http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php?feed=atom&target=Unlimited_sink&title=Special%3AContributions%2FUnlimited_sink 2026-07-05T07:21:00Z From Edge of Darkness Wiki MediaWiki 1.16.1 http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Necropolis_of_Sacramento 2017-04-12T18:35:31Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* New Necropolis */</p> <hr /> <div>{{header|vtr}}<br /> {{ubt}}<br /> [[File:Necropolis.jpg|285px|Center]]<br /> {{Show Necropolis}}<br /> {{Show Haven|Nosferatu}}<br /> {{ubb}}<br /> The [[Necropolis]] of Sacremento was formed by former Reeve [[Arnold Culler]] and former Heirophant [[Dirge]]. These two kindred grew tired of the political life and the alienation of there clan by the other, more glamorous, clans of Sacramento. With the disappearance of Culler and Dirge, the secrets of the Necropolis were lost.<br /> <br /> Recently, [[Kenneth Gilroy]] began making a new home for the Haunts of Sacramento. While there is a great deal of overlap between the Underground and the Necropolis, one must tread with care, for they are not the same thing. With Gilroy's disappearance, [[Alice Hart]] has maintained the Necropolis.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==New Necropolis==<br /> [[File:Small_Caldarium.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Caldarium]][[File:Dark_Temple.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Dark Temple]][[File:Trash_pit.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Trash Pit]][[File:Catacombs.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Catacombs]][[File:Bleak_Annals.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Bleak Annals]]<br /> ===Haven Entrance===<br /> Appearances can be deceiving, but sometimes you can judge a book by it's cover. Or a house by it's siding. The entrance to the Necropolis appears to be a dilapidated house, boarded up and forgotten in a neighborhood of forgotten houses. The paint is peeled, the shingles are falling off, but inside is a slightly different story. The house is worn, but occasionally cleaned and taken care of. Under layers of dust and dried blood the building shows simple and refined lines, with a slight Victorian flair. Most of the house is in complete disrepair, the only usable room is the living area, and the hall leading to a back room. The living area was always a simple space, with simple furniture lining the walls, and in the middle, a dried and irremovable blood stain. The cause was a pile of animal corpses, on display, used as a simple deterrent to any nosy kine. Until recently the pile of animal bodies sat prominently in the room, both as deterrent, and as a gesture of remembrance to the Once Regent of the Underground, and visionary behind the Necropolis, [[Kenneth Gilroy]]. Now, security has increased, and such displays are unnecessary. <br /> <br /> In a back room, hidden from clear view by strange angles and shadows, stands a metal door with a padlock that serves as the main entrance to the Necropolis.<br /> <br /> '''*Note to all Nosferatu, The Size of the Aboveground Haven ''must'' remain at 3 or below to benefit from [[Occultation]].'''<br /> *Currently the Aboveground Haven is at Size 1<br /> <br /> ===Caldarium===<br /> Just beyond the door there is another flight of metal stairs. From there you can over look the jewel of the Necropolis, the Caldarium. Concrete benches sit along the wall while dim lighting sets the necessary mood. Beyond appearances though there is a peace to location that goes beyond its appearance. The pure water of a pool glistens serenely, reflecting the golden lights set into the wall. Here, the curses of the Nosferatu don't seem as grating or fearful and guests are welcome. [[Alice Hart]] oversees this area, while also acting as Caretaker for all of the Haunts' underground kingdom.<br /> <br /> ===The Dark Temple===<br /> * '''Fallen into disrepair/Unusable'''<br /> An altar of wax stands as the centerpiece to this site dedicated to the Dark Father. A shallow pool surrounds it with a narrow walkway leading up to the pale dais. There are candles that can be lit and set floating on the water, where they can cause the Beast to twist in fear. It is a place where only the Sanctified can truly be comfortable. [[Kenneth Gilroy]] built this chamber before he even became Bishop. It was here that became a priest in fact. You can still see the holes in the altar where his hands and feet were nailed down.<br /> <br /> ===The Trash Pit===<br /> * '''Fallen into disrepair/Unusable'''<br /> A nexus forms at this spot in the sewers. It may look like standing water but there is a constant and slow flow. Unfortunately, that doesn't clear away any of the refuse that collects here. It's just builds up, creating a place where the Haunts can hunt for supplies. All you have to do is be willing put your arm in the putrid soup and fish around. You're bound to find something of value if you search long enough. [[Garrick Marlon]] maintains the ebb and flow of the Trash Pit and Regent Gilroy has 'recommended' he be shown gratitude if a Haunt rifles through the muck for items.<br /> <br /> ===Catacombs===<br /> <br /> The catacombs are a twisting, damp maze of sewer passages. In several sections, controlled cave ins have allowed access to the more cramped and harder to navigate older Sacramento run offs, that have sunk naturally over time as cities tend to do. Trick walls have been added. Built at angles so as at a distance, by flashlight, it looks as though the wall is solid. Apparent dead ends that actually lead to a destination. The savvy Kindred might also recognize that such spots offer great kill boxes. Then of course, there's a few closed down tunnels nearby that where any intruders would simply wander off into the dark forever. [[Robert Cross]] has been the key man in bringing the catacombs to life.<br /> <br /> With the return of [[Robert Cross]] the Catacombs have been cleared, the structure re-secured, and are once more completely usable.<br /> <br /> ===Bleak Annals===<br /> * '''Fallen into disrepair/Unusable'''<br /> To feed the needs of research and the mind Joseph [[Greenberg]] developed the Library of the Necropolis. The space is stone, as if carved out of the walls itself, with shelves that tilt slightly at unusual and yet, artistic angles. There's a cold unnaturalness to the space that is only offset ever so much by it's attempt at a modern tone. The ceiling though, for both the upper and lower floors, are just a little too short for one to comfortably stand. Good thing the room contains several couches to enjoy the books or tomes in. If only the light in the room was more conducive to reading, or if the couches were...fresher.<br /> <br /> *Bleak Annals Specialties: Sacramento Kindred History x2<br /> <br /> ==Old Necropolis==<br /> ===Sewer Entry===<br /> : ''The trio proceeds into the sewer, and... it's a concrete tube. Which is pretty all that can be said about such a thing, other than the steady flow of water. That's a rippling black ribbon that reflects light, at times things float by; flotsam, jetsam, dead rats, small toys, clumps of paper... Definitely nothing you'd want to investigate more thoroughly.''<br /> <br /> : ''Eventually they find where Ajax began. The sewer opens into a transverse connecting several drainways, and overhead is a metal grate. It's impossible to hear much with the soft echoes of running and dripping water, but things seem calm 'topside'. The transverse connects on the other side to two sewer tunnels. ''<br /> <br /> : ''Again, [[Brenn Lawrence|Brenn]] notes the green and blue alphanumerics labeling the tunnels&lt;ref&gt;[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?12546-Rats-in-the-Sewers&amp;p=149723&amp;viewfull=1#post149723 Rats in the Sewers]&lt;/ref&gt;.''<br /> <br /> <br /> ===Train Station===<br /> : ''The tunnel opens into an unusual scene that [[Conner Greyson|Conner]] and Brenn have seen before; the ceiling rises and the walls widen into a large underground chamber, in which an old railroad car sits to one side. The room is pitch black; A worn, dirty couch is next to the train, and there's a piano&lt;ref&gt;[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?12546-Rats-in-the-Sewers&amp;p=150956&amp;viewfull=1#post150956 Rats in the Sewers]&lt;/ref&gt;.''<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;noinclude&gt;<br /> {{Links|Nosferatu}}{{footer|vtr}}<br /> &lt;/noinclude&gt;</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Necropolis_of_Sacramento 2017-04-12T18:31:35Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* Catacombs */</p> <hr /> <div>{{header|vtr}}<br /> {{ubt}}<br /> [[File:Necropolis.jpg|285px|Center]]<br /> {{Show Necropolis}}<br /> {{Show Haven|Nosferatu}}<br /> {{ubb}}<br /> The [[Necropolis]] of Sacremento was formed by former Reeve [[Arnold Culler]] and former Heirophant [[Dirge]]. These two kindred grew tired of the political life and the alienation of there clan by the other, more glamorous, clans of Sacramento. With the disappearance of Culler and Dirge, the secrets of the Necropolis were lost.<br /> <br /> Recently, [[Kenneth Gilroy]] began making a new home for the Haunts of Sacramento. While there is a great deal of overlap between the Underground and the Necropolis, one must tread with care, for they are not the same thing. With Gilroy's disappearance, [[Alice Hart]] has maintained the Necropolis.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==New Necropolis==<br /> [[File:Small_Caldarium.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Caldarium]][[File:Dark_Temple.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Dark Temple]][[File:Trash_pit.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Trash Pit]][[File:Catacombs.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Catacombs]][[File:Bleak_Annals.jpg|thumb|275px|right|Bleak Annals]]<br /> ===Haven Entrance===<br /> Appearances can be deceiving, but just sometimes you can judge a book by it's cover. Or a house by it's siding. The entrance to the Necropolis appears to be a dilapidated house, boarded up and forgotten in a neighborhood of forgotten houses. The paint is peeled, the shingles are falling off, but inside is a slightly different story. The house is worn, but occasionally cleaned and taken care of. Under layers of dust and dried blood the building shows simple and refined lines, with a slight Victorian flair. Most of the house is in complete disrepair, the only usable room is the living area, and the hall leading to a back room. The living area was always a simple room, with simple furniture lining the walls, and in the middle, a died and irremovable blood stain. The cause was a pile of animal corpses, on display, but used simple deterrent to any nosy kine. Until recently the pile of animal bodies stat predominantly in the room, both as the deterrent, and an gesture of remembrance to the Once Regent of the Underground, and visionary behind the Necropolis, [[Kenneth Gilroy]]. Now, security has increased, and such displays are unnecessary. <br /> <br /> In a back room, hidden from clear view by strange angles and shadows, stands a metal door with a padlock that serves as the main entrance to the Necropolis.