I'm sure he would, much like nearly every other Kindred!
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Name: Gareth Allard
Age: 154. Appearance-wise early 40's.
Species: Kindred, Malkavian, Camarilla. 8th generation.
Personality:
Gareth is obsessive, cunning, unyielding and not a little bit mad. He lives for his job, and his personality accomodates for it. Naturally investigative and curious, smart enough to know not to poke his nose where it doesn't belong yet clearly deranged enough to do so anyway. When Gareth is given a mission - or picks one - he will follow it through no matter what. As determined and brutal as he is in these aspects, as contradictory is other parts of his personality. Gareth is social and witty, laidback in conversations as well as life in general whenever not working.
When he keeps his madness in check, Gareth is an exceptional detective and informant. He knows a lot of stuff and a lot of people, and a lot of stuff about a lot of people. His main hobby in life (death) is indeed his job, and he works with serious tenacity. Gareth has a photographic memory, something he makes use of along with his analytical skills. Gareth doesn't employ a large network of contacts like many others in his business do, but opts to go places and physically finding out stuff himself. He has contacts, of course, just not the numbers one might expect of a man in Gareth's position. He is not beyond using technology, but it's generally just not his forte. It is a common belief amongst people who know him that the only way to keep Gareth "sane" is to keep him working, as his focus seem to at least temporarily overcome his curse.
He acts erratically, and can often be found writing nonsense on walls whenever he has a pen and time in and on his hands. He is impossible to offend, and treats others as if they were the same. He understands nothing of art, but loves it and collects it. Paintings, in particular. He likes plenty of other people, but isn't above killing any of them. Some (most) would call him a sociopath, but Gareth merely views himself as Gareth. He simply, generally speaking, does what he wants, whether it's talking, laughing or killing.
Speaking of which, Gareth firmly believes that the laws of Camarilla should be upheld no matter what, yet seemingly has tremendous troubles not to break them himself. His mad streaks include, but are not limited to, an incessant need for tormenting various creatures, preferably Kine or Garou, a very strong need to drink blood no matter how recently he fed, a compulsive repression of his human memories and very, very real nightmares that sometimes occur when he is awake, as if they were visions. Indeed, he believes they are. Moreover, he doesn't even dislike Kine nor Garou, he just wants - needs - to brutally murder them.
When he keeps his madness in check, Gareth is an exceptional detective and informant. He knows a lot of stuff and a lot of people, and a lot of stuff about a lot of people. His main hobby in life (death) is indeed his job, and he works with serious tenacity. Gareth has a photographic memory, something he makes use of along with his analytical skills. Gareth doesn't employ a large network of contacts like many others in his business do, but opts to go places and physically finding out stuff himself. He has contacts, of course, just not the numbers one might expect of a man in Gareth's position. He is not beyond using technology, but it's generally just not his forte. It is a common belief amongst people who know him that the only way to keep Gareth "sane" is to keep him working, as his focus seem to at least temporarily overcome his curse.
He acts erratically, and can often be found writing nonsense on walls whenever he has a pen and time in and on his hands. He is impossible to offend, and treats others as if they were the same. He understands nothing of art, but loves it and collects it. Paintings, in particular. He likes plenty of other people, but isn't above killing any of them. Some (most) would call him a sociopath, but Gareth merely views himself as Gareth. He simply, generally speaking, does what he wants, whether it's talking, laughing or killing.
Speaking of which, Gareth firmly believes that the laws of Camarilla should be upheld no matter what, yet seemingly has tremendous troubles not to break them himself. His mad streaks include, but are not limited to, an incessant need for tormenting various creatures, preferably Kine or Garou, a very strong need to drink blood no matter how recently he fed, a compulsive repression of his human memories and very, very real nightmares that sometimes occur when he is awake, as if they were visions. Indeed, he believes they are. Moreover, he doesn't even dislike Kine nor Garou, he just wants - needs - to brutally murder them.
Biography:
Gareth is the proud proprietor, owner and only employee of Allard's Agency, a private detective firm that isn't actually a private detective firm but rather a room in a deserted office building in the outskirts of Los Angeles, with a homemade sign reading "Allard's Agency" nailed to the door. Living in Boston since the early 20's, Gareth Allard has been part information broker, part private detective and part hitman in employ of the Camarilla. During later years he has, however, had his hitman "license" revoked by the Camarilla as these murders seemed to ramp up his madness rather than take off the pressure, leading to less than satisfying results.
