Clan Lore

The Salubri were once a true Clan. Their Clan founder, Saulot, was said to be a superlative warrior as well as a fair-minded judge. It was also said that he grew progressively more disgusted with Kindred affairs over time, and weary of the constant, bloody cycles of violence and betrayal. He left his home for lands far to the east. When he returned, he was changed. He was tranquil and contemplative, but also somewhat fatalistic. Most surprisingly, though, he had developed a third eye in his forehead. Saulot Embraced new childer, and his Clan slowly split into two distinct lines — the “warrior” and “healer” Salubri. For centuries, they acted as advisors, bodyguards, and sages to other Kindred and, to a lesser extent, mortals.

And then came the diablerie of Saulot.

The mages of the newly created Tremere line found Saulot’s torpid body, and drained his blood and soul. They usurped the power of the one of the Clans of Caine, and sent the Salubri into a downward spiral from which they never really recovered. Tonight, rumor has it that only seven members of the once-respected line exist at any given time.

The rumors die hard, however. Modern Kindred know of the Salubri as diablerists who consume their own sires (and do it openly — patricide is hardly unknown among the other Clans, but they don’t admit to it) and remove the souls of other Kindred. The Soulsuckers are, supposedly, a Clan of defilers and liars from centuries past, possibly involved with demon worship, and demonstrably part of the Sabbat (see Salubri antitribu, p. 431). They ask, quite reasonably, how the Salubri are able to achieve Golconda with any regularity. They wonder how any line can sustain itself with so few members. And, finally, they pose this question: even if these first two notions are taken as given, why would the Salubri need to submit to diablerie? Why do their childer need to consume their sires’ souls, if not for some defect in the bloodline itself?

Stereotypes

• Camarilla: Judge a man by the company he keeps.
• Sabbat: Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, warriors gotta make war.
• Tremere: The enemy. For them, there can be no forgiveness.

The View From Without

• Camarilla: Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard the same things you have. Consider the source.
• Sabbat: We’ve got some open slots, any time you folks wanna man up.
• Giovanni: Hey, Tremere. I feel your pain.

I say this and mean it truly — no burden I have ever carried is heavier than what this new eye has seen.

Lore of the Bloodlines

“Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.”

Eyes

Eric Rodriguez was dying, and the fever couldn’t stop him from realizing it. The nurses who came all had the same eyes: gray in the flickering lights, a color that looked like pity, fear, and duty. The doctors who looked over him had soft eyes and softer voices. One said it was hemorrhagic fever, probably Ebola. Quarantine was why his family couldn’t see him, and the doctors said they were sorry, this time with sad eyes. Eric watched the plastic-covered ceiling of the clean room, condensation collecting on the inside, a soft and infrequent rainfall made from his poisoned sweat. He imagined he could feel his blood carrying sickness throughout his body.

The cheap lights flickered, or maybe Eric’s own pained eyes closed a moment. There were shadows in the hot hospital room, and then there was a man and a woman, though the sterile plastic drapes remained undisturbed. The woman was pensive, wearing a faded turtleneck and ragged skirt — maybe fashionably, maybe necessarily. She had a small scar in the middle of her forehead. The man Eric knew from childhood. The fluorescent lights of the hospital cast a nasty pallor over both.

“Tio Matt?” Eric mumbled. Uncle Matt had been a distant fixture all his life, visiting infrequently but sending regular birthday cards bulging with cash. His father and blood uncle referred to Matt as uncle as well. Once, drunk, they had mentioned knowing from Matt in their youth, though the next day was nothing but denials.

A bit of blood rolled down Eric’s cheek like a tear. He smelled the coppery tang. Matt spread his hands, an odd gesture of helplessness from one unaccustomed to it. “I cannot permit him to die,” he said, in a tone that meant, “please don’t let him.”

“I won’t,” said the woman, answering his intent instead of his words. She was paler than Matt, maybe twenty-two.

“Do you know how many descendants of Ferdinand Maximilian Joseph still live within the borders of Mexico?” Matt said, his attitude flashing from pleading to pride. “All of them struck down by this vile disease. It is deliberate, a strike against me.” There was a clicking sound from his mouth, and Matt’s jaw hung slightly open.

“Be calm,” said the woman, her gaze placid. Remarkably, the same placidity overtook Matt, and he straightened his jacket. “Yes, the Archbishop has discovered your preference for Hapsburg blood. Yes, he has infected your herd. We can help each other, senor.”

“You promised to heal him.”