<br /> <br /> '''*Note to all Nosferatu, The Size of the Aboveground Haven ''must'' remain at 3 or below to benefit from [[Occultation]].'''<br /> *Currently the Aboveground Haven is at Size 1<br /> <br /> ===Caldarium===<br /> Just beyond the door there is another flight of metal stairs. From there you can over look the jewel of the Necropolis, the Caldarium. Concrete benches sit along the wall while dim lighting sets the necessary mood. Beyond appearances though there is a peace to location that goes beyond its appearance. The pure water of a pool glistens serenely, reflecting the golden lights set into the wall. Here, the curses of the Nosferatu don't seem as grating or fearful and guests are welcome. [[Alice Hart]] oversees this area, while also acting as Caretaker for all of the Haunts' underground kingdom.<br /> <br /> ===The Dark Temple===<br /> * '''Fallen into disrepair/Unusable'''<br /> An altar of wax stands as the centerpiece to this site dedicated to the Dark Father. A shallow pool surrounds it with a narrow walkway leading up to the pale dais. There are candles that can be lit and set floating on the water, where they can cause the Beast to twist in fear. It is a place where only the Sanctified can truly be comfortable. [[Kenneth Gilroy]] built this chamber before he even became Bishop. It was here that became a priest in fact. You can still see the holes in the altar where his hands and feet were nailed down.<br /> <br /> ===The Trash Pit===<br /> * '''Fallen into disrepair/Unusable'''<br /> A nexus forms at this spot in the sewers. It may look like standing water but there is a constant and slow flow. Unfortunately, that doesn't clear away any of the refuse that collects here. It's just builds up, creating a place where the Haunts can hunt for supplies. All you have to do is be willing put your arm in the putrid soup and fish around. You're bound to find something of value if you search long enough. [[Garrick Marlon]] maintains the ebb and flow of the Trash Pit and Regent Gilroy has 'recommended' he be shown gratitude if a Haunt rifles through the muck for items.<br /> <br /> ===Catacombs===<br /> <br /> The catacombs are a twisting, damp maze of sewer passages. In several sections, controlled cave ins have allowed access to the more cramped and harder to navigate older Sacramento run offs, that have sunk naturally over time as cities tend to do. Trick walls have been added. Built at angles so as at a distance, by flashlight, it looks as though the wall is solid. Apparent dead ends that actually lead to a destination. The savvy Kindred might also recognize that such spots offer great kill boxes. Then of course, there's a few closed down tunnels nearby that where any intruders would simply wander off into the dark forever. [[Robert Cross]] has been the key man in bringing the catacombs to life.<br /> <br /> With the return of [[Robert Cross]] the Catacombs have been cleared, the structure re-secured, and are once more completely usable.<br /> <br /> ===Bleak Annals===<br /> * '''Fallen into disrepair/Unusable'''<br /> To feed the needs of research and the mind Joseph [[Greenberg]] developed the Library of the Necropolis. The space is stone, as if carved out of the walls itself, with shelves that tilt slightly at unusual and yet, artistic angles. There's a cold unnaturalness to the space that is only offset ever so much by it's attempt at a modern tone. The ceiling though, for both the upper and lower floors, are just a little too short for one to comfortably stand. Good thing the room contains several couches to enjoy the books or tomes in. If only the light in the room was more conducive to reading, or if the couches were...fresher.<br /> <br /> *Bleak Annals Specialties: Sacramento Kindred History x2<br /> <br /> ==Old Necropolis==<br /> ===Sewer Entry===<br /> : ''The trio proceeds into the sewer, and... it's a concrete tube. Which is pretty all that can be said about such a thing, other than the steady flow of water. That's a rippling black ribbon that reflects light, at times things float by; flotsam, jetsam, dead rats, small toys, clumps of paper... Definitely nothing you'd want to investigate more thoroughly.''<br /> <br /> : ''Eventually they find where Ajax began. The sewer opens into a transverse connecting several drainways, and overhead is a metal grate. It's impossible to hear much with the soft echoes of running and dripping water, but things seem calm 'topside'. The transverse connects on the other side to two sewer tunnels. ''<br /> <br /> : ''Again, [[Brenn Lawrence|Brenn]] notes the green and blue alphanumerics labeling the tunnels&lt;ref&gt;[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?12546-Rats-in-the-Sewers&amp;p=149723&amp;viewfull=1#post149723 Rats in the Sewers]&lt;/ref&gt;.''<br /> <br /> <br /> ===Train Station===<br /> : ''The tunnel opens into an unusual scene that [[Conner Greyson|Conner]] and Brenn have seen before; the ceiling rises and the walls widen into a large underground chamber, in which an old railroad car sits to one side. The room is pitch black; A worn, dirty couch is next to the train, and there's a piano&lt;ref&gt;[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?12546-Rats-in-the-Sewers&amp;p=150956&amp;viewfull=1#post150956 Rats in the Sewers]&lt;/ref&gt;.''<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;noinclude&gt;<br /> {{Links|Nosferatu}}{{footer|vtr}}<br /> &lt;/noinclude&gt;</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2017-04-09T15:16:34Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Char<br /> |threadid=35069<br /> |Quote=Underground Man<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> ==== Before ====<br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==== Time in Sacramento ====<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==== Departure and Return ====<br /> <br /> After the disappearance of most of his clan, Cross found himself, alongside Alice Hart, as one of the two representatives of his Family left in the city. It was during this time that he was briefly made Reeve of Sacramento by Seneschal Stamford. It was also during this time that Cross fell in love with Alice, whose recent realization of her Blood's potential had left her sightless. Given over to these various duties, Cross put his own spiritual development on hold. And yet, the call to pursue membership in the Lancea Sanctum persisted, even grew, despite his neglect of this urge. Finally, it became too much. Not knowing how to explain himself, or even say goodbye, Cross set out for his hometown of Los Angeles in search of a Priest he once knew there, looking to officially join the covenant.<br /> <br /> Now, after six months of trial and training in LA, Cross has decided to return to Sacramento. He knows that this decision may have dire consequences for him. But, he also knows that the unfinished business he has in the city cannot be ignored. It is as the Testament of Longinus says, no matter how hard it may be, at times, to believe: &quot;Our will must be subsumed beneath the will of God. He has a divine purpose for each of us which we must follow without fear and without doubt.&quot;<br /> <br /> <br /> == Merits ==<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Resources|2}}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Police Tactics|1}}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Direction Sense|1}}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Scenes ==<br /> <br /> [http://nwod.org/forum/member.php?2738&amp;tab=Bibliography Bibliography]<br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Nosferatu<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2017-04-09T15:15:08Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Char<br /> |threadid=35069<br /> |Quote=Underground Man<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> ==== Before ====<br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==== Time in Sacramento ====<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==== Departure and Return ====<br /> <br /> After the disappearance of most of his clan, Cross found himself, alongside Alice Hart, as one of the two representatives of his Family left in the city. It was during this time that he was briefly made Reeve of Sacramento by Seneschal Stamford. It was also during this time that Cross fell in love with Alice, whose recent realization of her Blood's potential had left her sightless. Given over to these various duties, Cross put his own spiritual development on hold. And yet, the call to pursue membership in the Lancea Sanctum persisted, even grew, despite his neglect of this urge. Finally, it became too much. Not knowing how to explain himself, or even say goodbye, Cross set out for his hometown of Los Angeles in search of a Priest he once knew there, looking to officially join the covenant.<br /> <br /> Now, after six months of trial and training in LA, Cross has decided to return to Sacramento. He knows that this decision may have dire consequences for him. But, he also knows that the unfinished business he has in the city cannot be ignored. It is as the Testament of Longinus says, no matter how hard it may be, at times, to believe: &quot;Our will must be subsumed beneath the will of God. He has a divine purpose for each of us which we must follow without fear and without doubt.&quot;<br /> <br /> <br /> == Merits ==<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Resources|2}}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Police Tactics|1}}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Direction Sense|1}}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Scenes ==<br /> <br /> [http://nwod.org/forum/member.php?2738&amp;tab=Bibliography Bibliography]<br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Shared Necropolis<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2017-04-09T15:03:33Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Char<br /> |threadid=35069<br /> |Quote=Underground Man<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Departure and Return ==<br /> After the disappearance of most of his clan, Cross found himself, alongside Alice Hart, as one of the two representatives of his Family left in the city. It was during this time that he was briefly made Reeve of Sacramento by Seneschal Stamford. It was also during this time that Cross fell in love with Alice, whose recent realization of her Blood's potential had left her sightless. Given over to these various duties, Cross put his own spiritual development on hold. And yet, the call to pursue membership in the Lancea Sanctum persisted, even grew, despite his neglect of this urge. Finally, it became too much. Not knowing how to explain himself, or even say goodbye, Cross set out for his hometown of Los Angeles in search of a Priest he once knew there, looking to officially join the covenant.