Gareth used to be the premiere information broker in Boston, but was due to reasons as of yet unknown the subject of a personal vendetta driven by Boston's Prince - Quentin King III. Gareth chose to flee rather than fight, and left Boston for the warmer climate of Los Angeles a mere six months ago. It wasn't the climate that drew Gareth to Los Angeles though, but rather connections and possibilities. Generally a city of turmoil, LA has been even more chaotic than usual lately - a great opportunity for someone like Gareth to squeeze in. Moreover, Gareth's childe - Alima - is an established figure in Los Angeles.
Today, Gareth is the go-to-guy for many of Los Angeles' less fortunate supernaturals whenever they need help and information in particular, be it about other beings of the night, kine, companies, history or even themselves. That is assuming they can pay the price, naturally. Gareth takes payment in a rather unusual form - that of people. When Gareth is contracted, he typically wants a specific type of person, or even a specific individual, as payment. This is more than likely another reason Gareth has not reached the heights he might have otherwise done. Moreover, Gareth also undertakes missions of his own, usually merely in order to satisfy his curiosity, which is never satisfied.
Gareth remembers little of is human life, but he believes he was a math teacher. Or a janitor. Or something else. Likely a murderer or similarly depraved individual, or so Gareth has concluded based on his own behaviour. What he does know is that he originally comes from Wyoming, that his father was a dentist and that his mother was not. He also knows he was embraced in 1863, because his now dead sire has told him so.
He has had many dealings and contacts throughout his years in Boston, and had he not been mad and instead actually cared about power and influence, chances are he would have been a very powerful and influential person by now. Instead, he has often been used by his ungrateful peers - but Gareth simply never cared. He is popular and reputable amongst many Malkavians across the States and have been so for quite some time, and while most vampires would never trust Gareth, they tend to like his antics whether they want to or not. Paradoxically, the orderly Camarilla clans seem to have the most problem with Gareth as a person, yet the most use of him as a professional.
While Gareth Allard is new to the LA scene, he has already earned the respect of the lower standing citizens, and the higher ups are no doubt fully aware of who they now have in their midst. If one were to make Gareth an enemy, he might even now prove very dangerous indeed - but how do you make an enemy out of someone who literally can not be offended?
Gareth used to be the premiere information broker in Boston, but was due to reasons as of yet unknown the subject of a personal vendetta driven by Boston's Prince - Quentin King III. Gareth chose to flee rather than fight, and left Boston for the warmer climate of Los Angeles a mere six months ago. It wasn't the climate that drew Gareth to Los Angeles though, but rather connections and possibilities. Generally a city of turmoil, LA has been even more chaotic than usual lately - a great opportunity for someone like Gareth to squeeze in. Moreover, Gareth's childe - Alima - is an established figure in Los Angeles.
Today, Gareth is the go-to-guy for many of Los Angeles' less fortunate supernaturals whenever they need help and information in particular, be it about other beings of the night, kine, companies, history or even themselves. That is assuming they can pay the price, naturally. Gareth takes payment in a rather unusual form - that of people. When Gareth is contracted, he typically wants a specific type of person, or even a specific individual, as payment. This is more than likely another reason Gareth has not reached the heights he might have otherwise done. Moreover, Gareth also undertakes missions of his own, usually merely in order to satisfy his curiosity, which is never satisfied.
Gareth remembers little of is human life, but he believes he was a math teacher. Or a janitor. Or something else. Likely a murderer or similarly depraved individual, or so Gareth has concluded based on his own behaviour. What he does know is that he originally comes from Wyoming, that his father was a dentist and that his mother was not. He also knows he was embraced in 1863, because his now dead sire has told him so.
He has had many dealings and contacts throughout his years in Boston, and had he not been mad and instead actually cared about power and influence, chances are he would have been a very powerful and influential person by now. Instead, he has often been used by his ungrateful peers - but Gareth simply never cared. He is popular and reputable amongst many Malkavians across the States and have been so for quite some time, and while most vampires would never trust Gareth, they tend to like his antics whether they want to or not. Paradoxically, the orderly Camarilla clans seem to have the most problem with Gareth as a person, yet the most use of him as a professional.
While Gareth Allard is new to the LA scene, he has already earned the respect of the lower standing citizens, and the higher ups are no doubt fully aware of who they now have in their midst. If one were to make Gareth an enemy, he might even now prove very dangerous indeed - but how do you make an enemy out of someone who literally can not be offended?
NPCs:
<Snipped quote by cider>
Well, the Camarilla hasn't been in power since 1944, and none too popular. An open Camarilla agent like this character would either have to be Camarilla on the downlow, or publicly at least turn their back. Otherwise I'm trying to figure out why one of the big Anarchs didn't dust him.
