone calls with instructions and a weekly truck with supplies and the necessities for living in his modest sized Trailer.  He had running water, flushing toilets, a satellite television and not another soul for hundreds of miles.  Time takes its toll on you when you’re alone for that long.  


Televisions only provide so much company to a lonely young man.  You can only watch the same porno so many times before it doesn’t even give you a rise anymore. You can only watch the same movies before you’re reciting them out loud while cooking dinner, or checking on the warehouses you maintain.  One starts to question his sanity when he begins to hear voices in these enormous empty warehouses, one starts to think himself crazy when he hears voices talking to him from the darkness of his room.  But the fact of the matter is, after 3 years with no human contact, Liam found himself comforted by these voices.  He never knew why or how they were there, just that it was another voice in a very lonely life.


Liam would talk to the darkness from time to time, and get silence in return.  That is until the one night he would never forget…”Liam, are you awake?”  At first it was startling, strange that this voice would call him by name, and address him personally.  It was that very night that their rapport began, a lonesome young man and the dark and lonely that surrounded him.  This voice would tell him of the happenings of the world, and Liam would share his feelings with it.  He had dreams of this voice, the sound of it alone triggered blinding pleasure in his mind, in his dreams.  Sometimes it took the form of a lithe woman, sometimes the form of a brawny man, but the feeling was what he remembered.


He began to hear the voice other places on his rounds, in the warehouses, on the road back to his trailer in the night, it was with him always, and he welcomed it.  That is until he fell horribly ill.


No one could divine what was wrong with him, no one could see the blood parasites sapping his strength, damaging his organs.  Even through the pain the voice was there, keeping him company, helping him persevere.  Until one night the voice spoke out to him..”You don’t deserve to die this way…I am sorry.”  It was that night he finally saw the face that matched the voice, a young man, wearing an old pair of jeans, a kind face, and dark eyes.  As this figure held Liam’s dying body the only thing he asked was that Liam close his eyes.  In that instant if the dying young man had opened his eyes they would have revealed to him a grotesque figure with mottled flesh, monstrous arms, and tusk like fangs.  It was that night that Liam was Embraced by the Nosferatu known as Rigel.  It took 10 days for the transformation to take place.  To everyone on the outside world Liam had simply disappeared, but in truth he now dwelled in a cave far from his trailer, far from the light of day, and far from the life he used to know.  It took months to fully realize that what this Nosferatu had done had saved his life. All Liam wanted was to hate this man for what he’d done. And at that moment of epiphany, the moment where for the first time in his now un-life he cried, that he hugged his Sire, and in the light of the moon took a new name.


Since that day I’ve called myself Quinn, if you wonder what it means then go look it up your own damn self, I’m not your personal dictionary.  Since my embrace I’ve “haunted” a few cargo ships, I’ve seen the world, and made a few friends along the way.  But now I’m bound for an old stomping ground I used to roam, a dear old friend of mine has called for aid, and I fully intend to answer.  

--Last edited by Quinn on 2008-06-10 11:41:53 --

Rose Meadows.  Actually her full name had been Alicia Rose Meadows, but she dropped the Alicia when she went to San Francisco.  Living in the Haight Ashbury area.  One of hundreds, if not thousands of young girls who were there for the 'summer of love' looking for all the right things.  Love, peace, drugs and rock and roll.  Her looking like Stevie Nicks of Jefferson Airplane didn't hurt, she rarely had problems with getting a meal and a place to crash.

Then, one night, she met HIM.  Jonathon Bryant.  When she told him her name, he started laughing, and frankly didn't stop for some time.  Well, she was used to her name getting some interesting results, but this...  She didn't know if she wanted to be intrigued, or insulted.  Just how many times she had hit the roach being passed around probably had a lot to do with going with intrigued.  

