Ultimate New York By Night
Nemo Me Impune Lacessit
“The Camarilla should be on the side of the vast majority. We cannot choose between self-interest and the interests of the whole, because self-interest demands we work together to achieve what we cannot do on our own. We must not waste talent or potential nor shirk our responsibility.” Buchanan’s private journal.
Concept: “The Scottish One”. A neonate of Clan Ventrue with a vision for the future of the Camarilla he only needs enough backing to realize. A patient powerbroker. Embraced in 2001.
Strength 2 Dexterity 3 Stamina 2 Charisma 4 Manipulation 4 Appearance 3 Perception 4 Intelligence 4 Wits 4
Alertness 1, Academics 2, Athletics 1, Brawl 1, Computers 2, Drive 2, Dodge 1, Empathy 2, Etiquette 3,Expression 3, Finance 3, Investigation 2, Leadership 3, Linguistics 1 (Latin), Occult 1, Politics 3, Science 1, Stealth 1, Subterfuge 3,
Backgrounds: 11th Generation: 2, Mentor (Sire):2 Resources :4 Status:2, Retainer (Edgar) :1 Influence: 1 Herd: 1.
Disciplines: Dominate : 3, Fortitude : 2, Presence : 3
Virtues:Conscience : 3, Self-Control : 4, Courage : 3
Free: Clan Lore: 1, Kindred Lore 1, Sect Lore 1
Humanity : 7
Willpower : 5
Blood Pool (1/turn) : 12
FREEBIE SPENDS: 25 Willpower+2 (2), Manipulation +1 (5), Herd +1 (1), Resources +1 (1), Fortitude +1 (7), Dominate +1 (7), Finance +1 (2).
EXPERIENCE SPENDS: 20 New- Dodge (3), New – Brawl (3), Dexterity +1 (4), Presence +1 (10)
2011 Mercedes-Benz SL-Class SL550 NIGHT EDITION Convertible ($110,000) usually parked in Stafford Clegg’s underground garage. Apartment ($36,000 per year) and furnishings ($330,000)
WEAKNESS: Can only drink the blood of Trophy Wives.
MENTOR: Edward Stafford, Sire and Ventrue elder of London. Founder of Stafford Clegg, a LLoyd’s of London Brokerage with offices worldwide and still the shadowed director of the company’s fortunes.
RETAINER: Edgar St.John-Bowles, Director of Stafford Clegg’s NYC office. His instructions from London are that I’m a new business developer with proven but eccentric methods, that he should give me all-hours access to an office and any assistance he can as well as cut my monthly check. He has no knowledge beyond that and certainly doesn’t believe in vampires, old chap!
HERD: Eveline Ward is the young wife of a hedge fund manager, Linda Cross is the wife of a high-class Gym owner, Tamara Woy is the wife of an executive at Bank of America. All live in the most yuppified parts of Manhattan within 6 blocks of the Stafford Clegg NYC offices.
INFLUENCE: Edgar and via him the Stafford Clegg NYC staff comprise a quite effective “old boys” network to influence the business and political communities of NYC, in Manhattan in particular. Quite sufficient to enable a Green Card and driver’s license to go with my Sire-arranged British passport, thanks to their connections with Alex Chen.
HAVEN INFORMATION: I rent a 2 bedroom basement apartment in Rivington Street, Lower east side Manhattan, near the junction with Essex St. (No, not bought – that would cost upwards of $1.6 million!) It’s a Bohemian area undergoing advanced yuppification – full of up-market bars, restaurants and clubs and reputedly a favorite hang-out of the Kine stars Moby and Lady GaGa. The apartment has a security door of wood over a steel door, multiple locks and windows with external bars. Internally, there’s solid brick a foot behind those deliberately-grimy windows. I’ve had it furnished to my exacting and expensive but subdued tastes, of course – except for the second bedroom which is now a barebones room with a thick steel door which locks on the inside, eyebolts on the walls and a drain in the floor.
Additionally, I have a stopgap sanctuary in my office at Stafford Clegg – which is where ALL my mail goes and the only place I ever make landline phone-calls or internet connections from.
Lastly, through my Sire I was given an introduction to Ventrue Primagen Vincent Vienatti. My meeting gift to him was to instruct Edgar to set up what is known as a "captive’ insurer in the Seychelles for his companies, with re-insurance via Lloyd’s. It will save him millions of dollars a year. In extremis, I can always go claim Hospitality, I suppose.
I am Alan James Buchanan Sinclair and I was born in August, 1969, in the Scottish city of Edinburgh. My parents were what is known as “old money”, having inherited their respective fortunes from a line of Paisley mill owners on my mother’s side and an old noble family with connections to the Templars on father‘s. Pater’s family always looked down on Mum’s, but they needed to marry their son to someone with cash-money rather than good breeding as their fortune was tied up in the ancestral pile on the coast outside Edinburgh. My father, an only child, inherited said pile when his mother, then father, died while I was still young, and we lived there from when I was about 10. In my youth I loved to explore the beaches, go egg-hunting on the cliffs or watch deer in the extensive, wooded grounds. Alas, I can rarely enjoy the countryside any longer – but the heady scent of rhododendrons blooming by night in some city garden or the salt taste of the sea on the night air still puts a catch in my throat as I remember those rainy days of my youth.