Huh. I didn't realize there was actual precedent for this. As in, that there was canon lore. I've looked it up now though, and yes there is. I had assumed the Camarilla was in charge. Oops.
I'll rewrite some of the bio.
<Snipped quote by cider>
Has he always been in L.A.?
Not always. He's originally from northern US. He's been in LA for a very long time though, nearly a century. Do you want me to add that to the CS?
Also damn, I just noticed the "GM" and "CO-GM" stickers in the upper right corner of the posts now. How long have they existed?
My CS on page 3 is now finished.
Hah, you look like roadkill.
Thanks for the info! I'll rework the CS accordingly.
Hello. I have a few questions.
1) You mentioned in the OP where this RP is set, but I wonder when? As in year. Maybe this was indirectly written, but I'm probably not familiar enough with the lore to understand it if so. I'm a big fan of Bloodlines (although it was a good many years ago since I last played it) but have zero experience with World of Darkness otherwise (well, other than RP's). On a similar note, I also wonder what this conflict between the Camarilla and Anarchs was.
2) If I understood it correctly, this is set in the same "world" as Bloodlines? I'm aware there's different editions (? wrong word maybe), but the only one I'm familiar with is the one used for Bloodlines.
3) Is it okay to submit a CS used for another roleplay? I can't remember ever doing that before, but I have a character concept I really liked from another WoD-RP several years ago that never really got off the ground that I'd like to adapt to this.
1) You mentioned in the OP where this RP is set, but I wonder when? As in year. Maybe this was indirectly written, but I'm probably not familiar enough with the lore to understand it if so. I'm a big fan of Bloodlines (although it was a good many years ago since I last played it) but have zero experience with World of Darkness otherwise (well, other than RP's). On a similar note, I also wonder what this conflict between the Camarilla and Anarchs was.
2) If I understood it correctly, this is set in the same "world" as Bloodlines? I'm aware there's different editions (? wrong word maybe), but the only one I'm familiar with is the one used for Bloodlines.
3) Is it okay to submit a CS used for another roleplay? I can't remember ever doing that before, but I have a character concept I really liked from another WoD-RP several years ago that never really got off the ground that I'd like to adapt to this.
P R E S E N T
P R O L O G U E
P A R T II
The devil's advocate
N E W Y O R K CITY
January 2nd, 2016 - 07:00 | A penthouse apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.
Standing by one of the many windows, Wilson Fisk watched the sun slowly rise over New York. It was very much an everyday routine, or perhaps a ritual. The morning routine never changed. First, Wilson would make his way from the bedroom to an oversized bathroom and do that routine, then brew and pour coffee before putting it on a tray at the very window he was now standing at. Fisk didn't like very hot coffee, and while waiting for it to cool a little, he would do what he did now - shave while watching the sunrise. It was a meditative experience, he found. Helped him acquire the patient, calm demeanor he was known for, and avoid the aggressive outbursts that had made him infamous. Sunny mornings like today made it all the easier. Fisk finished his shave and put the razor down. He lightly dabbed his face with a warm cloth folded in front of him and took his coffee. He drank it while reading the morning newspapers.
The top stories was the same as it had been yesterday. "Chaos ensue as violence escalate". The article went on about the recent skirmishes in the criminal underworld, and in particular what by this journalist was called the massacre of New Year's Eve which left over thirty people dead in three locations, all members of organized crime. While Fisk had no doubts the police was of a different opinion, media had already connected the sudden killing spree to a vigilante, or several vigilantes. "The next Punisher" was one of the headlines, the article elaborating that organized crime might be in for a very difficult future. Fisk had no doubt the stories would become more sensible as the initial sensation wore off, but it did make for an entertaining read.
The attacks on New Year's Eve was indeed worthy of being called "massacres". They had all been carried out to the letter, with every single target left dead. One of Fisk's men had succumbed to a bullet from one of his own - the result of crossfire - but other than that, the operation had been executed to perfection. The Maggia leadership had been wiped out in one swift stroke, and with the snake decapitated it was also rendered nearly harmless. Without the organizational structure intact, Fisk had no doubt the large local manpower of the Maggia would be very willing to switch sides.