For some time, she thought he was a phony.  Working stiff during the day, then hanging out with the cool kids at night.  Even so, she grew to like him, he was more educated than most, and an artist.  A real artist, not one of the many poseurs hanging about the parks and talking...no, Jonathon actually did paint.  He even did one of her, showing her as a maiden in a romantic 'medieval' setting, with a lot of strange symbols and items around her.  He explained most...the roses, well, he just looked at them and smiled.

She began to stay in his loft, looking after his things during the day.  He made sure she had enough money for food, even making sure she had the items she liked to use for her needlecrafts.  At this time, she started making things up for people.  Caps, scarves, blankets, mittens, sweaters and things.  She gave them to those in need, always eager, as well to learn more about knitting and needlecrafts.

After some time, she also learned the truth about Jonathon.  When she celebrated her 18th birthday, (he had found out just how old she really was) was the night he bit her for the first time.  He also explained exactly what he was.

A year later, she was his ghoul, and looking after things for him.  Learning about the art trade, then going into business for herself, with his help, the yarn business.  Staying together, in a comfortable relationship.  He was nominally of the Tower, but usually stayed away from the hard core Camarilla.  

Once she was embraced, she began to attend Elysium a bit, now and then.  Not to learn the traditions, but to see what kind of people she was now a part of.  Not really getting to be hard core Camarilla either, she and Jonathon trundled along, comfortably, preferring San Francisco to any other city.

Then....after a couple of decades, he suddenly decided he needed to go to Europe.  She accepted that decision, and the decision that she herself should find a new city.  After trying a couple of places, she found Sandfield.

Settling down with her ghoul, Diana, then another ghoul, Angie, things seem to always be on the verge of getting interesting.

(Still not finished with this...seems I add a little more to it every couple of days..)  

 It was the turn of the century in the outskirts of London. Times were much simpler in their own ways, and yet so much more complicated. The industrial revolution was gaining strength, casting its grimy, grey-hazed pollution across the city and its suburbs. People clamored about in filthy splendor, struggling to maintain their social standings and meager reputations in the face of their peers. The fabulously rich started to rise forth, prodigious robber Barons and Bankers, and the poor sank deeper and deeper in squalor.
   It was a fetid summer, deep in the humid heart of June, the suns rays doing nothing but heating the dank miasma than enveloped the city. A boy was born that day, to the affluent Captain Crewe of Her Majesties Royal Navy, and his lovely wife, and was named Cyrus Roderic Crewe. It was the 21st of the month, in the year 1901, and life carried on, as it will.
    The Crewe’s were direct descendants of Sir Thomas Crewe, a knight of the British Crown, and therefore, they wanted for nothing. Only the best was provided for young Cyrus; the best foods, the best tutors, the best nannies. The best of everything surrounded him at every turn, and he was kept blissfully ignorant of the realities of poverty and human deprivation. The only thing that young Cyrus every truly wanted for, was the attention of his parents, but this was oft in short supply. He was sent away to the best boarding schools when he was of age, where it was clear from early on that he was an exceptionally bright child who would soon outstrip his peers. Lauded by his teachers, and scorned by other students, he consistently scored highest in the academies throughout London, often baffling the professors with knowledge that surpassed their own. As the years passed and Cyrus developed from the sheltered child to an erudite young man, imprinted with all the hallmarks of social elitism.
    The gears of industry toiled ceaselessly, and Britannia struggled valiantly against the German Empire to establish dominance. Tensions continued to build between the two factions, and finally the Germans pulled ahead in the race for power. The powder keg was ignited with the assassination of Arch-Duke Franz Ferdinand, by the Black Hand (Sabbat?), on June 28th, 1914, just a few short days after Cyrus’s birthday. War erupted and soon, Cpt.Crewe was called back into duty, assigned to a Formidable battleship, the HMS Irresistible. After months of patrolling the Belgian coast, the Captain was ordered to join the Dardanelles Squadron. It was there, less than a year after leaving Cyrus in London, that his father disappeared.  On the 18th of March, 1915, the HMS Irresistible stuck a Turkish mine, and began to sink. All of the crew except for the Captain and a few officers were transferred to the HMS Ocean. The Irresistible completely sank 4 hours after striking the mine, and all traces of Captain Crewe were lost to the Aegean Sea.
    Inflamed with infamous British dignity, young Cyrus ranted about the school, until the distressed headmaster sent the young man home, unable to cope with his anger and loss.  Cyrus knew that he could enlist into the military, though underage, and would be given a position of status, if only for his father’s position and his social status.  He immediately set plans into motion of a somewhat devious nature, fully intending to follow in his father’s footsteps. But his mother, catching wind of his plot, made plans of her own, for she knew full well that she would not be able to stand losing her only son, despite the distance that lay between them. Packing what she could on such short notice, and arranging for caretakers on the property, she took young Cyrus, and fled the country, to prevent him from joining into the military. They were secreted away in a perilous journey to the United States, landing in New York, where large sums of money began to pass from his mother’s hands, in attempts to secure their future.