“And I will,” she said, eyes confident. “It is my purpose to fulfill, if you keep to our bargain.”

“Agreed,” Eric’s tio Matt said. “You as guest in my home for the year, and all I know of Adonai’s brood.”

“He won’t remember this?”

“He never has.”

The eyes! Eric thought, and there they were, different from all the others, purple and lambent and loving. The eyes all others had on both sides of her nose, and a third yawning wide upon her forehead, focusing on him with an iris the color of lilac. Before Eric could panic, slick red light washed over him.

The burning sensation vanished.

The Lamb of Caine

I see my patron has betrayed our agreement of secrecy, though in this case I agree with his judgment that another of my Clan deserves counsel. I say Clan, not bloodline, for our history traces back to the progenitors, grandchilder of Caine. Our history is higher and nobler than Ventrue or Lasombra or Tzimisce, for what nobility did they show us when the Usurper Tremere took our heart’s blood?

My tattoos? This is ta moko, childe, not some Clan marking. I was Maori before I was Salubri, though my sire was an Englishman sleeping in the hold of James Cook’s Endeavor, and I honor him by bearing his name after a fashion. But my face serves to illustrate a point: we do not prey upon the kine as our kindred do. We take of their blood even as we are among them, like the shepherd lives among the flock. Our kine are kept healthy and clean, while ensuring our kindred remain separate from them.

The title of bloodline is from those who would deny our history and condemn us to dust. Indeed, some deem it our purpose to die, to show the Kindred what comes of those too pure and noble for this existence of sin and spite. They claim it the right and privilege of vampires to prey upon humanity, even as their short-sightedness threatens their own existence. Our fall heralds Gehenna, the progenitors rising up to consume us all.

Perhaps they are right, but while we may die quietly, we will not die easily.

The First Nights

The others may dress it up as they like, but the facts are plain, and underneath our poetry and platitudes we are a practical Clan: Caine cursed each of the Third Generation in turn, condemning them to the embodiment of their worst excesses. Condemning all, save one: gentle Saulot, Embraced by Enoch, most-beloved grandchilde of Caine. Saulot was spared, not for the prophetic gifts he showed, nor for his skill at healing. He spared Saulot because our progenitor was Caine’s hope of peace, of staving off the curses levied upon him by God and Kindred alike. Saulot would shepherd the promise of Golconda, the hope of redemption.

Perhaps that is why they called us shepherds in the Second City, for our nature tends towards care of the mortal flock. I prefer to think it was because the Wanderer’s nature reminded Caine so much of Abel, noble and pure. In many ways, we are defined as a Clan by Saulot’s nature and his mythic history, moreso than any other. We trace the three ways of our Clan from the childer Saulot Embraced during the traumatic or defining points of his unlife. Our Healers descend from Rayzeel, mistress of song and herb, Saulot’s life before the Embrace. Our Warriors descend from Samiel, master of the fire that cleanses and twin to Rayzeel. And the Watchers, well…if the rumors I heard of them in Aotearoa are true, they descend from Saulot’s time as a student and observer, which is fitting enough.

Even after the Embrace, Saulot sought to keep the peace between his feuding kin. He Embraced progeny rarely, instructing them to tend to those ravaged by his siblings, keeping mortals quiescent and hale in the face of immortal predation. He soothed the madness of Malkav with gentle music and brotherly caresses, checked the wickedness of Set with subtle undermining and ameliorating addiction. It was only by the Wanderer’s efforts that the Second City lasted as long as it did. When Caine returned to judge the Third Generation, he specifically saved Saulot from his judgment, naming our progenitor the guardian of the angel Raphael’s promise: that salvation would never be denied to Caine’s brood.

A Kindred of the East

Yet Saulot had never himself achieved Golconda, the fabled state of grace despite the Curse of Caine. He walked what would become the first Silk Road, taking a number of mortal followers (but no progeny) with him into the deep night. You might’ve heard of them; ancient records from the Pamir Mountains describe foreigners of great height and fair tresses, and the Tarim Basin mummies in the Xinjiang museum have red hair.

Immortal legendry picks up where archaeology leaves off. What little mythos we’ve integrated from sources east of the Indus describes Zao-lat as a trickster from the West, stealing enlightenment from the greatest philosophers amongst the Ten Thousand Demons. He was expelled for his arrogance, leaving two of his followers behind, a scholar and a thief, to eternally bedevil the Kindred there.

