Twin City Nights
Status: Bloodline: 0, Camarilla: 0, City(St Paul): 0
Sybil is incredibly tall for a woman – six-foot-two, slim, with an almost waiflike build. It is as if she were taken and stretched out like taffy. Her eyes are a very deep, nearly black violet; the color fills the whole of them, even the sclera, and contrasts violently with the snowy skin around them. Her hair is equally bled of color, the barest hint of tint in the pale locks. One might assume she is simply a very tall albino with an eye condition. She dresses to cover as much skin as she is able at any given time, sometimes purposely dressing the part of a goth to deflect any further inquiry – after all, one EXPECTS goths to apply mass amounts of cake makeup to be pale, doesn’t one?
She often smells of high-class perfumes, pleasant but subtle scents, and carries herself with an air of preternatural grace. While she wakes up every night with long hair down to her waist, she often chops it short when she knows she must go outside. Her clothing can come from any genre and time period, but all of it is very, very expensive – save for those few times when she’s forced to go slumming.
- Ever hear a Sabbat pack howling Sybil’s name? She certainly does. Maybe that’s why her Haven is so damn hard to find.
- Owns a stark white kitten named Muad’Dib. Rumored to be a ghouled pet.
- Sometimes, Sybil has visions – whether people take them seriously or not, however, is a matter of opinion.
- They say Sybil’s haven is locked down tighter than a chastity belt and is full of traps, treasures, and enough accumulated knowledge to make most Nosferatu grind their teeth in fury.
Allies and Enemies
|Anson Reed||You saved my life once. My funds and knowledge are yours.||2|
|Ezekiel DuMont||Sire, distant but still willing to communicate.||1|
|Sybil Lancre||I fund your battles because I know I’ll need a strong ally in the future. Too bad I can never let myself be seen among your crowd.||1|
|Marcus O’Brady||The Independent ghoul who acts as my tie to the living world. A staunch ally and childhood friend.||2|
|O’Bannon||We trade secrets for secrets and knowledge for knowledge. I’m even welcome at the coffeeshop. How kind.||1|
|William Tammerlane||You were foolish to remain here after dark, child, and lucky I still have enough humanity left in me to show compassion. My cathedral is your sanctuary…but don’t overstay your welcome.||1|
- Name: .44 Magnum. Caliber: .45WM. Difficulty: 6. Damage: 6. Rate: 3. Clip: 6. Conceal: J. Range: 35.
- Armor of some sort?
- Cellphone (current)
- Cutting edge pc and laptop.
- Domain – A bomb shelter cleverly hidden beneath a massive, abandoned cathedral. This Kiasyd lives in style.
A robbery. How quaint.
Or rather, it would be if it wasn’t her that had been robbed. Her place was locked down tighter than a chastity belt, full of tricks and locks and traps of all means and manners. Yet, somehow, one person managed to pull some serious ninja bullshit and get around every single trick she’d managed to build up. And for what?
For a book.
Not just any book, mind you – it was a book she had bled for, a book she had nearly auctioned the ugly little remnants of her soul off to obtain. A book that was decades or more in the earning. This tome contained the only scrap of knowledge she could get on the subject of Golconda – how to set oneself on the path, the very beginnings of what must be done to know harmony with oneself and one’s beast. This was the sort of book that, if known, had the capacity to incite war within the ranks, to cause sidewalks to grow damp and slick with thick, undead blood. The Inconnu would treasure it. The Camarilla would see it and its owners present and former burned to cinders and ash. The Sabbat? The mooks would laugh, sure, but the bishops, the higher-ups? Oh yes, they’d love a piece of that book, as well as a piece of the one who owned the thing. Perhaps all of the pieces. They aren’t exactly shy about their cannibalism.
Let’s put things into perspective. Golconda is considered by the brunt of vampire society to be little more than a pipe-dream, a flash of impossibility chased by the youngest of fledgelings and the most mad of elders. This particular robbed Kiasyd was a creature of sense and pragmatism, so what on earth could drive her to dedicate so much of her unlife to a whispered promise with what could be false rewards?
Her sire was a smart man. He embraced a woman who was a visionary in the literal as well as the metaphorical sense; from childhood she had been plagued with omens and portents, things she was convinced came to her from the Fair Folk beyond this caul. How he knew this was always a mystery to Sylvia; perhaps the faeries told him so? If he could truly speak with them, at least. In any case, Ezekiel took the young archaeologist while her sense of wonder was still a powerful, driving force in her life. The Embrace caught that wonder up and fixed it like an unmoving star somewhere in the middle distance of her soul. She could no more deny herself the joy of discovery than most living beings could deny themselves a next breath – as Ezekiel was well aware. Over her many, many years of life, a life aided by visions and intellect both, Golconda was one of many mysteries that couldn’t be solved. However, it was by far the most enticing.
