#whether or not the mc/merc could be a good person

[deadrocks]

Played "Remember, You Will Die" this afternoon and really enjoyed it, while also feeling just this escalating dread? melancholy? frustration? pity? at playing an MC who feels so overwhelmingly trapped. Physically powerful, possessing a rare skill, and yet when people look at you all they is see a mad dog on a leash and all you can choose is whether or not to bark. If this sounds like a criticism I promise you it is not, quite the opposite. It added such a weight to little moments of choosing (relative) mercy, of looking for ways to achieve your goals that involved a little more finesse or discretion. Not to be "good" but to be something other than what everyone expects of you--to choose. To snatch at whatever little bit of autonomy came your way. Will be excited to play more of this as it's updated and to see at what point the MC will get to really slip the leash.

[thecompadre]

Ventrue posting

Evening, fresh blood. I guess you want me to give you a nitty-gritty run-down of our lovely little organization, now, do we? All things considered, I’d rather tie you to my bike and paint the high-way a lovely shade of red with you, but who has time for the bloody clean-up anyway? Besides, wouldn’t want to piss off the Arch-Bishop, now, do we.

So, welcome to our lovely little club of bastards and monsters – the Red Crusaders: the Sabbat’s first Ventrue MC.

What we do is pretty simple, as a matter of fact. We scour the highways of this country, raising hell wherever we can, spreading information between Sabbat strongholds and aiding our brothers and sisters in their efforts against the Camarilla. We’re a well-trained legion at our best and highway brigands at our worst. I should know, I’ve had ample experience with both.

I’ve been working on this band of bastards for the better part of 50 years by now. Granted, some of the mates with me now have known me since way back when, especially Reginald – most of us call him Reggy, but I call him Reginald since I know it pisses him off. The name? Well, I was personally aiming for the Crusader Legion, but we’ve been called the Red Crusaders since some of our blokes fanned red flags back in the day – folks thought they was soviet flags and we stopped using them, but the name stuck and that’s that.

We’re always open for new recruits, whether they be from our own little family or good lads we meet on the road, as well as some exceptional individuals that, well, let’s say fate puts in our way and leave it at that.

Now, I know what you’re thinking – we Ventrue aren’t quite the sort to move around a lot, aye? What, with our rather particular tastes? Well, can’t deny that you have a point. Despite some Ventrue’s sensibilities about not calling our taste’s a weakness, but a proof of our superiority and taste… Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone’s precious ‘feewings’, but cut it however you like, a chink in an armour a chink in an armour, a flat tire’s a flat tire, there ain’t no denying it can get a bit impractical. Now, while most Ventrue tend to lead a more sedentary un-lifestyle to keep their thirst in check, some of us can survive – hell, even thrive – in the conditions our little club has to offer. ‘Tis why we keep a close eye on every recruit and their particular taste. For instance, one of my blokes has got a taste for bikers. Fancy that, perfect fit. Another has a taste for meth-heads. I don’t judge, helps us make a bit of profit on the long run. We just make sure he doesn’t get a taste of them after they’ve had their fix – it’s a point of pride for me that my men stay as clean as they can be. Accidents happen, of course, and as long as they stay accidents, they’re brushed off. Now, if you have a taste for mail-men or accountants or what-not I suggest you find a nice little town to bury yourself in. As we say, God wills something else for you.

Our organization is structured on a simple basis: we’ve got squires, knights, mercs – and then there’s me. At least, this is the short version. For what it’s worth, I dislike the distinction between squire and knight: it implies an inferiority that is completely out of place, mostly fueling the ego of some of our ranks. And believe me, I’ve enough experience with troops like these to know they’re going to be at each other’s necks on their own. Boys will be boys and all that cal. Now, on to the nitty-gritty: whether you end up a squire or a knight depends on whether you’ve committed the Prayer to St. Gustav*. Those fresh within our ranks first join the squires, or as I like to call them, the frumentarii. Their role is mainly a support one – we need to keep the blood and the cash flowing if we want to stay on the road, and that is where their aptitudes are most appreciated. Our knights, or legionnaires, are our more perceptive fellows. They keep an eye out for trouble, help plan routes and logistics, and stand as security during our more private events. Squires who wish to become knights are welcome to join – the choice is theirs, and I wouldn’t keep them from it. Our mercs are different – see, all things considered, they aren’t true Red Crusaders. They’re the ones that are dragged along on our way, mostly Panders or Salubri looking for some violent thrill, or folks who wander with us for a while for the sake of safety. All in all, we treat our mercs well, but they’ve got to pull their weight and understand: this is a Ventrue club. They’re here because we let them be here. Anyway, that’s all there is to it. What, Praetorians? I’d love to know where you’ve heard that from, mate. Well, let’s just say everyone knows I’m the head here, and old Reginald is my right hand man. Let’s pretend for a while that I keep my own little Inner Circle just to make sure things are kept nice and tight without needing to butt my head in everyone’s business all the time, and leave it at that, shall we?