That’s the story, anyway, as it came back to us from laughing Ravnos and our limited contact with the Wu Zao, the Salubri the Progenitor left in the East. The Clan only knew that Saulot returned to the City having found what he sought, made manifest by the third eye upon his brow. Every Salubri who beheld the Progenitor’s radiant serenity felt that same eye erupt from their forehead, and for every night hence, the Salubri have been so marked. He had us redouble the path we’d been set upon: keep the kine healthy that our kindred might prosper, and cull those vampires who would endanger the herds.

The Baali Wars

In every historical record, the Salubri have held demonhunting to be our purview. Demons came in Saulot’s wake, an infection that lingered and flared again and again. Alone among the Thirteen, Saulot recognized the threat and demanded action; his fury at the Damned who cherished Damnation stood in stark contrast to the promise of Golconda embodied by his Clan. His wrath was terrible to behold, unveiling a militant aspect to our Progenitor that few had witnessed. His anger was answered by his childe, Samiel, who was an exceptionally poor Healer. It was Samiel who forged Saulot’s iron-rigid anger, putting steel into the heart of our placid Clan.

How to reconcile our gentle nature with such fury? Looked at another way, we all have the heart of the warrior; Saulot’s rage is simply another aspect of ourselves. We kept kine healthy, the better to be preyed upon. We kept Kindred noble, that they would not prey upon the kine unduly. Infernalism of any stripe threatens the lives and souls of all whom it touches. When gentle herbs and pleasant music fail to stave off infection, you must turn to fire and steel.

Sharing his blood with a number of other Salubri, Samiel created the Warriors, swearing to bring judgment to the demon-Kindred who plagued the Second City. The Assamites shame-facedly brought their own Judges into the fight, and the Baali were beaten back. The Warriors were the same as the Healers, they just approached their duties from another angle, and the two bloodlines of the Clan embraced one other as brother and sister.

Samiel died in AD 636, during the final assault on some dusty Baali Levantine stronghold. He was not the first of Saulot’s childer to fall, but his loss was felt more keenly than any other, for he was the only Warrior among them. As we spread our might through the Levant, the Healers assumed control of the Clan. They cleaved fiercely to the ethos of Constantine’s Christianity, for ministering to the poor and salvation in God’s name resonated strongly with Salubri identity, but this also marginalized our temporal power in an increasingly Muslim territory. Others of our number spread throughout the world, finding the dispossessed or the heretical and tending to them. Thus we remained, guarding the liminality between Kindred and kine during the Long Night.

Until the Crusades.

The Crusades, the Hunts

Our Clan died on 6 May, 1291, 158 years after Saulot did.

My sire remembered little of those nights after Saulot’s death, only visions of a great and grand wyrm wrestling with itself. When the bloodlust died seven nights later, he tasted the blood of his Clan on his lips, and all three eyes wept with the horror of what he’d done. The Clan was never great in number, but when Tremere drank Saulot, we tore ourselves apart in grief and rage. The Usurpers who ripped the mantle of Clan from our ash-strewn shoulders went to work, thinning our shattered ranks with frightening aplomb.

Ironically, this was a time of great potential for us. The Clan had long grown in tandem with Christianity, Healers working within the Knights Hospitaller, Warriors bearing the red cross of the Templar. The enmity between the two belied the unity of our Clan, which grew stronger with shared shame. As the Crusaders swarmed the Levant and formed their kingdoms, we found ourselves in positions of praxis for the first and only time. The Holy Land became our last bastion, a bulwark against the Usupers.

Without Saulot to guide us, we turned to the other Clans for protection but found uncaring hearts, turned stony from years of checking Cainite interests to keep humanity strong. Acre was our last city of strength, and when the Crusader kingdoms fell, so did our hopes. The crumbling towers of the city were as the peals of a bell, tolling our doom.

We would lose Acre, and we would soon lose Cyprus; already, Philip the Fair seethed at how much of his debt our mortal compatriots owned, and within a decade the Knights Templars would be accused of harboring the damned and burned at the stake (and rightfully so, since they harbored a full half of our Clan). We told the Warriors that night that Saulot could not condone vengeance against the Usurpers; Rayzeel herself told Samiel’s brood to cease their attempts to sway the Tzimisce and the Ventrue to war. Even with every other childe of Saulot agreeing, the Warriors sailed to Cyprus, wasting their decades fighting the Northern Crusades or conducting private wars anyways. They all perished (except one; we shall speak of him later). We refused to help them. The few European Watchers (if they even existed) did nothing to aid us, walking along the Silk Road to the East.