          Soon, Cyrus was situated in private schools again, proving once more, that he was intellectually superior to the other students and to some of the professors as well. But he quickly learned that social rules differed greatly here from the way they were in England. He was frequently taunted, not only for his intelligence, but for his heritage as well. This, of course was a first for Cyrus, and it threw him into a temporary state of confusion. He attempted to discuss the situation with his mother on one of the few visits that he made to their new home, but she had grown more distant and withdrawn with each passing year since the death of his father.
     Cyrus reacted as a young man often will, realizing that he is on his own, and without support. He stood his ground, often resorting to violence, fighting with another boy, or being beaten by a group of them. Throughout all of it, he stood tall, his pride and convictions of superiority carrying him onward until the school could teach him no more, and he left it’s hallowed grounds. The only time he ever looked back, was to bask in the glow of the fire that consumed the school a year later, started by a homeless man that crept onto the grounds. It was a 200 dollars well spent.
      With his mother now all but an invalid in their own home, Cyrus had complete access to the families money’s, both in the banks in New York and the fortunes still residing in the Bank of England. Though the amounts of wealth stored there were more than he had fathomed, he still longed for more. He had learned the valuable lesson that money equated to power, and those with money were free to do as they chose, unfettered by the rules of society. Thirsting for money, and for the knowledge to obtain it, Cyrus enrolled himself into Harvard, studiously working through course in Law, Business Law, and Government. The years flew by, and again Cyrus was at the head of his class, and he was favored by his professors, though from a distance due to the frosty steel that ran down the young man’s spine.
  The Roaring 20’s were well underway, and the glamorous nightclub’s and ballrooms were all the fashion, as were numerous underground activities with the advent of the Prohibition. Late into the fall of 1925, as Cyrus walked down the street on a chilly autumn night, he was approached by an older gentleman that he soon recognized as one of his former professor. The gentleman exclaimed his admiration for Cyrus natural instinct in the areas of law and finances, and eventually invited Cyrus to join him at an exclusive club, where he wish to make the young man an offer. Somewhat reluctantly, Cyrus agreed, and he joined the gentleman. They walked for a bit, until at last, the gentleman turned down a darkened ally, refuse strewn about its entry. Plunging forth into the depths of the gloom, they walked on until the alley turned around an unlit corner, and a set of stairs leading down appeared, a single lamp lighting the door at its bottom. And in the feeble light, Cyrus could see something carved into the stone lintel of the doorframe, appearing much older than the building which is sat under
--“Fait ce que voudras”—

