Timur "Gabriel" Yaroslav

A Nosferatu assassin, kept out of the way until he is called upon

Description:

Clan: Nosferatu | Bloodline: Moroi | Coven: Ordo Dracul
Virtue: Fortitude | Vice: Wrath
Age: ? | Apparent Age: 27

Health: 7 | Damage: None
Willpower: 7 | Points: 7

Size: 5 | Speed: 12
Defense: 3 | Armor: 1/0
Initiative: +7

Blood Potency: 2
Vitae: 11 | Max: 11 | Per Turn: 1

Humanity: 4

  • Derangements: Vocalization. Phobia (Ghosts / Spirits)

Attributes

  • Intelligence 1 | Wits 3 | Resolve 3
  • Strength 4 | Dexterity 3 | Stamina 2
  • Presence 1 | Manipulation 1 | Composure 4

Skills

  • Mental: Crafts 2 | Occult 2
  • Physical: Athletics | Brawl 3 (Blocking) | Firearms 4 (Pistol) | Stealth 2 | Weaponry 1
  • Social: Animal Ken 2 | Intimidation 3 (Physical Threats) | Subterfuge 2

Merits

  • Status (1): Ordo Dracul
  • Haven (Location) (2)
  • Quick Draw (1)
  • Gunslinger (3)

Disciplines

  • Celerity 2
  • Obfuscate 3
  • Resilience 2
  • Vigor 2

Equipment

  • Beretta Model 96 (2, Leg Holsters): 2L (9 again), Capacity 11+1, 20/40/80, Size 1/S, Str. 2
  • Bagh-Nakh: 1L, Size 1/P, Durability 1, Strength + Brawl
  • Reinforced Clothing: Rating 1/0, Str. 1, Defense 0, Speed 0

Supplies in Haven

  • Gunsmithing Kit (Armory, page 163)
  • Reloading Bench (Armory, page 163)
Bio:

There are things in this world that thrive in the shadows, either the literal shadows of the dark alleys and smokey bars of the world, or the figurative shadows of ignorance and mystery. The true predators aren’t the wolves that howl or the panthers that stalk; there are far worse things in the world. There are monsters that lurk in the shadows and feed on the stupid, ignorant, and foolish world.

And then there’s me. I have always hunted. Even before my rebirth into the torment of undeath, I was a hunter, an assassin, an ender of lives. But now, with the whispers of the Beast constantly urging my hands and fangs, I am something that even nightmares fear.

I don’t remember much about my life- my human life, I mean. I was born in Russia, in one of those little villages that even historians have forgotten. I suppose I had a family, but beyond a mother and father, I cannot remember any others. I remember the night I was embraced, however.

The year escapes me, but House Romanov had only recently attained sovereignty in the Motherland. I was attacked by some sort of madman who kept trying to bite me. I was lucky enough to fight him off with a bit of wood that broke off a nearby cart (after he threw me into it). I stabbed him in the chest with it and fled down the street, right into a group of men clad in grays and browns. I was quickly subdued.

I awoke chained to a wall, stripped of my clothing. The man I had stabbed was standing in the corner, turning the piece of wood I had stabbed him with over in his hands. He looked at me when I stirred. He started towards me, but another man put his hand on the madman’s shoulder. This new figure approached me.

“It has been many years since one of the cattle has bested Feodor. I think you have some potential, morsel.”

He grabbed my neck and lifted me to me feet. The chains on my wrists and ankles kept me from lashing out at him. He leaned close enough for me to smell the stench of rot and decay on his breath. While I fought the urge to vomit, he whispered in my ear, “I am going to drain every last drop of blood from your body. If you wish to join us, I will give some back. Otherwise, we will leave your corpse out in the fields to be eaten by dogs. What say you?”

All I could do was nod. He smiled a hideous, yellow-fanged smile. “Good.” and he bit me.

The entire process took less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity. I felt myself slipping away, and I remember feeling hot liquid being forced into my mouth. I coughed, wretched, convulsed, and everything went dark.

I woke later aware of two things. First, that I had been changed somehow. Second, there was someone in the room with me. The torches along the walls had been put out, but I could hear the labored breathing of an old man, I could smell the blood in his veins. Gingerly, I moved my arms, discovering I was no longer bound. That night I committed my first murder.

The years have certainly not been kind to me. I was informed later that I was a Moroi, which made me a tool. A hunter, an assassin, a killer of those that my masters deemed “unruly” or “dangerous.” Prior to the 20th century, it was standard practice to keep the Moroi assassins in torpor until they were needed, lest our brutal cunning and violent natures cause us to rebel. So I would be sent on a hunt, and when I had completed it, I would be staked and stacked in a long room with my brothers. As a result, most of my mind is stained with the nightmarish images of my torpor, dreams of blood and death. We were kept nearly starved as a general rule, if only to make us more likely to go into frenzy than cause any sort of trouble with our masters.

In the early 1980s, I was roused to find another of my kind. Not just a vampire, a Moroi. Yakapoh was a beast only marginally older than me (when you measure your age in centuries, a decade here or there seems rather trivial), and only marginally less dangerous. It took me almost an entire year to find him, and I had to leave the motherland to do so. I traveled to the land across the Atlantic. My knowledge of human history is vague and corrupted, but the last time I was active, the dark-skinned peoples of Africa were on the verge of civil rights.

I found Yakapoh, and I did what I was bred to do. I killed him. More than that though, in my rage, and in helpless servitude to the Beast within me, I consumed his very soul. I knew that if I were to return home, my masters would almost surely have me destroyed. Of course, that was if they found out. In my travels, I had picked up a few new tricks, such as how to hide my aura.

I didn’t return to Russia right away, or at all, for that matter. I went to one of the American chapters of Ordo Dracul, and discovered a new outlook on the world, the kindred, and the masquerade. These Dragons still feared and respected my kind, but they had a more revolutionary way of dealing with the potential rebellions of my brethren. They kept us active but separate. We were free to live our unlives as we wished, provided we stayed away from other Moroi, and when one of the elder Dragons had a mission for us, it was our top priority.

I was sent north, to Plattsburgh, where I have lived ever since, doing the occasional hunt for my new masters while maintaining my own “normal” life as a retired Russian soldier. At the turn of the millennium I remade my identity and took the name “Gabriel.” The Dragons set me up with a very nice residence, and when waiting for the ever rarer hunt order from the Dragons to show up on my doorstep, I live the life of a bounty hunter, working within the confines of the mortal legal system as best I can.

Of course, now that more supernatural creatures are coming to Plattsburgh, I feel like the orders to hunt are going to start coming very shortly. In fact, I think I’ll just start without them. After all, there’s always something that needs killing.

Timur "Gabriel" Yaroslav

Beyond the Veil: The Myriad Morticaar