The Ancestral Pile
As befitted my station, I was educated at Loretta and Gordonstoun, the most exclusive private boarding schools in Scotland, then sent off to St. Andrews University to finish my education. I was a member of several of the right University clubs: the Athletics and Rowing teams, the Rugby squad, the Debating Society, the Young Conservatives and the Student Council – making connections that would one day be part of my own “old boys” network – before graduating with a double first in History and Economics. I then went on to do my MBA at the London School of Economics and upon completion was immediately offered a junior position at the old and established Lloyd’s of London insurance brokerage, Stafford Clegg & Co. in the City. Apparently, the position had been arranged a long time ago by my paternal Grandfather, who had a long connection with the firm. I’d always been led to believe that the world was my oyster by right of birth. After all, I was now 23 years old, of good family, well-educated, well-spoken, ambitious and charismatic. I had everything going in my favor.
Stafford Clegg was established by two Lloyd’s underwriters in 1886. It has branches in New York, Los Angeles, Hong Kong and Dubai and has always been based at its current headquarters – a grim five-storey Victorian edifice of sandstone and marble in Aldgate Street, near the old Lloyd’s building. The interior is all polished stone floors, dark wood paneling and ornate Victorian plaster ceilings, with subdued lighting and windows that were slightly warped and perpetually yellow-grimy, as if the Victorian smog sank into the glass. Utterly traditional, the décor and ambience was meant to convey years of careful expertise and a sense of the famous Lloyd’s “our word is our bond” old-fashioned honor code. (It was a week before I figured out the current CEO, Sir Gerard Peake, had ordered the cleaning staff to burn a quarter of a quality Cuban cigar on each floor every morning, just to help the ambience along.) It reminded me of home, of the old House by the sea, only in the heart of the City of London.
Being the official “bright young thing”, and Scottish to boot, I initially had to put up with some hazing – but nothing compared to my first year at Gordonstoun. But after nine months of errands and filing, along with hard studying in my spare time, I was allowed to sit the Lloyd’s exam and got my broker’s ticket. The following years flew by, as I built up a client base of rich, influential businessmen and a new network of contacts in Lloyd’s – mostly men of honor and good breeding but with a leavening of Essex sharp boys and East End hard men to strengthen the mix. I worked hard and partied just as hard, frequenting trendy clubs and expensive restaurants with my workmates and friends, splashing out with the wealth I was accruing in commissions.
I made Senior Broker before my 29th birthday – a meteoric rise by Lloyd’s standards – and saw myself working another 20 years, eventually earning a place on the Board of Stafford Clegg. Thus I thought things were going to plan when two years later old “Sir Gerry” invited me to a late repast at his place in Chelsea, mentioning “another, very important, guest” but being evasive on the details other than to say that “some important people have decided you are exceptional, above the herd, and worthy of a great boon.” I thought I was going to be invited to join Sir Gerry’s freemasonic Lodge or his Club, either of which would certainly have been a significant notch on my career path. Imagine my surprise later that night when instead I was introduced to a man seemingly no older than myself who exuded a remarkable presence, utterly mesmerizing, and who was dressed as if to play Oscar Wilde at a play in Drury Lane. He lounged in a Regency armchair in Sir Gerry’s opulent dining room as he introduced himself – as I sat rapt and unmoving, with my first course and an exquisite Chateau de Saint Mercie Mercurie ‘82 untasted – as Sir Edward Stafford, the original founder of the company for which I worked, said that he was there to welcome me personally into his own family as the greatest reward possible for my accomplishments to date, and stated calmly that he was over 100 years old, would live forever…but that so would I.
Without volition, I stood and walked around the table to him, undoing my tie and collar as I did so. All I wanted was to bask in the glow of his presence, to please him. I think I even grinned happily as he sank his fangs into my throat, bringing a bright internal light and a warm, sluggish pleasure that was so purely sexual I’d have had my head quite turned if my days at Gordonstoun hadn’t confirmed I was decidedly hetero and dominant to boot. All too soon, the light faded and I began to grow cold and colder still as my lifeblood was drained by this sophisticated, urbane, creature – but I still didn’t care! And so I died. It was the 2nd of February – Candlemas, but also known as the ancient feast of the returning Sun to pagans across Europe in days gone by, and of especial significance to the Roman cult of Mithras, thus to my new family of the London Ventrue.
When I regained consciousness I was in an entirely different chamber, a cellar of Sir Edward’s own huge, palatial home in the Mayfair area of the capital. My Sire was pressing his own wrist to my mouth, his blood flowing down my throat. Between one blink and another, still confused, I was overtaken by a thirst like none I’d ever experienced, red and raw. I’d have chewed on Sir Edward’s arm, bitten to the bone, if hew had not roughly cuffed me off and harshly jerked me to my feet as if I weighed nothing, then pushed me towards a naked form chained to one wall. That first time I was wanton, uncontrolled – something I’ve since realized is a weakness I must eschew and have vowed to repeat as little as possible. I drained my hapless and beautiful victim, I believe a Romanian bought from one of the Gangland people-traffickers who doubtless thought she was to be a prostitute or sex-slave, of all her life. And with the red thirst temporarily assuaged, I looked back at my new Sire and he began to explain what I had become…
Now, ten years later, I am comfortable in my new “life” and have taken my maternal surname, Buchanan, as my name in this existence. I have been instructed in and can explain the Traditions of the Camarilla as well as the Ethics and the nomenclature of the Clan Ventrue. I have proven myself worthy of the title Neonate when I successfully steered an easily controlled human politician from the Conservative party of my Sire’s choosing into winning the race for Mayor of London. I now aspire to increase my Dignitas by acquiring the Ventrue title and status of Questor or even Tribune.
To this end, and because my Sire still sees promise in me, he has sent me across the wide ocean to New York, there to aid and perhaps to steer our brethren of the Camarilla.