     Approaching the door, his guide removed a uniquely formed key from a hidden pocket within his coat, and proceeded to unlock the door. With a resounding and rather ominous click, the lock released and the heavy door swung open, silently, into surreal realm. The sheer debauchery that was occurring before him, even as he walked into the private club, astounded Cyrus.  Women danced about the room, scantily clad, men grabbing them and pulling them into darkened recesses to have their way with them before sending them on their way. Men sat in large leather chairs near a crackling fire in the hearth, drinking quality brandies and cognacs from Europe, in a time where liquor, even as high a quality as this, was banned inside the U.S. Surely, these were men of power...true power, that were beyond reproach, beyond the mere laws of mortal men.
    The professor steered him by the arm to a decadently plush set of wing backed chairs, where they sat, drinks being offered to them as they sat. They became two more anonymous figures in the dimly lit club, not that any here would say anything of them, even if they could remember them come morning. Cyrus sank back into the luxurious chair, bedazzled by the opulent surroundings and the potent drink. The professor watched him intently as his mind systematically took in all the people around him, like data, processing, analyzing and storing.
      “You know, Cyrus”, he said, leaning towards him, “this is a very elite club. It is fading branch of a much older club, known to some as the Hellfire Club. Only the most powerful men in the city, maybe even country, come in here….can come in here. The fact that you are in by invitation by a senior member speaks volumes of your potential.”
      Cyrus shrewdly glanced at the older man, noticing the slightly thread-worn suit that he was wearing,.
      “No offense meant, professor …but when have educators moved up the financial ladder so rapidly to walk among the most powerful men in the city?”
      “Keen observation there, young man!” the man exclaimed. “And you are right. I am not amongst those elite, at least, not in the sense that you assume.” He winked conspiratorially at Cyrus.
       “No… I am not a member here, but I instead work for one of the more senior members of this club. In fact, part of my work for him is actually serving as the professor at Harvard, where you originally met me. I scour through dregs of the students that pass through the halls, looking for those few exceptional beings that shine with potential for something greater.”
        He leaned back in the wing-backed chair the darkness enveloping him. The embers from his cigar flared brightly as he drew on it, casting his wizened face in a demonic light. Something inhuman flashed in his eyes, startling Cyrus. A soft chuckle drifted from the smoky shadow around the man’s head and he leaned forward again.
        “I can not give you the name of the man I work for, but he is generous to those that serve him well. Perhaps one day, he’ll…,’ his eyes drifted as falling into a dream. But he is himself again within the second and he returns his gaze back to Cyrus. “That is not for me to speculate. What is for me to tell is that he wishes you to work for him, young man, at his firm in this city. This is an exceedingly rare opportunity, my boy, which many would kill to have a chance at. And it the offer includes this,’ he said, dangling the door key from a finger”  
       Cyrus stared at the key, entranced. Thoughts flashed through his mind, rapid-fire, calculating on how this could benefit him lead him to the money he desired, and more importantly, the power that he craved. Surely there was a catch, something that would have to be sacrificed for this tremendous leap forward. But he knew, without any serious consideration that this was a once in a lifetime deal, and that an immediate answer was needed. He reached out and took the key, wrapping his fingers around the cool metal for a moment before he slid it into his coat.
     “Welcome to the family”, came the voice drifting through haze..



    The following years flew by in a surreal blur to Cyrus. He joined the prestigious law firm of Rutherford & Pierce and was quickly taken under-wing by some of the leading lawyers of the time. He was tutored endlessly about the ever changing laws, and shown how to find loop holes in the legal system, pushed harder and longer than he ever had been in his Harvard days. And when the firm application of the law could not accomplish the desired results, he learned that goals could be obtained through the occasional blackmail or well placed bribe.
    He felt completely in his element, absorbing all of the knowledge his new teachers could throw at him, expanding on it, showing his own brilliance, and at times, cruelty. There was no quarter given in business or in law, and none asked. These were the main rules of the game for Cyrus, though they were cloaked in layers of etiquette, an ever smiling, polite façade. The steel that ran through his spine was refined and tempered, giving flexibility to the fierce pride.
    His nights were occupied at the Hellfire Club, some more clearly recalled than others. The night of his passing the bar exam, in particular, was complete collection of blanks, not only for him, but for all of the other revelers that joined in on the celebration that night. Most nights though, were simply in the company of fine cognac, good cigars, and whatever beautiful woman caught his fancy.  The realities of his days blurred into fantasies of desires come to life by night, and time seemed to lose meaning.
     Eight years passed by in the blink of an eye, filled with a rapid climb up the company ladder and vague memories, not all pleasant. Some of the clients represented by the firm were notorious criminals and mafia, like Joe Massaeria, Salvatore Maranzano, and the Mangano brothers, that could afford to pay the abhorrent fees demanded for representation. The brightest of Cyrus’s days were still tainted by the shadowy underworld looming though the city, and as he was rapidly learning, through the country as a whole. The Great Depression ravaged the country, from the smallest farms to corporate giants, desolation and despair sweeping over the populace like a biblical plague of old. Business through the firm died to a trickle, as it did for most of Wall Street, until 1929, when a mysterious person, known as Michaela traveled west from Pennsylvania and sparked the fires of industry again, and again the money began to flow.