So why, then, did his mouth tighten and his fingers restlessly drum against the kitchen table? It is nothing, he thought. But it wasn't. It was a silly, simple thing, but while Fisk wanted to put the thought away he knew he could not. During one of the attacks on New Year's Eve, the one in the port district, Richie Kalinski had said something. Kalinski was a made man of the Maggia, and one of the most prominent ones. He had been in charge of smuggling various goods in and out of the city by sea. Fisk's men had reported that as Kuklinski bled out on the ground, the man had taunted his attackers, saying that taking his life meant nothing. They had responded that Kuklinski wasn't the first man that had died that night, but that the leader of the New York Maggia, Damian Adelardi, was dead as well. Kuklinski had laughed and managed to blurt out "Adelardi? Who fucking cares? You people don't know anything, do you?" before being shot dead. One of the men had had the good grace of notifying Jack Rose, the leader of the operation, who in turn relayed the quote to Fisk.
It was just a few words spilled out of a dying, panicked and likely shocked man, but Fisk thought that all the more reason to take it seriously. It didn't seem entirely unlikely that something wasn't as it should, after all. Fisk had never held Adelardi in high esteem, and had at times wondered how a man of such common intellect was able to lead the Maggia. Fisk had assumed it came down to the actual heads of the Maggia, those ruling over the entire east coast, being hands on in their approach, guiding Adelardi in his task. But perhaps there was something more to it. The more Fisk thought about it, the more it seemed like a plausibility rather than improbability that Adelardi was a front of some sorts. A living target, someone to attract the attention others did not want. Still, that was a very risky game to play and sounded more like something out of a novel than a ploy that might actually be used.
Fisk spit the coffee back in the cup. It had grown cold. He rose from the table and entered his walk-in closet. He chose a charcoal suit with a plain mulberry tie and proceeded to get dressed. Yesterday had been a hectic day. Fisk had made sure to keep the pressure up, continuing to hit the Maggia across town, albeit hits of a smaller magnitude. What surprised him was that the Maggia was yet to hit back. He had anticipated attacks on a number of locations, and had prepared accordingly. Instead his enemies seemed to whimper in a corner, perfectly content with Fisk taking over the house. That did not seem right, and another reason to lend credibility to Kukinski's dying words. Fisk wished his men had been clever enough to interrogate the man rather than finish him off. The logical conclusion now was that the Maggia was preparing a large scale counter attack, likely organized by the east coast leaders or, possibly, by an unknown party in New York. Yet even if Fisk assumed that was the case, how should he react? What would they do, and how could he stop it? What capabilities could they still possess, and where would they hit?
January 4th, 2016 - 15:15 | Somewhere in Pennsylvania.
The mansion was positively huge, its property sprawling over acres and acres. The mansion itself had stood for nearly two hundred years. It served as the seat and home for whoever was in charge of the east coast at the moment, and had done so for nearly a century. As such, it was one of the Maggia's more secretive locations. Not its existence, naturally, but rather its purpose. Flicking through the folder, the silver-haired man leaned back in his chair and peered at the subordinate seated in front of him.
"This is our man, I take it?"
"Yes sir, our contacts mark him as the premiere professional available for the job. He supposedly has extensive military experience, and rumors have it he's even taken on the Punisher back in the day and, well, survived."
"Supposedly? Rumors?" the silver-haired man asked, raising an eyebrow.
"His background has been difficult to figure out sir. He, or someone, has done a very good job of hiding it. What we do know is that he's taken on at least fifty contracts just in the U.S., and that he is responsible for killing a whole lot of men, including mutants."
"And how many contracts has he failed?"
"None, as far as we are aware, sir. If I may ask though... why are we not letting Joseph deal with this instead of involving outsiders?" The old man in the chair scratched his chin.
"Because we have lost enough important men already. I would not have Joseph do something this risky when we have a man that appears more capable and of less importance able to do the job." He made a gesture to his subordinate, who left him. The man looked down on the folder again, reading it properly. There was indeed no doubt this man was capable of the job. By the looks of it, the man might well be a mutant himself. He even had a moniker to match. In fact, all he had was a moniker, as his real identity remained unknown. And what a silly moniker it was. Bullseye.
January 7th, 2016 - 02:25 | A penthouse apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.
The sound was dull and quick, but Fisk knew the thud he'd just heard was what had awaken him and not part of whatever he had been dreaming of. With agility and deftness improbable of a man his size, Fisk got out of bed and silently picked up a very big, almost proportionate to his own size, loaded .50 pistol from his nightstand with one hand and a metal baseball bat from underneath his bed with the other. Weapons in hand, he stood still and listened. The sound had appeared to come from inside the apartment. Unsure if he was imagining the nature of the sound or not, Fisk nevertheless thought it sounded very much like a body dropping to the ground. It wouldn't be impossible. Jack Rose had been guarding his apartment while Fisk slept for the past nights as Fisk grew increasingly worried of the Maggia's retaliation, or rather the lack of it. He knew damn well that this apartment was protected - there was no way anyone outside of his organization knew he lived here - but Fisk was not one to take chances, never mind underestimate his enemies.