<br /> <br /> Now, after six months of trial and training in LA, Cross has decided to return to Sacramento. He knows that this decision may have dire consequences for him. But, he also knows that the unfinished business he has in the city cannot be ignored. It is as the Testament of Longinus says, no matter how hard it may be, at times, to believe: &quot;Our will must be subsumed beneath the will of God. He has a divine purpose for each of us which we must follow without fear and without doubt.&quot;<br /> <br /> <br /> == Merits ==<br /> {{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Resources|2}}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Police Tactics|1}}<br /> &lt;br&gt;{{Has Merit|Direction Sense|1}}<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2017-04-09T14:55:41Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Char<br /> |threadid=35069<br /> |Quote=Underground Man<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Departure and Return ==<br /> After the disappearance of most of his clan, Cross found himself, alongside Alice Hart, as one of the two representatives of his Family left in the city. It was during this time that he was briefly made Reeve of Sacramento by Seneschal Stamford. It was also during this time that Cross fell in love with Alice, whose recent realization of her Blood's potential had left her sightless. Given over to these various duties, Cross put his own spiritual development on hold. And yet, the call to pursue membership in the Lancea Sanctum persisted, even grew, despite his neglect of this urge. Finally, it became too much. Not knowing how to explain himself, or even say goodbye, Cross set out for his hometown of Los Angeles in search of a Priest he once knew there, looking to officially join the covenant.<br /> <br /> Now, after six months of trial and training in LA, Cross has decided to return to Sacramento. He knows that this decision may have dire consequences for him. But, he also knows that the unfinished business he has in the city cannot be ignored. It is as the Testament of Longinus says, no matter how hard it may be, at times, to believe: &quot;Our will must be subsumed beneath the will of God. He has a divine purpose for each of us which we must follow without fear and without doubt.&quot;<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Resources|2}}<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Police Tactics|1}}<br /> <br /> {{Has Merit|Direction Sense|1}}<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2017-04-09T14:53:23Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Char<br /> |threadid=35069<br /> |Quote=Underground Man<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Departure and Return ==<br /> After the disappearance of most of his clan, Cross found himself, alongside Alice Hart, as one of the two representatives of his Family left in the city. It was during this time that he was briefly made Reeve of Sacramento by Seneschal Stamford. It was also during this time that Cross fell in love with Alice, whose recent realization of her Blood's potential had left her sightless. Given over to these various duties, Cross put his own spiritual development on hold. And yet, the call to pursue membership in the Lancea Sanctum persisted, even grew, despite his neglect of this urge. Finally, it became too much. Not knowing how to explain himself, or even say goodbye, Cross set out for his hometown of Los Angeles in search of a Priest he once knew there, looking to officially join the covenant.<br /> <br /> Now, after six months of trial and training in LA, Cross has decided to return to Sacramento. He knows that this decision may have dire consequences for him. But, he also knows that the unfinished business he has in the city cannot be ignored. It is as the Testament of Longinus says, no matter how hard it may be, at times, to believe: &quot;Our will must be subsumed beneath the will of God. He has a divine purpose for each of us which we must follow without fear and without doubt.&quot;<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}<br /> {{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> {{Has Merit|Resources|2}}<br /> {{Has Merit|Police Tactics|1}}<br /> {{Has Merit|Direction Sense|1}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-10-03T18:07:16Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=Whip<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=None<br /> |Covenant Title=Reeve<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Presence Description=Stoic<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Reeve Cross, Nosferatu Whip<br /> |Appearance=Cross has been badly burned, with visible scars to prove it. The faint smell of burnt hair and skin hangs around him.<br /> }}<br /> <br /> *{{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36631-(1610)-Formal-Court (1610) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36488-(Alien-Call)-Predators-Taint (Alien Call) Predators Taint]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36564-Brood-Briefing Brood Briefing]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36483-Of-Ash-and-Dust Of Ash and Dust]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36568-Travel-Arrangements Travel Arrangements]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36553-(1609)-Haunts-and-Savages (1609) Haunts and Savages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36485-(1609)-Eternal-Court (1609) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36406-(Good-Guys)-Do-Things-the-Right-Way (Good Guys) Do Things the Right Way]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36409-(DwO)-Dealt-with (DwO) Dealt With]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36366-Underground-Reading-Rainbow Underground Reading Rainbow]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36404-Ashes-Between-the-Pages&amp;p=448125#post448125 Ashes Between the Pages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36347-Ash-Stained-Cheeks Ash Stained Cheeks]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36294-Trust-Fall Trust Fall]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36331-The-Cop-Shop The Cop Shop]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36088-Checking-in-at-the-Delta-King Checking in at the Delta King]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36169-(DwO)-Dealing-With-What-No-One-Else-Will (DwO) Dealing with What No One Else Will]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36222-(1607)-Men-and-Their-Titles (1607) Men and their Titles]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36148-(0716)-Josephine-Robert-Konrad (1607) Josephine, Robert, Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36117-(1607)-Formal-Court (1607) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36012-2016-Summer-Solstice 2016 Summer Solstice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35953-(1606)-Brittany-and-Cross (1606) Brittany and Cross]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35931-(1606)-Eternal-Court (1606) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35993-(PyP)-An-Ounce-of-Blood (PyP) An Ounce of Blood]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35980-Night-Drive Night Drive]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35943-(Sterling-Hotel)-Cross-and-Konrad Cross and Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35927-Schrodingers-Cat-acomb Schrodingers Cat-acomb]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35693-(PrP-DwO)-Dealing-with-the-Little-Men (PrP DwO) Dealing with the Little Men]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35782-Slice-and-Dice-(Necropolis) Slice and Dice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35798-(1605)-Stalking-the-Edges (1605) EC: Stalking the Edges]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35717-(1605)-Eternal-Court (1605) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35504-(1604)-Sacramento-Safari (1604) Sacramento Safari]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35529-(PrP)-Dealing-with-Obstructions (PrP) Dealing with Obstructions]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35491-(Necropolis)-Called-to-the-Caldarium Called to the Caldarium]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36628-Text-Trap Text Trap]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36512-Still-Burning Still Burning]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36415-Report-to-the-Reeve Report to the Reeve]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36414-Pig-amp-Bacon Pig &amp; Bacon]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36374-Never-Enough-(Feeding) Never Enough (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36362-Read-All-About-It Read All About It]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36256-Doubting-Thomas Doubting Thomas]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36167-Following-(Feeding) Following (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36022-Letters-to-the-Family Letters to the Family]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36018-(Feeding)-The-Lobbyist-s-Tale The Lobbyist's Tale (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35975-Parlay Parlay]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35970-Working-the-Details Working the Details]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35816-(Feeding)-Predatory-Behavior Predatory Behavior (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35812-Fortification-Physical-amp-Metaphysical Fortification, Physical &amp; Metaphysical]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35790-From-the-Sheriff-of-the-Deep-Kingdom From the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35789-(Necropolis)-The-New-Office The New Office]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35736-The-Good-Word The Good Word]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35581-At-the-Cop-Bar At the Cop Bar]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Nosferatu<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-10-03T18:05:44Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* Glimpses */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=None<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=Deputy<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Presence Description=Stoic<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Nosferatu Whip, Deputy to Lady Reeve Stamford<br /> |Appearance=Cross has been badly burned, with visible scars to prove it. The faint smell of burnt hair and skin hangs around him.