Reginald, however, is special. Knew the bloke for longer than most lads have lived, and he’s always been good to me. Tad hard to express it, what with him being a mute and all. The boys like him, especially since he knows a trick to fix you right up if you’ve gotten too fucked in a fight. Some of the lads, however, sometimes come up to me on days when the authorities seem to be in on our every move, and other mysterious things start happening – I should note this is mostly around Camarilla territory. They have a little theory that the Tremere are somehow tracking Reginald, or at least trying to. For my part, I’m quick to remind them that Reginald’s one of the pillars of this club, and that’s that. Sure, he’s technically a merc, but the lads don’t need to know that, now do they?

Now, un-life on the road can be tough, and sometimes it’s difficult to hold an event where all involved can have their fill of the good stuff, so we started organising a little game. Some of the lads started calling it the Blood Cup, and I’d be supportive of it if it didn’t take a large shit on subtlety. Anyway, rules is simple: We gather around a safe location, and those of us who want to have a snack for the evening – and hell, those who are looking for a laugh – bring a candidate for the game, which they embrace. Then, we let the newly-woken childer pass through the Creation rites. Those who dig themselves out pass the first round, and get to eat the ones who didn’t. Round two involves them fighting each other, getting nice and full of fresh vitae. This is the part where bets are made and cash starts rolling for those who care about it. Now, after a few bouts, the weaklings were crushed, fat’s been cut and the piggies are ready for the culling, so we move on to Round three. Whoever wishes to try their luck against them is free to go for the meal. Now, we do place some limitations – we don’t want this to be too easy after all. Fighters are forbidden from using any mind tricks to tame the fresh meat, and it’s preferred they don’t abuse their physical powers. Hell, most of the time we don’t need to enforce that one – most of them are just hungry, but know not to waste any blood on an easy fight.

But what if the fresh Cainite holds his own? Well, if a fresh one like that holds his own against one of us, then we’ve got a nice bike and jacket for ‘em.

However, here, as in all things, there is a degree of etiquette involved. It’s considered bad sport to bring in a hulking goliath to this match – after all, where’s the fun if we know who’ll beat the other useless fops. Hell, even if he stands his own in the third round – big whoop. I often urge my lads to remember this is, first of all, getting fed. If we find a nut too tough to crack – all is well, but that’s not the point. Besides, if you’re going to throw a giant of a man in there just so he can try and survive the third round, he’ll either be a new recruit or a meal that was more trouble than it was really worth it, so why not save us the trouble and Embrace him instead? However, this goes the other way as well – look, if you’re new, I’m gonna let it slip once, maybe, but after seeing it again and again and again I can confirm that watching a paraplegic fight for his life is a lot less fun than it sounds, and if a miracle happened and they passed the second round, none of us would think about letting them join us anyway.

Lately, our little game has proven quite popular, so we sometimes put on a show at a local Esbat, with the ‘winner’ at the end of round three either being accepted by a local pack or eaten like the rest. We make a tidy profit and get to slake our thirst, so who could complain? These events are also quite helpful for us if we plan to make in-roads finding connections in the scene of the event’s location, allowing us to further our own goals and to ease access to our required herds. And yet, a voice asks me from the heavens if that isn’t a tad against the purpose of these events, since they are designed merely for the thirst. I would agree, truthfully, but to hell, it’s bloody good fun!