The Long Day

The Tremere continued to hunt us, striking everywhere from the eldest of our Clan on down. Were we descended from anyone other than Saulot, we might have tried to replenish our numbers. Instead, we split apart, and we died. The other Clans tacitly endorsed the Tremere, as the Usupers had more value in existing than we. They had magics they were prepared to use on behalf of their clients, while we chided them for their depredations. Is it any wonder why they chose the magi? With us gone, disease in herds began to grow, and the mortals took notice.

Most of us hid. Only the al-Amin, Salubri who embraced Islam, were open about their heritage; the Ashirra covenant of the Levant treasured them as members of the community. Others like Mokur, Saulot’s childe and companion upon his return from the East, continued to preach Golconda. Too often, this led the Tremere right to us. Most never put up a fight unless it involved defending the mortal flock around them, and even then there was a decided tendency to surrender in exchange for communities remaining unharmed.

The Anarch Revolt and mortal upheavals were a welcome respite for us, even if it was traumatic for the rest of Kindred society. It turns out that not having very many elders, Embracing rarely while maintaining a deep sire-childe mentorship, and hiding within dispossessed mortal communities, tends to insulate a Clan against upstart neonates and downtrodden ancillae. Who knew? We survived, even thrived, in some isolated Cathar communities.

The Convention of Thorns ended our somewhat-blessed nights. Backed by the Camarilla, the Tremere resumed their hunt. In 1525, Mokur himself fell to Etrius’ fangs, and when word spread, those Salubri left in Europe knew it was time to leave. We took root in the far corners of the world, where the Camarilla could not or would not reach: crossing the bright Sahara to become the Nkulu Zao, being adopted by our long-lost cousins the Wu Zao, or joining the Ravnos in their eternal war against the Cathayan menace. And we took steps to stay ahead of the Camarilla, prepping our hiding spaces before they could sweep across the area. The results are writ across my face, childe.

Three Eyes by Gaslight

Our first flirtation with the Sabbat should be seen as our Anarch Revolt some four centuries too late. Emboldened by the Tremere becoming more involved with the Camarilla, we Salubri ancillae Embraced anew, bringing bright lights into the Clan. Globalization brought the Clan back into contact once again. Those lights flared when they became aware of the larger political situation, and demanded we help the enemies of our ancient foes. They defected en masse to the Sabbat, becoming the first Salubri antitribu.

Their tenure was an unhappy one, for several reasons. We were poorly suited to the Sabbat, at least as it was during the Victoria’s reign. I was still in my homeland at the time, before Samiel’s Precept shook me out of my quiescence, but I learned the results years later: Salubri lost to Wassail or torn apart by their packmates, trying in vain to cling to Humanity or stop their pack from ripping into some unfortunate group of mortals. And the Tremere of the Sabbat weren’t terribly fond of the new Salubri. And so our neonates returned to us chastened, or they never returned at all.

Three Eyes in the Modern Nights

A dead Clan? Hardly. We have to hide our light under a bushel, as my sire was fond of saying, but we shine all the same. The Clan exists in the corners of the world, though I’ll grant that “thrive” is too strong a word. Where the Camarilla is weak, where humanity is strong: these are where we ensconce ourselves, cleaving to community and duty. For the most part, it’s a solitary existence, defaulting to the deep sire-childe mentorship that has always defined our Clan. When we’re separated, forced to run, we try to find or found communities based around our heritage. Why else would I come to Utah, to the lion’s den? It is one of the largest Maori communities in the world.

We’re hunted by the Camarilla, and our dedication to humanity keeps us separate from the Sabbat, except for a resurgent antitribu. Mortality shields us. Service defines us. Golconda will save us.

Who We Are

The answer to that question, “Who are we?” depends on circumstance. In most cases, we’re hunted and scorned, victims of a still-ongoing Tremere pogrom and propaganda campaign. Even when they’re not actively hunting us — and truth be told, their attempts these nights are half-hearted at best — they oppose us ideologically, and keep us from surfacing openly in Camarilla cities, even if that was something we desired. We cling to Saulot’s example: be a light for those Kindred seeking Golconda, even if we haven’t found it. Safeguard those who wish to cling to Humanity. Keep the human herds safe, clean, and ready for reaping.