<br /> }}<br /> <br /> *{{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36631-(1610)-Formal-Court (1610) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36488-(Alien-Call)-Predators-Taint (Alien Call) Predators Taint]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36564-Brood-Briefing Brood Briefing]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36483-Of-Ash-and-Dust Of Ash and Dust]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36568-Travel-Arrangements Travel Arrangements]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36553-(1609)-Haunts-and-Savages (1609) Haunts and Savages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36485-(1609)-Eternal-Court (1609) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36406-(Good-Guys)-Do-Things-the-Right-Way (Good Guys) Do Things the Right Way]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36409-(DwO)-Dealt-with (DwO) Dealt With]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36366-Underground-Reading-Rainbow Underground Reading Rainbow]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36404-Ashes-Between-the-Pages&amp;p=448125#post448125 Ashes Between the Pages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36347-Ash-Stained-Cheeks Ash Stained Cheeks]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36294-Trust-Fall Trust Fall]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36331-The-Cop-Shop The Cop Shop]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36088-Checking-in-at-the-Delta-King Checking in at the Delta King]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36169-(DwO)-Dealing-With-What-No-One-Else-Will (DwO) Dealing with What No One Else Will]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36222-(1607)-Men-and-Their-Titles (1607) Men and their Titles]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36148-(0716)-Josephine-Robert-Konrad (1607) Josephine, Robert, Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36117-(1607)-Formal-Court (1607) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36012-2016-Summer-Solstice 2016 Summer Solstice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35953-(1606)-Brittany-and-Cross (1606) Brittany and Cross]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35931-(1606)-Eternal-Court (1606) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35993-(PyP)-An-Ounce-of-Blood (PyP) An Ounce of Blood]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35980-Night-Drive Night Drive]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35943-(Sterling-Hotel)-Cross-and-Konrad Cross and Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35927-Schrodingers-Cat-acomb Schrodingers Cat-acomb]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35693-(PrP-DwO)-Dealing-with-the-Little-Men (PrP DwO) Dealing with the Little Men]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35782-Slice-and-Dice-(Necropolis) Slice and Dice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35798-(1605)-Stalking-the-Edges (1605) EC: Stalking the Edges]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35717-(1605)-Eternal-Court (1605) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35504-(1604)-Sacramento-Safari (1604) Sacramento Safari]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35529-(PrP)-Dealing-with-Obstructions (PrP) Dealing with Obstructions]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35491-(Necropolis)-Called-to-the-Caldarium Called to the Caldarium]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36628-Text-Trap Text Trap]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36512-Still-Burning Still Burning]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36415-Report-to-the-Reeve Report to the Reeve]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36414-Pig-amp-Bacon Pig &amp; Bacon]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36374-Never-Enough-(Feeding) Never Enough (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36362-Read-All-About-It Read All About It]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36256-Doubting-Thomas Doubting Thomas]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36167-Following-(Feeding) Following (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36022-Letters-to-the-Family Letters to the Family]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36018-(Feeding)-The-Lobbyist-s-Tale The Lobbyist's Tale (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35975-Parlay Parlay]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35970-Working-the-Details Working the Details]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35816-(Feeding)-Predatory-Behavior Predatory Behavior (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35812-Fortification-Physical-amp-Metaphysical Fortification, Physical &amp; Metaphysical]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35790-From-the-Sheriff-of-the-Deep-Kingdom From the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35789-(Necropolis)-The-New-Office The New Office]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35736-The-Good-Word The Good Word]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35581-At-the-Cop-Bar At the Cop Bar]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Nosferatu<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-10-03T18:03:24Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* Scenes */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=None<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=Deputy<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Presence Description=Stoic<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Nosferatu Whip, Deputy to Lady Reeve Stamford<br /> |Appearance=Cross has been badly burned, with visible scars to prove it. The faint smell of burnt hair and skin hangs around him.<br /> }}<br /> <br /> *{{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36631-(1610)-Formal-Court (1610) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36488-(Alien-Call)-Predators-Taint (Alien Call) Predators Taint]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36564-Brood-Briefing Brood Briefing]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36483-Of-Ash-and-Dust Of Ash and Dust]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36568-Travel-Arrangements Travel Arrangements]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36553-(1609)-Haunts-and-Savages (1609) Haunts and Savages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36485-(1609)-Eternal-Court (1609) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36406-(Good-Guys)-Do-Things-the-Right-Way (Good Guys) Do Things the Right Way]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36409-(DwO)-Dealt-with (DwO) Dealt With]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36366-Underground-Reading-Rainbow Underground Reading Rainbow]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36404-Ashes-Between-the-Pages&amp;p=448125#post448125 Ashes Between the Pages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36347-Ash-Stained-Cheeks Ash Stained Cheeks]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36294-Trust-Fall Trust Fall]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36331-The-Cop-Shop The Cop Shop]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36088-Checking-in-at-the-Delta-King Checking in at the Delta King]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36169-(DwO)-Dealing-With-What-No-One-Else-Will (DwO) Dealing with What No One Else Will]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36222-(1607)-Men-and-Their-Titles (1607) Men and their Titles]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36148-(0716)-Josephine-Robert-Konrad (1607) Josephine, Robert, Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36117-(1607)-Formal-Court (1607) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36012-2016-Summer-Solstice 2016 Summer Solstice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35953-(1606)-Brittany-and-Cross (1606) Brittany and Cross]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35931-(1606)-Eternal-Court (1606) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35993-(PyP)-An-Ounce-of-Blood (PyP) An Ounce of Blood]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35980-Night-Drive Night Drive]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35943-(Sterling-Hotel)-Cross-and-Konrad Cross and Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35927-Schrodingers-Cat-acomb Schrodingers Cat-acomb]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35693-(PrP-DwO)-Dealing-with-the-Little-Men (PrP DwO) Dealing with the Little Men]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35782-Slice-and-Dice-(Necropolis) Slice and Dice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35798-(1605)-Stalking-the-Edges (1605) EC: Stalking the Edges]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35717-(1605)-Eternal-Court (1605) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35504-(1604)-Sacramento-Safari (1604) Sacramento Safari]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35529-(PrP)-Dealing-with-Obstructions (PrP) Dealing with Obstructions]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35491-(Necropolis)-Called-to-the-Caldarium Called to the Caldarium]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36415-Report-to-the-Reeve Report to the Reeve]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36414-Pig-amp-Bacon Pig &amp; Bacon]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36374-Never-Enough-(Feeding) Never Enough (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36362-Read-All-About-It Read All About It]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36256-Doubting-Thomas Doubting Thomas]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36167-Following-(Feeding) Following (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36022-Letters-to-the-Family Letters to the Family]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36018-(Feeding)-The-Lobbyist-s-Tale The Lobbyist's Tale (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35975-Parlay Parlay]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35970-Working-the-Details Working the Details]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35816-(Feeding)-Predatory-Behavior Predatory Behavior (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35812-Fortification-Physical-amp-Metaphysical Fortification, Physical &amp; Metaphysical]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35790-From-the-Sheriff-of-the-Deep-Kingdom From the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35789-(Necropolis)-The-New-Office The New Office]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35736-The-Good-Word The Good Word]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35581-At-the-Cop-Bar At the Cop Bar]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Nosferatu<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-10-03T17:57:54Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* Time in Sacramento */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=None<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=Deputy<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Presence Description=Stoic<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Nosferatu Whip, Deputy to Lady Reeve Stamford<br /> |Appearance=Cross has been badly burned, with visible scars to prove it. The faint smell of burnt hair and skin hangs around him.