      It was the 1st of November, 1933 …the Feast of All Saints in times now forgotten and lost corners of the world. The wind was blowing across the Hudson River bringing a bitter chill to the night air. Cyrus tucked his gloved hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat, trying to keep what little warmth was left in them. It wasn’t much further to the alley that hid the club entrance, and so he increased his pace, lured by the idea of warming by the huge fireplace waiting within.
    His attendance at the club over the last eight years was initially viewed by the staff with the same mild detachment that was shown towards all of the regular members. But as the years passed and Cyrus retained his membership, the significance was not lost on them, and they began to dote on him, catering to his every whim, They came to know all of his whims and foibles, and all of the standard members were made to suffer through them. If he desired a blazing fire in the fireplace curing the hottest days of August, it was made to happen. And though he never realized it, by these very actions, he was fast becoming a legend  ...a creature of myth to the other members.
     Key still in hand, Cyrus entered the club, quickly closing the heavy wood door behind him to block out the winter wind. The club was fairly empty, most of the patrons not daring enough to leave the comfort of their own hearths. ‘A restful night sipping on some fine cognac by the fire sounds wonderful,’ he thought to himself, thinking of it as a moment of peace in the midst of the storm that his life had become. Before he could hand his to woman behind the coat-check counter , one of the waiters walked up to him, standing close by, coughing lightly into a clenched hand to draw his attention. In his other hand was an elegant silver tray, cover with a black lace doily. And sitting in the center of the lace, was a letter, on heavy, ivory colored paper, folded with crisp neatness and sealed with dark, sanguineous wax.
     “Sir,” the man said, lowering his gaze, “I was instructed to deliver this to you upon your arrival, Sir. Along with a message”
     “A message?”
      “Yes Sir!” The man stammered in his nervousness. Obviously this must be something rather important.
      “Well?”
      “I’m sorry Sir! The message was this, Sir, that you were requested to go to the private suite at the penthouse level of the building. There is an elevator in the very back of the club that you may use, Sir.” He looked relieved that the message was given, and he almost dropped the tray as he thrust it towards Cyrus, attempting to get him to take the letter.
    Cyrus took the letter, and dismissed the main with the wave of his hand. He held the letter gingerly in his hands as he walked towards the wood paneled elevator door set into the far back wall. He was almost afraid to open letter, afraid that his world would come crashing down around him as he had seen happen to others who had become too secure in their ever shifting world. Not many things in the world inspired fear in him, but he had seen the awesome power that the persons at the top of this firm wielded. The senators and heads of industry that came into the offices on a frequent basis, always leaving looking a bit paler that they had when they came in. What could frighten these powerful men that much, what could control them…?
     The doors slid open with a soft mechanical whir and he noticed that there was not buttons for any floors other than the basement, which housed the club, and the penthouse. Tentatively, he pushed the button that would carry him up, clutching the letter nervously in his hands The short ride to the top seemed to last an eternity, his heart pounding in his chest, trying to escape through his throat. And then, he was there. The elevator shuddered to a stop and a moment later the door slid open, a portal to another world.
________________________________________

(There is more history than this, from his embrace to his Agoge, to the decades that followed in New York> But for that, one would have to talk to Cyrus.....)