Look for suffering, and you’ll find us there, Embracing a childe to act as our eyes and our hands in a community. We ensure they do not suffer overmuch, even as they remain easy targets for Kindred. We keep fangs from a permanent culling, from taking too much. We avoid most vampires of the Camarilla, unless they seek us for the right reasons — and those reasons are enough to suffer risk of exposure. We avoid too the Sabbat, for they are opposed to all we are and all we do. The Independent Clans… well, it’s best to take them as individuals.

As you’ve discovered, we often make individual pacts with elders. Even they have favored kine they do not wish to lose to disease or injury, though, and that gives us bargaining power. Obeah allows us to contribute to the health and heartiness of humanity, and if the herds or domitors agree to give blood as payment, what of it?

When disease threatens to run rampant over the mortal herds, we ensure the Kindred population does not suffer. The poor and the religious are our herds. From the teeming masses, those under the bridge as it were, we watch the other vampires within the cities. When we see one struggling under the weight of being a monster, we show him what it means to be a man. When we see a neonate or ancilla choosing to feast on rats and cats, we reach out to her, guide her to the paths of real Humanity.

Why do this, when we are hated and brought nothing but suffering? Some would say we are made to suffer, that it strengthens our souls. Others would disagree.

The Seven

First thing’s first: there are more than seven Salubri, let me assure you — and no, I’m not counting antitribu in our number. Still, the Seven are by far the best-known representation of our Clan, and continue to succeed admirably in tainting the opinion of the Camarilla against us. They’re a mixed blessing to the rest of the Clan: they draw a great deal of attention, but they also define our perception amongst the Kindred, as many hold their crimes against us. Their faults are not perhaps in their souls, but in themselves.

I’ll pass on more of my what sire taught me besides Shakespeare: when the Tremere hunts began to gain legitimacy during the War of Princes, seven elders of the Clan decided to follow in Saulot’s footsteps, attempting to find enlightenment beyond the reach of the Usurpers. They followed the Silk Road to the East, ostensibly to find the Watchers and learn what secrets Saulot entrusted to them.

They returned as deranged bodhisattvas, caretakers of a false Golconda. Embracing one childe apiece, then guiding that childe along the first steps to the Red Suspire, they urged their childer to commit diablerie upon them to eternally shepherd Raphael’s Promise. The Seven believe they remain within the souls and blood of their diablerists, purifying rather than degrading. Besides acting as beacons for other seekers of Golconda or Tremere hunters, they frequently rip out the souls of mortals for their own inscrutable ends.

On the one hand, they attacked my sire, Matthias of Bath, and attempted to diablerize him when he confronted them sometime around the Enlightenment. On the other hand, the neonate who nearly overpowered my sire showed incredible power and puissance for her age, with radiant veins in her aura instead of the pulsating black of diablerie.

The Wu Zao

A ta moko is no tatau, but to answer your actual question, no, I don’t wear this face all the time. I learned the trick of hiding after a few years in Hong Kong. As I wandered about Victoria Harbour, I happened upon a sailor, easily charmed by tales of filming the Lord of the Rings. I’d just gotten to the topic of tasting blood when he blinked and walked away. Nobody else in the bar could see or hear me, save one, who shook his head sadly and addressed me as “an unwise Scholar”.

Perhaps the greatest share of our bloodline still exists in the East, he explained to me over a bit of native food (much better than that tourist trash). The Wu Zao divided their bloodline of old into Scholars and Thieves instead of Healers and Warriors, after two childer of Saulot. Secret keepers of Saulot’s wisdom, they watch the other creatures of the night, gently manipulating then against the Wan Kuei, the demon Kindred who hold Korea, China, and Japan. Rather than finding difficulty in interacting with humanity, they grow focused on the small details of their obsessions. They also interact as a community, forming cells and continuing their endless war of weariness against the Wan Kuei. “Xao-lat’s wisdom is immortal, even if he was not,” said my companion. “We await his return at the turning of the Wheel, and we have kept his enemies weak and cowed for him.”

When I asked him if he was one of the elusive Watchers my sire spoke of, he just laughed.

The al-Amin

In nights past, the greatest of our number were found in the Levant, our ancient strongholds. We hunted Baali, tried to bring peace to the fractured lands of the Middle East, and resisted the Camarilla invaders for centuries. The Ashirra Clans considered our bloodline one of their own, never to be betrayed to the hated heathen Tremere.

Until the first of our World Wars, that is. As mortal powers carved up the lands, the Camarilla finally swept in, and we were swept out with them. Six centuries of service, vanished in a few nights of blood and sorcery. A dozen three-eyed vampires joined the rest of us in exile, the remnants of our last public figures.

