“They say that life is nasty, brutish and short. Good thing we’re not alive, then, eh?”
The Nosferatu of the Cockscomb Society do not wallow in their pitiful visages or grotesque leanings, nor do they celebrate them. They think of these things as a bit of a handicap, perhaps, but not insurmountable. It's a curse. Why welcome it?
They endeavor then to reject the trappings of Nosferatu tribalism: they don't live underground, don't reveling in being reviled, and most certainly do not accept a low rung on society's ladder simply by dint of unfortunate breeding. Part of this involves keeping connected with the human world – they may have monstrous blood and a hissing Beast, but they were once mortals, by god. They have a human side that shan't be repressed.
Some might say, though, that they get it wrong. They equate "humanity" not with a spiritual quality but instead associate with human society: the acquisition of assets (money, property, items of status), the attendance of mortal events (dinners, dances, parties, balls), the mimicry of all things human (emotion, relationships, manners, body language, slang). That's not to say they don't connect with the culture of the Damned – in fact, they strive for power in that way, as well, accepting that such a goal is still human even if it's performed amidst unliving fiends.