<br /> }}<br /> <br /> *{{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. After serving as both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Stamford, he was himself elevated to the positions of Reeve and Whip of clan Nosferatu. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently embroiled in efforts to rid the domain at large of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy.<br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36406-(Good-Guys)-Do-Things-the-Right-Way (Good Guys) Do Things the Right Way]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36409-(DwO)-Dealt-with (DwO) Dealt With]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36366-Underground-Reading-Rainbow Underground Reading Rainbow]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36404-Ashes-Between-the-Pages&amp;p=448125#post448125 Ashes Between the Pages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36347-Ash-Stained-Cheeks Ash Stained Cheeks]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36294-Trust-Fall Trust Fall]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36331-The-Cop-Shop The Cop Shop]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36088-Checking-in-at-the-Delta-King Checking in at the Delta King]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36169-(DwO)-Dealing-With-What-No-One-Else-Will (DwO) Dealing with What No One Else Will]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36222-(1607)-Men-and-Their-Titles (1607) Men and their Titles]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36148-(0716)-Josephine-Robert-Konrad (1607) Josephine, Robert, Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36117-(1607)-Formal-Court (1607) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36012-2016-Summer-Solstice 2016 Summer Solstice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35953-(1606)-Brittany-and-Cross (1606) Brittany and Cross]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35931-(1606)-Eternal-Court (1606) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35993-(PyP)-An-Ounce-of-Blood (PyP) An Ounce of Blood]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35980-Night-Drive Night Drive]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35943-(Sterling-Hotel)-Cross-and-Konrad Cross and Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35927-Schrodingers-Cat-acomb Schrodingers Cat-acomb]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35693-(PrP-DwO)-Dealing-with-the-Little-Men (PrP DwO) Dealing with the Little Men]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35782-Slice-and-Dice-(Necropolis) Slice and Dice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35798-(1605)-Stalking-the-Edges (1605) EC: Stalking the Edges]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35717-(1605)-Eternal-Court (1605) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35504-(1604)-Sacramento-Safari (1604) Sacramento Safari]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35529-(PrP)-Dealing-with-Obstructions (PrP) Dealing with Obstructions]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35491-(Necropolis)-Called-to-the-Caldarium Called to the Caldarium]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36415-Report-to-the-Reeve Report to the Reeve]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36414-Pig-amp-Bacon Pig &amp; Bacon]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36374-Never-Enough-(Feeding) Never Enough (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36362-Read-All-About-It Read All About It]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36256-Doubting-Thomas Doubting Thomas]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36167-Following-(Feeding) Following (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36022-Letters-to-the-Family Letters to the Family]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36018-(Feeding)-The-Lobbyist-s-Tale The Lobbyist's Tale (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35975-Parlay Parlay]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35970-Working-the-Details Working the Details]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35816-(Feeding)-Predatory-Behavior Predatory Behavior (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35812-Fortification-Physical-amp-Metaphysical Fortification, Physical &amp; Metaphysical]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35790-From-the-Sheriff-of-the-Deep-Kingdom From the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35789-(Necropolis)-The-New-Office The New Office]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35736-The-Good-Word The Good Word]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35581-At-the-Cop-Bar At the Cop Bar]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Nosferatu<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-09-18T00:41:56Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=None<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=Deputy<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Presence Description=Stoic<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Nosferatu Whip, Deputy to Lady Reeve Stamford<br /> |Appearance=Cross has been badly burned, with visible scars to prove it. The faint smell of burnt hair and skin hangs around him.<br /> }}<br /> <br /> *{{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. Currently, he is both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Reeve Stamford. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently assisting the Reeve in ridding the domain of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy. <br /> <br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36406-(Good-Guys)-Do-Things-the-Right-Way (Good Guys) Do Things the Right Way]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36409-(DwO)-Dealt-with (DwO) Dealt With]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36366-Underground-Reading-Rainbow Underground Reading Rainbow]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36404-Ashes-Between-the-Pages&amp;p=448125#post448125 Ashes Between the Pages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36347-Ash-Stained-Cheeks Ash Stained Cheeks]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36294-Trust-Fall Trust Fall]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36331-The-Cop-Shop The Cop Shop]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36088-Checking-in-at-the-Delta-King Checking in at the Delta King]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36169-(DwO)-Dealing-With-What-No-One-Else-Will (DwO) Dealing with What No One Else Will]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36222-(1607)-Men-and-Their-Titles (1607) Men and their Titles]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36148-(0716)-Josephine-Robert-Konrad (1607) Josephine, Robert, Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36117-(1607)-Formal-Court (1607) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36012-2016-Summer-Solstice 2016 Summer Solstice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35953-(1606)-Brittany-and-Cross (1606) Brittany and Cross]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35931-(1606)-Eternal-Court (1606) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35993-(PyP)-An-Ounce-of-Blood (PyP) An Ounce of Blood]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35980-Night-Drive Night Drive]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35943-(Sterling-Hotel)-Cross-and-Konrad Cross and Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35927-Schrodingers-Cat-acomb Schrodingers Cat-acomb]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35693-(PrP-DwO)-Dealing-with-the-Little-Men (PrP DwO) Dealing with the Little Men]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35782-Slice-and-Dice-(Necropolis) Slice and Dice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35798-(1605)-Stalking-the-Edges (1605) EC: Stalking the Edges]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35717-(1605)-Eternal-Court (1605) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35504-(1604)-Sacramento-Safari (1604) Sacramento Safari]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35529-(PrP)-Dealing-with-Obstructions (PrP) Dealing with Obstructions]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35491-(Necropolis)-Called-to-the-Caldarium Called to the Caldarium]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36415-Report-to-the-Reeve Report to the Reeve]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36414-Pig-amp-Bacon Pig &amp; Bacon]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36374-Never-Enough-(Feeding) Never Enough (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36362-Read-All-About-It Read All About It]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36256-Doubting-Thomas Doubting Thomas]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36167-Following-(Feeding) Following (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36022-Letters-to-the-Family Letters to the Family]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36018-(Feeding)-The-Lobbyist-s-Tale The Lobbyist's Tale (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35975-Parlay Parlay]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35970-Working-the-Details Working the Details]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35816-(Feeding)-Predatory-Behavior Predatory Behavior (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35812-Fortification-Physical-amp-Metaphysical Fortification, Physical &amp; Metaphysical]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35790-From-the-Sheriff-of-the-Deep-Kingdom From the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35789-(Necropolis)-The-New-Office The New Office]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35736-The-Good-Word The Good Word]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35581-At-the-Cop-Bar At the Cop Bar]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Nosferatu<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-09-18T00:41:02Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=None<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=Deputy<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Presence Description=Stoic<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Nosferatu Whip, Deputy to Lady Reeve Stamford<br /> |Appearance=Cross has obviously been badly burned in the past with visible scars to prove it. The faint smell of burnt hair and skin hangs around him.