Another sound was heard. It was a dull sound like the one that had woken him, but this one was nearly inaudible. Yet Fisk had no doubt what he heard straight after was a very human hushing. On the wall next to him was three switches. One would light up the bedroom, one would light up the entire apartment, and one would trigger the panic alarm. Fisk flicked the panic button as well as lit up the entire floor. For all he knew, there was a team of Maggia men or crooked police on the other side of the door wearing night vision goggles. Without further consideration, Fisk lifted his gun simultaneously to flicking on the light and aimed at what would be the average man's chest height. He then proceeded to squeeze the trigger and methodically empty his clip as he strafed the bedroom door and wall. The gunfire was incredibly loud and Fisk knew all pretense of secrecy was certainly blown now - he would have to switch safe house. Yet a move was entirely preferable to death. As his clip emptied, Fisk listened for more noises as he quickly reached for one of the magazines kept in the drawer of the nightstand. Before he had a chance to react, another bang - this time from the other side of the bedroom wall - rang in his ears and he felt a dull ache in his arm. He'd been shot. Instinctively, Fisk knew that if he had been a normal sized man, that bullet would have hit his head rather than arm. He managed to grab a hold of a magazine and tried to reload, when the bedroom door suddenly burst open.
The man in front of Fisk looked like nothing he'd expected. Geared in black and white tights and armed with two pistols, the man positively looked like a clown, much like the costumed super heroes. This guy was obviously no hero, however. Impossibly fast, the man leveled his guns at him and fired. Fisk felt at least one, possibly more, bullets hit him as he reflexively threw the baseball bat at his attacker. It hit, causing the intruder to stumble and drop one of his guns. Fisk was already on the move, and before his attacked could fire again, Fisk took dropped his empty gun and grabbed the nightstand next to him, hurling it straight at the man. It hit him square in the chest, causing the man to fly back out of the room along with the nightstand. Fisk lunged after.
As he exited the bedroom, he saw the intruder lying on the floor. Yet before Fisk had time to assess the situation, the man threw a leg from the broken nightstand at his head. The impact was surprisingly hard, given the man was of average size and had thrown it while lying down. It was also accurate, hitting Fisk square on the nose. Fisk felt it breaking.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, before simply jumping at the man. The intruder tried to roll away, but Fisk managed to grab his leg, meaning the fight was all over. He quickly pulled the man towards him and him him in his chest once with his free hand, feeling the ribs breaking underneath his fist. Yet somehow the attacker didn't relent, pulling out a stun gun from his belt. Fisk knocked it out of the man's hand with a backhand.
"Enough!" he exclaimed and sat on the man, breaking any resistance. "Who are you and who sent you?" The man beneath him seemed to have trouble breathing, but after wheezing a little and giving off a weak chuckle, he answered.
"Why, I'm Bullseye, and I was sent by someone who doesn't like you very much. For some reason though, they neglected to mention the fact th-*cough*-that you're a fucking monster." he said with a strained voice, forcing himself to stifle another giggle as it seemed to hurt. Fisk looked at him incredulously.
"Who sent you? Give me a name and you may survive this yet."
"Would-would you please stop squeezing me to a puddle? So that I can answer with-without fucking dying." Fisk slowly release the pressure, pinning the man's arms instead. "Ahhh, much better, thank you. Listen pal, I don't have any loyalties to the guy employing me. I'm a freelancer. How 'bout you give me a better offer, and I'll kill him for you instead."
"And why should I trust a word coming out of your mouth?"
"Pick my left pocket, there's a PDA there." Fisk carefully put Bullseye's arms in one his left hand before reaching into the man's pocket, pulling out a little electronic device. Bullseye navigated him towards a folder.
"Silvio Manfredi?"
"That's the guy. "Silvermane" they call him. He's heading up the Maggia on the east coast. Real big shot. He hired me to kill anyone I found on this address, this apartment. Told me there'd probably be a big guy there. Again, though, he didn't say you're this big." With the man seemingly finished, Fisk tried to take it all in.
"You certainly do not seem to have a problem divulging information you should not share, Bullseye."
"Well, the way I see it, I'm dead anyway if I don't give you something, right? Plus, more importantly, you seem like a hell of a lot more interesting employer than that old self-conceited fuck. Oh, and I know you're the one behind the massacre of New York's Eve of course. I'd love to be a part of something like that. So what do you say, Wilson?"
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