Old Volunteer
Caitiff · Gen 10
Yeah, you were there. You saw Dominguez grab the Prince’s hair and plunge her fangs into his neck. You mowed through the enemy’s ghouls with a gardener’s grass hook. You stood beside Dominguez looking vicious as she declared the new order, and you sat on three revolutionary councils after, sending class traitors to execution. Look, here’s a bagful of Camarilla fangs. History in the palm of your hand. So exciting. Fuck it. The only reason you don’t tell the new recruits the Movement’s dead is that some tiny corner of you holds out hope that if they don’t know any better, they’ll revive it. Nobody needs to hear how Dominguez stabbed you, her blood-brother, in the back and exiled you, or how the council members found their own heads in the chop after that, or how she instituted a “free market” of feeding territory and immediately put her thumb on the scale. Now they’re in the “fortieth year of the Revolution” over there. Christ! Most nights you can’t be assed to make any effective use of your strength or status. They mean nothing to you anymore, and you can’t understand why they’d mean anything to anyone else. But woe to them who some night manage to wake the sleeping giant.
Roleplaying
Grunt and shrug a lot. Even most conversations seem useless lately. Your heart is far away, nursing old wounds, missing the dead, playing the wouldacoulda-shoulda game with the past. Whatever’s going on this time, it’s guaranteed to be the same old shit. When pressed, roll your eyes, light a cigarette, and patiently explain how it’s always turned out before. It takes a lot to break through the thick shell of your learned apathy, but if something finally does, the resulting transformation is stunning. You will lay down some serious Dirty Harry en route to your goal.
In the Chronicles
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