Antitribu

I thought the Healers alone had survived the pogroms, or perhaps a few lone Watchers in torpor amongst the Wu Zao sect they built. The Sabbat have sheltered us by default, though our devotion to kine rankles them to such a degree that we could never hope to join, even if we wanted to. Our singular experiment in antitribu was a failure.

Until Adonai arose.

His followers tell the tale: a Sabbat pack found the last Warriors in some ancient, forgotten mine outside Prague, reopened by a Ventrue-backed company a decade before the millennium turned. In a rare display of compassion, the pack brought them to their senses, instructed them on the developments of Tremere and Sabbat, and offered them a place in the pack. Their leader, clad in rotten cloth and rusted mail, clasped the talons of the ductus in fraternal acknowledgement.

Yet none can identify this pack, or have heard of Adonai’s rescuers, who acted in a manner so uncharacteristic of Sabbat who come across Kindred slumbering in torpor. None of the antitribu, who strode toughened and defiant into the European fronts and the packs circling London seemed to be Blooded by the Code. My sire claims the fragments of Samiel’s words they spout are genuine, but he asks the same question I do: shouldn’t a true Warrior know the Code by heart?

If this is the Adonai of old, torpor has tempered his brusque demeanor. This Adonai was subtle at first, keeping his new brood small until House Goratrix vanished beneath the Mexican sands. Then he adopted mass Embrace tactics, until Salubri antitribu were a common sight in Sabbat packs. In these nights, their numbers have grown to eclipse ours, and they have garnered a foothold in the Black Hand, the paramilitary secret society of the Sabbat. Their occult prowess grows by the day, wielding countermagics with talent, acting as terrifying shock troops at the head of battle columns. Formerly regarded by the Sabbat as mere weapons to be pointed towards the Camarilla, the former Warrior Caste has slowly carved out a place of true respect.

When they encounter us, our antitribu show us no enmity — they glory in the inhuman juggernauts they have become, having shed Saulot’s mantle to grasp their destiny. Their flame puts to shame our ash and embers. They invite us to join them, to bring two castes of the Salubri together once more, to heal our riven Clan from the scars of Acre. I met Adonai himself out in New Mexico, under the stars and bright yellow moon. His childer scarred themselves with flaming brands and danced beside bonfires. His eyes danced with the charisma of the pyre, all the fires of heaven and earth shining with fury and ecstasy. “There is a place for you with us,” he told me. “Our herds sicken and die. These whelps abuse the kine for pleasure, instead of treating them like valuable food. Join us, seize the respect we are due, and take back our Clan.”

Saulot help me, I dream about their fires every day.

Character and Traits

Concepts

Ad-Hoc Emissary

Your sire always told you to hide, but you never could listen. Your skills were too useful to your herd, to the herds of other vampires. Then two strange things happened: an car crash victim with a strange aura offered you a boon against the Tremere, and a freaking werewolf cried in front of you and thanked you for saving his wife, vile spawn or not. Now, like the Watchers of old, you act as public emissary to various supernatural factions around the city. You’re sacrosanct, and the prince constantly asks you how much leverage you think you can levy as she schemes to use your contacts to further her own ends. You wonder which will come first: her deciding to throw you to the Tremere calling for your blood, or your new friends deciding you’re the monster they think you are.

Chosen One

You were always special in school. Not the most studious, or the most popular, but you had spirituality about you. You believed you had a calling to the holy orders, but no religion truly fit your parents, so none fit you. You were a great and grand soul, but there was no place for you in the world. In college, you met a much older man who brought you to your place in the world. He was one of seven, he said, one who were a light in the darkness for the displaced of the world. He brought you into that dark world, and then you took his light into yourself. Now you try to shed that light on others, before you have to spread your own on.

Military Doctor

The army’s offer to pay for school certainly helped, but what appealed to you about military service was the same thing that drove you to become a doctor in the first place: being where people needed you the most, right in the thick of things. Compassion fueled your care, as you saw healthy and fit soldiers broken by roadside bombs or shattered by the cruel rigors of war. Compassion saw you treat civilians injured by those same bombs or the strikes of your army’s drones. Compassion was what marked you, and what Damned you when the pale woman in the white hijab came for you.

You went missing in action, stayed in the cities after your countrymen left. The al-Amin welcomed you even as they hid from the rest of the Ashirra, betrayed by the Camarilla alliance. For now, you work as their envoy in Camarilla territory, your youth and foreign association working to the benefit of the shattered remnants of your bloodline.

Discipline Powers