<br /> }}<br /> <br /> *{{Has Merit|Allies|2<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> == Time in Sacramento ==<br /> <br /> Since arriving in the domain, Cross has acted quickly to become an essential member of both Kindred society at large and his Nosferatu Family. Currently, he is both Constable of Regent Gilroy's Deep Kingdom and a Deputy to Lady Reeve Stamford. He has worked to improve the Necropolis and the Nosferatu above-ground haven. He's also dealt with threats to the safety of the Deep Kingdom and is currently assisting the Reeve in ridding the domain of various threats, such as a quasi-governmental Task Force targeting vampires, a vigilante group that seems to know about the existence of the Kindred, and a Brood cell that has been antagonizing local members of The Circle of the Crone. Recently, he has expressed his interest in joining the Lancea Sanctum to Bishop Gilroy. <br /> <br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36406-(Good-Guys)-Do-Things-the-Right-Way (Good Guys) Do Things the Right Way]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36409-(DwO)-Dealt-with (DwO) Dealt With]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36366-Underground-Reading-Rainbow Underground Reading Rainbow]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36404-Ashes-Between-the-Pages&amp;p=448125#post448125 Ashes Between the Pages]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36347-Ash-Stained-Cheeks Ash Stained Cheeks]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36294-Trust-Fall Trust Fall]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36331-The-Cop-Shop The Cop Shop]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36088-Checking-in-at-the-Delta-King Checking in at the Delta King]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36169-(DwO)-Dealing-With-What-No-One-Else-Will (DwO) Dealing with What No One Else Will]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36222-(1607)-Men-and-Their-Titles (1607) Men and their Titles]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36148-(0716)-Josephine-Robert-Konrad (1607) Josephine, Robert, Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36117-(1607)-Formal-Court (1607) Formal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36012-2016-Summer-Solstice 2016 Summer Solstice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35953-(1606)-Brittany-and-Cross (1606) Brittany and Cross]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35931-(1606)-Eternal-Court (1606) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35993-(PyP)-An-Ounce-of-Blood (PyP) An Ounce of Blood]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35980-Night-Drive Night Drive]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35943-(Sterling-Hotel)-Cross-and-Konrad Cross and Konrad]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35927-Schrodingers-Cat-acomb Schrodingers Cat-acomb]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35693-(PrP-DwO)-Dealing-with-the-Little-Men (PrP DwO) Dealing with the Little Men]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35782-Slice-and-Dice-(Necropolis) Slice and Dice]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35798-(1605)-Stalking-the-Edges (1605) EC: Stalking the Edges]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35717-(1605)-Eternal-Court (1605) Eternal Court]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35504-(1604)-Sacramento-Safari (1604) Sacramento Safari]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35529-(PrP)-Dealing-with-Obstructions (PrP) Dealing with Obstructions]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35491-(Necropolis)-Called-to-the-Caldarium Called to the Caldarium]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> <br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36415-Report-to-the-Reeve Report to the Reeve]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36414-Pig-amp-Bacon Pig &amp; Bacon]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36374-Never-Enough-(Feeding) Never Enough (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36362-Read-All-About-It Read All About It]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36256-Doubting-Thomas Doubting Thomas]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36167-Following-(Feeding) Following (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36022-Letters-to-the-Family Letters to the Family]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?36018-(Feeding)-The-Lobbyist-s-Tale The Lobbyist's Tale (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35975-Parlay Parlay]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35970-Working-the-Details Working the Details]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35816-(Feeding)-Predatory-Behavior Predatory Behavior (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35812-Fortification-Physical-amp-Metaphysical Fortification, Physical &amp; Metaphysical]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35790-From-the-Sheriff-of-the-Deep-Kingdom From the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35789-(Necropolis)-The-New-Office The New Office]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35736-The-Good-Word The Good Word]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35581-At-the-Cop-Bar At the Cop Bar]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor<br /> |Friend=Alice Hart<br /> }}<br /> {{Haven<br /> |Group=Nosferatu<br /> |Location=0<br /> |Size=1<br /> |Library=0<br /> |Security=1<br /> |Occultation=0<br /> }}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-05-19T01:20:20Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=None<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=None<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor}}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-05-19T01:19:45Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |postwith=Character<br /> |forumid=2738<br /> |minisheet=1<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan Title=None<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Domain Title=None<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Titles=Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Emergency Services<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1<br /> |Sphere=Criminals<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> <br /> ==Scenes==<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35189-(Necropolis)-Crossed-Hart#post434290 Crossed Hart]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35242-(Open)-Creeds-and-Credos#post435474 Creeds and Credos]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35362-(1604)-Formal-Court#post435785 Formal Court (1604)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35380-(1604)-Cross-Bearers#post435860 Cross Bearers]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35135-Acknowledgement-at-the-Crossroads Acknowledgement at the Crossroads]<br /> <br /> <br /> ==Glimpses==<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35478-The-Last-Man-(Feeding)&amp;p=437418#post437418 The Last Man (Feeding)]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35452-Crossed-Out&amp;p=436979#post436979 Crossed Out]<br /> *[http://nwod.org/forum/showthread.php?35256-Game-Recognizes-Game-(Feeding)&amp;p=434550#post434550 Game Recognizes Game (Feeding)]<br /> <br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}{{Status Editor}}<br /> {{Necropolis<br /> |Bleak Annals=0<br /> |Caldarium=0<br /> |Catacombs=2<br /> |Dark Temple=0<br /> |Garbage Pit=0<br /> |Sepulcher=1<br /> }}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-04-15T17:36:02Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=1<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=1<br /> |Blood Potency=Obfuscated<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1|Sphere=Emergency Services}}<br /> *{{Has Merit|Contacts|1|Sphere=Criminals}}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-04-15T17:32:13Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=1<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=1<br /> |Blood Potency=Obfuscated<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1|sphere=Emergency Services}}<br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1|sphere=Criminals}}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-04-15T17:28:46Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=1<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=1<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1|sphere=Cops}}<br /> {{Has Merit|Contacts|1|sphere=Criminals}}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-04-06T13:23:02Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* History */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=1<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Intruiging<br /> |Avatar=Susan Howe<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> <br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, 65 year old woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> <br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask.<br /> <br /> '''Mantle'''<br /> <br /> When Helen speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three hundred and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every few days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-03-22T21:40:45Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=1<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=1<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and he made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:06:22Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Strangely Powerful<br /> |Avatar=Susan Howe<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> <br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> <br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:05:44Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> <br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> <br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:05:10Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Spring Titles=<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> <br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> <br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:04:20Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* History */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Spring Titles=Courtier<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> <br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> <br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:03:42Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* Appearance */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Spring Titles=Courtier<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> <br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> <br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:03:14Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* Appearance */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Spring Titles=Courtier<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:02:35Z