It was also, perhaps, the one thing that could allow her to return to her life of discovery. After all, it’s difficult to go rooting around in deserts and swampland when the barest hint of sunlight can cause one to flame brighter than Liberace at a pride parade.
So anyway, Ezekiel embraced this Childe, watched her go through the exquisite agony of the process – her skin draining of color, the entirety of her eyes blooming into a solid, dark violet as though so much ink had been injected there, the bones of her body cracking and stretching along with sinew as her height pushed itself upwards another foot or so. He taught her how Kindred life works; more precisely, he taught her how to avoid other Kindred and their politics. You see, Ezekiel had a bit of a falling-out with the Sabbat with whom he formerly owed allegiance, and so was independent by the time his childe came along. The local pack, however, had other ideas for this newfound boon once they got wind that an old ‘friend’ embraced a Childe.
Several beatings later and still Sybil wasn’t convinced. If anything she just learned how to move about and hide more discretely lest they find her for another round. Their interest in her had an adverse effect on her relationship with her Sire, however, straining the already-tenuous bond Kiasyd often have with one-another. When the then-mandatory fifty-year period of tutelage was over, Ezekiel threw Sybil out of his haven like so much rubbish and asked her, politely, that she try to avoid finding occasion to visit him again.
Ezekiel was always one for manners.
What was a lost and troubled Sybil to do? Go underground. She built up her own haven with the riches she had amassed by selling off some less-treasured artifacts and investing the rest in stocks as cleverly as she was able. The industrious Kiasyd was able, with her fortune, to convert an old and forgotten bomb shelter into a haven worthy of the name, one glutted with antiques, books, computers, messages carved in stone – every method of preserving and gaining knowledge had at least a nominal representative there. And Sybil was very, very particular about her guests.
Which made this robbery all the more puzzling. Was it the ghoul she had dealings with? That Independent she had known and befriended in life, the one she felt could be trusted in death? The one she trusted to do her dealings for her during the day, paid with blood and money both? She didn’t think so. No ghoul could possibly be foolish enough to threaten such a readily-available supply of vitae, especially when it came with a paycheck as well. Though… vitae always had little effect on Marcus beyond the initial high. He was rumored to be unbondable, which made sense considering he was quite happy with blood coming from the same source. He’d certainly tapped Sylvia of this particular resource more than three times with no new affection to be shown from the taking. Perhaps another had finally managed to amass a bribe large enough to tempt Marcus away from an old, staunch ally and friend?
Sybil didn’t particularly enjoy that possibility, but had to consider it nevertheless. More logical to her however would be not that a ghoul was able to bypass her many wards, but a fully-fledged vampire. Possibly a member of the Sabbat stealing a book without knowing its import in another recruitment attempt? While she did her best to cover the reason she was working for an unseen benefactor all those years, an industrious (or simply perceptive) enough vampire could likely have realized she was working hard for something of great value to herself. Kiasyd aren’t generally known for their charity work, after all.
Perhaps it was the faceless benefactor that took the book back? A double-cross to regain guarded knowledge after tricking an ostensibly-younger kindred into doing all kinds of unpleasant work? She’d never met that one in person, and usually just assumed it was a Nosferatu – all she knew of the Voice was that it was a whisper in the dark. Voice was an enigma, to be sure, but she couldn’t understand why Voice would be driven to take the book back – surely it had a copy? Or had, in fact, given her a copy? Was this some sort of bizarre test? It was true that she met the Voice while searching out her own clues for Golconda – that he or she had found her, instead of vice-versa. But why would the Voice bother toying further with one singular Kiasyd who kept herself well away from vampiric politics? She was hardly a useful pawn, if she could even be considered pawn at all.
There was nothing for it now, however. She couldn’t hide in her locked-down but clearly not secure enough haven any longer, nor depend on Marcus alone to do her daily work and bring her the precious blood she needed in the form of members of a herd or animals or the occasional scrounged blood bag. She would have to…go outside. Ugh. Time to break out the stupid hat and the Bladerunner glasses, cover up the skin so it won’t glow in the moonlight. It wouldn’t do to be mistaken for Edward Cullen. If she was lucky, she’d be seen as just another overly-obsessed goth poser covered in bad cake makeup and owning a worse taste in style.
She wasn’t wholly without guidance, however. The visions that have slunk into her dark eyes lately are ones of dim, vague figures, figures with mouths and hands awash with blood – the Madgirl with her wild eyes, the Brick with his powerful, compact body, the Face in the Darkness, his figure the most vague of all, and others as well. She had no idea if these were the thieves or if throwing in with them might lead her to her desire, but she knew she had to begin somewhere…or risk losing her precious scrap of Golconda forever.
This was not an ending she could accept.