<p>Unlimited sink: /* Appearence */</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Spring Titles=Courtier<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearence ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask'''<br /> Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien'''<br /> Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T03:01:52Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Spring Titles=Courtier<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> <br /> == Appearence ==<br /> <br /> '''Mask:''' Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> '''Mien:''' Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Helen_Powers 2016-03-15T02:58:34Z

<p>Unlimited sink: Created page with &quot;{{Character |Inception=2016/03/14 |Status=Active |Character Name=Helen Powers |Freehold Status=0 |Player Name=Unlimited sink |Court=Spring |Mantle=2 |Spring Titles=Courtier |Seem...&quot;</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/03/14<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Helen Powers<br /> |Freehold Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |Court=Spring<br /> |Mantle=2<br /> |Spring Titles=Courtier<br /> |Seeming=Wizened<br /> |Kith=Author<br /> |Presence=3<br /> |Appearance=Small but Powerful<br /> |Quote=Breathless and in haste / the various night (of books) awakes!<br /> |pic2=No<br /> }}<br /> Appearence<br /> <br /> Mask: Helen is a very thin, even fragile, woman. The fact that she stands at just over 5 feet only adds to that impression. And yet she exudes emotional and intellectual strength. This is partly due to her posture, the way she carries herself, which is both regal and absolutely open. Her eyes are a piercing, discerning blue that manage to remain eminently kind. It is her voice, however, that evidences this inner strength, it is clear and steady. When she speaks, it is as if she is testing every word, and enjoying the process of doing so. Her grey hair is kept short and neat. Her appearance is also tidy, though she tends to wear clothing that is oversized, seeming to swallow her tiny frame.<br /> <br /> Mien: Helen’s mien is somehow thinner and shorter than her mask. Her skin is very thin, even translucent, and under it her veins are clearly visible, so dark blue that they appear purple, even black. Her eyes are shining jet pools, her ears are pointed, and her fingers are unevenly stained black by what appears to be ink. Nonetheless, Helen does not present as threatening to onlookers, even if her appearance can inspire pity. Her true voice is even purer and clearer than that of her mask. When she speaks, refreshing breezes seem to play across the skin and tussle the hair of those who are within earshot.<br /> <br /> History<br /> <br /> Helen will tell you herself that, before she was taken, she'd been a &quot;silly rich girl&quot; (her words). Her name wasn't Helen then, but that doesn't matter anymore. The only daughter of San Francisco business mogul Peter Powers, she was possessed early on by that boredom which only afflicts those whose every desire is met. It was a situation that inspired in her the need for inconsequential rebellions, one of which was her insistence that she live alone and attend a local school (UCSF). Of course, her father did not approve and of course he supported her anyway (she was his only daughter and he'd lost his wife, Helen's mother, years before). Nominally, she was studying literature, though this spoiled and carefree heiress was simply enjoying life in the Bay Area as only a child of the rich could, even as she styled herself a “rebel.”<br /> <br /> It was 1972 and she'd been at UCSF for three years when she was taken. Helen had entered an antiquarian bookstore one summer evening and while standing on an old footstool, reaching for some dusty tome perched on top of a looming bookshelf, she’d slipped and fallen. Indeed, she fell through the books themselves; fell into a hell that lasted for three and sixty four years (she knows the duration because her keepers never let her forget). It started with a whirlwind of paper, slicing into her skin, her soul, her mind, in complete darkness. The sound of those pages rustling in the inky dark was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain of those millions of cuts. Finally, and thankfully, she passed out. This was the last time she was permitted to lose consciousness during her captivity.<br /> <br /> When she woke, Helen was in a vast, windowless library. Its aisles were wide and maze-like, crazily winding through impossibly tall bookshelves, stuffed with bizarre manuscripts and reams of paper. Here and there piles of books had been set on fire to provide a flickering, hellish light. She was surrounded by tall, skeletally thin figures draped in black robes. When they moved, they rustled as if stuffed with paper. Their voices were like dead leaves on the wind. She was somehow paralyzed, though fully conscious, which allowed her to feel the entirety of the coming operation. They hooked her up to a strange pump via a series of tubes tipped with needles and removed her blood, which was replaced with an ink-like fluid. This was a process that her keepers repeated every 3 days, when she’d “run dry.” <br /> <br /> She quickly learned her task: Helen was a scribe, a scribe that used her own inky blood to copy bizarre texts, texts she could barely make out, let alone understand. Every mistake, every misspelled “word,” every smudged line, resulted in a new torture, though perfect work also resulted in even worse treatment. There was no day and there was no night, yet she always knew how long she’d spent in The Library due to the highly complex timepiece that recorded the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years that she’d spent there. Helen was required to carry this horrible reminder with her wherever she went as she travelled hundreds of miles through those stacks. She never saw the same area twice, nor did she see anyone else but her captors.<br /> <br /> It had been two hundred and two years when something changed. Helen didn’t know what, but suddenly her keepers stopped demanding that she copy books. Instead, they commanded her to write them. This was not a relief, but in fact a deepening of her torment, for they wanted her to write poetry, but poetry unlike anything the human mind had ever conceived. They trained her to be their inhuman bard, twisting her thoughts and her words by forcing her to study their maddening texts, those she had already been copying and now somehow “understood.” It did not matter if her work was bound and shelved or burned, she always suffered afterward. This could’ve gone on forever, if she hadn’t found the word, the word that burned. It was one of their horrifying sounds, a sound that scraped the vocal chords, and she tested it over and over again, until she coughed up her own inky blood. And with that word, that one burning word, perfectly pronounced, she burned a hole in The Library, and through a whirlwind of slicing, burning pages, she fell.<br /> <br /> When Helen fell back out of the bookshelf she was no longer a twenty-one year old &quot;silly rich girl,&quot; she was now a fifty-seven year old woman seasoned by hundreds of years of torture. The Changelings of San Francisco found her, Helen does not remember how. That first year back on earth is largely lost to her, in a way that she now wishes her time in The Library would be. But, by the end of that year, 2008, she was able to discover that her father had died a few years before her return. She was also able to discover that another woman was living in her place. Her fetch had taken up right where Helen had left off, using her old name, living a life of frivolous luxury in her place for as long as the real Helen had been gone, and now existed as a wealthy recluse who had little contact with the outside world. In fact, her fetch was so accustomed to paying for what she desired, and so keen to be left alone, that when Helen confronted her, the Helen-thing simply suggested a financial arrangement. As long as Helen did not try to reclaim her life, she would be supported in any way she liked, discretely and without further condition. Helen agreed. After all, she was no longer the girl she had been and couldn't take the place of this &quot;woman&quot; if she wanted to. She took Helen as her new name (though she kept Powers) and did not look back.<br /> <br /> Helen stayed in San Francisco for the next eight years, learning to be a person (or something approaching a person) again. She learned that one must love whatever life one has, and that for her, to love that meager shredded thing called life was to love it using words—even if they were words shaped by the Others. She became a well-known local poet in the Bay area, a strange old woman seemingly from nowhere, whose otherworldly verse made for completely incomprehensible, even inhuman, and yet undeniably beautiful books. Helen became something her keepers could never understand: someone who brings pleasure into the world using the echoes of their monstrous cadences, their perverse word-tones, and she couldn’t be happier about it. Now, at the age of sixty-five, she has finally decided to leave San Francisco, which could never be her home again and has come to Sacramento to truly start a new life.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Changeling Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-03-06T19:24:44Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=1<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/File:Robert_Cross.jpg 2016-02-28T19:09:12Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div></div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T19:07:25Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Gosha Kutsenko<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable blue. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T18:39:45Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> == Appearance ==<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable brown. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> == History ==<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T17:18:40Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> Appearance:<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2, who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable brown. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> History:<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T17:14:11Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> Appearance:<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2'', who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable brown. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> History:<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T17:11:34Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> Appearance:<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less a curse and more of a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2'', who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable brown. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> <br /> History:<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T17:10:07Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> Appearance:<br /> <br /> The Nosferatu &quot;problem,&quot; as Cross experiences it, is less of a curse and more of a failure of the blood to deliver on its pseudo-mystical promises. Embraced directly after being pulled from a fire in which he had been badly burned, Cross was not miraculously healed or transformed by his diabolical infusion, rather he stayed what he was: an unfortunately scarred burn victim (one who seemingly lacked any access to plastic surgery after his accident). <br /> <br /> So, is Cross hard to look at? Absolutely. Is he a creep-show monster like some of his haunt cousins? Not particularly. His appearance tends to provoke sentiments closer to &quot;don't stare at that poor man, children&quot; than the standard blood-curdling scream response that Nosferatu are known for. Maybe the only extraordinary thing, the only &quot;accursed&quot; thing, one might note about Cross is the faint smell of burnt hair and flesh that comes off him. It's not something you'd notice until you got really close, which—fortunately or unfortunately—isn't a problem for Cross given that no one's tried to cuddle up to him in a long time.<br /> <br /> Apart from the scarring, Cross presents as a physically fit, middle-aged guy standing about 6'2'', who carries himself like he's taken and thrown a lot of punches. He dresses the part of the detective he once was: nondescript suits (typically black), not exactly form fitting, paired with scuffed dress shoes. He's slow to smile and when he does it rarely reaches his eyes, which are a flat, unremarkable brown. He's bald, but not by choice—the fire took care of what hair he had.<br /> <br /> History:<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T13:21:14Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> History:<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Danse Macabre, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T13:19:26Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> |Quote=What'd you just say?<br /> }}<br /> History:<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Requiem, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T13:13:48Z

<p>Unlimited sink: </p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> |Appearance=Unfortunate<br /> }}<br /> History:<br /> <br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Requiem, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink http://nwod.org/wiki/index.php/Robert_Cross 2016-02-28T13:04:08Z

<p>Unlimited sink: Created page with &quot;{{Character |Inception=2016/02/28 |Status=Active |Character Name=Robert Cross |Clan=Nosferatu |Clan Status=0 |Player Name=Unlimited sink |City Status=0 |Blood Potency=1 |Avatar=D...&quot;</p> <hr /> <div>{{Character<br /> |Inception=2016/02/28<br /> |Status=Active<br /> |Character Name=Robert Cross<br /> |Clan=Nosferatu<br /> |Clan Status=0<br /> |Player Name=Unlimited sink<br /> |City Status=0<br /> |Blood Potency=1<br /> |Avatar=Deadpool (animated)<br /> |Covenant=Unaligned<br /> |Covenant Status=0<br /> |Coterie=None<br /> |Presence=2<br /> }}<br /> Robert Cross came from a long line of LA cops. All were good at the job. Some were even good people, though not many. No surprise then that he was a good cop, and that he was not a good man. Luckily, he never made the mistake of starting a family—he liked drinking too much, lacked anything approaching patience, and preferred his own company.<br /> <br /> On the job, Robert was known for results, maybe because he cut corners like everything needed to be a circle. Nonetheless, his superiors knew it was best to keep him on their team (which didn't stop him from taking a little bit of money or accepting some favors) and made detective by thirty. The next five years of his life passed in a blur of corpses (he worked homicide), empty bottles, and too many fights (another family tradition). <br /> <br /> This proclivity for throwing punches was how Robert met Sick Vic, the monster that would change (as in end) his life. It was the night of his 35th birthday and he'd finished up celebrating—alone—at some no name bar in Echo Park near the Stadium. The stench hit him when he reached the parking lot—Vic's signature scent of trash and human urine, one that Robert would come to know very well. He stopped, swaying, swiveling his head looking for the source of the odor. Turning back to his car, he found it sitting on his hood. Only later would Robert discover that everyone called him Sick Vic, but the reason for the name was obvious: Vic looked very, very ill. The moment Robert saw him sitting there, he wanted to remove him not only from his hood, but from the face of the earth. With every step Robert felt himself sober up, felt the blood hammering in his ears, and without stopping his stride he delivered a solid blow to Vic’s shitty face.<br /> <br /> Which broke Robert's hand: every finger, all with a single crack. And suddenly, he was on the ground, Vic on top of him swinging—then biting. That stink came on in waves and just as Robert began to wretch, the street light above them went out and his mouth was full of something thick and bittersweet, something he couldn't stop drinking. And that’s how Robert became the property of Sick Vic; the blood was just too good, no matter how bad it tasted or how awful Vic smelled. For the next five years, Robert was Vic's blood-bitch, his man inside the department. This was no mistake. Vic had been watching the folks who catch bodies, and he'd decided months before that Robert was well suited for his purposes, that he deserved to be a slave to monsters. Robert didn't care what he deserved, so long as the blood kept coming.<br /> <br /> Anything Vic asked, Robert did. He lost evidence, intimidated victims, lied on the stand, threw entire cases top to bottom. Later, he stole, maimed, and killed. Slowly, he entered the fold, learned about the Requiem, simultaneously fading from the human world, which he hadn’t cared much about to begin with. Booze didn't matter anymore and the only reason he kept the job was because Vic needed him to, though he eventually got so sloppy that people started noticing, which is why he retired early. No one seemed to miss him much. Robert was focusing on his new career anyhow. He'd turned forty and was now Vic's most trusted ghoul, acting as his bodyguard, servant, and fixer. Sure it was dangerous, but the closer he was to Vic, the closer he was to the blood. Nothing else mattered. Of course, it was that kind of thinking that got him killed.<br /> <br /> Honestly, it didn't surprise him when shit finally blew up. Vic was meeting some Ventrue fuck in his limo and Robert was in the town-car behind them when suddenly both vehicles were on fire. Robert didn't know who did it or how, but the flames were very real. And he couldn't get out of the car, couldn't get the doors unlocked. He considered eating his gun, but blacked out before he could. There were vague memories of smoke and burning flesh smell, of the car door wrenched off its hinges and acrid, black clouds swirling out into the night after it, the feeling of being dragged out and Vic’s comforting stink—then nothing.<br /> <br /> When Robert woke up he was dead. Truth be told, he had been dying for a while. Not that Vic cared, his sire had no emotional investment in his mental health. But, Sick Vic knew a valuable asset when he saw one, so Robert went from ghoul to Nosferatu neonate. Nothing really changed; the next ten years passed in much the same way as the previous five. Only real differences were Robert's new diet and his looks. Not that he was a pretty piece before, but now he was a well-done hunk of meat, a real crispy critter—and the smell of cooked flesh stuck, faint but ever-present.<br /> <br /> All of which sucked, though it helped the reputation that Robert got doing Vic's dirty work. In fact, Sick Vic's LA stock skyrocketed after Robert's embrace. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing—well Vic had more than enough. One night word came that Vic wouldn't be around anymore—ever—and that Robert would soon be joining him. Robert knew his strengths, but he also knew Vic's; anyone who could touch his sire could definitely touch him. So that was ‘so long, LA.’ No problem for Robert—he’d lost his only reason for staying anyway.<br /> <br /> Coming to Sacramento proved convenient—Robert still had some contacts from the job here. But now that he's landed, he's experiencing something wholly unfamiliar: uncertainty. With no boss and no gig, what's he to do? Strike out on his own? Offer his services to the highest bidder? Freelance or full time? No choice but to figure things out as he goes.<br /> <br /> &lt;!-- DO NOT DELETE THIS. This is the footer and goes last, enter information above this line --&gt; <br /> {{Bibliography}}{{Vampire Character}}</div>

Unlimited sink