• To butcher an old saying, 'Nosferatu come in all shapes and sizes'. Its a real, factual statement. One will never find a Sewer Rat that shares the same deformities as another. More commonly, though still rare, a Nosferatu will find likeness in one of another clan. This is very unlikely, for as social, intelligent or proficient they may become, what they truly are is a giant warning light and stigma to the vampire community. When it happens, however, the stories can be magnificent.

    One understands that from wherever one derives comes subclasses, schools, learned discipline passed from one to another through training and application. The Typical Nosferatu is trained in information gathering, bartering, Vampiric Trade (information and resources) and occasionally thievery and showmanship. To a vampire who's clan's success was mostly formed through a complex information network and the trade of secrets, these tools become second nature to the up-and-coming Nos. Our subject, Hugo Kessen, is an example of a man born into Unlife as a Nosferatu whom already half mastered the previously stated arts.

    In lieu of learning how to pick pockets, and like wise how to select a pocket to pick properly, he learned something far more personal. A code. A personal system of rules and beliefs passed to him by his sire that few Nosferatu lived by. In the coming days, these will be portrayed through writing here with examples of said rule, and possible consequences of ignoring it.

    Hugo's day ends not when the job is done and when the police sirens grow distant. It is not when his head hits sewer concrete before sunrise. Hugo is one of the few men who even after death found someone to love a face as hideous as his. A royal flush, he'd call her, among many other cute pet names like the humans usually do. Can't blame a vampire of only 30 years for holding on to a ritual so common and endearing, though many nights he'd find himself stopping shortly afterward with a generous portion of 'what the ********' plastered on his face. Indeed, he is very much in love with a woman as damaged as he is. A Nosferatu trapped in the body of a different clan.

    Danni California had met Hugo in a city far from Kansas in the cab of her car, where Hugo had intended to steal her radio and whatever other valuables she may have been unfortunate enough to leave behind. He didn't break in, he didn't shimmy the lock, he instead slipped into the car as she made her own way in under the veil of his family's gift, in hopes of finding her haven for the database. There was no reason to deviate from the original plan before he laid eyes on her, but afterward, the plan was taken out back and shot like a rabid dog. A Toreador, she is, and by all accounts off limits for the sake of clan rivalry and politics. Not only a Torry, by a 'Narc, the bad guys at the time... then again the rosters changed nearly every month. Who cared about labels in a world like Hugo's? An Anarchs wallet was just as stuffed as a Cammy's. Those thoughts and more raced through his head in what seemed to be an instant lasting somewhere between a day and five years, staring at her as if she were a missing piece from the statue of David. Through unseen circumstances, Hugo let himself be seen, throwing away his cover for a woman he'd barely met, and knew nothing about. Thus started the relationship, friends, via mistake.

    They grew close quickly, bonded quickly, and enjoyed each others company even as the city's burned around them behind locked gates and smoking barrels. It was only when the city began to crumble that they left together, traveling roads they didn't bother mapping to a destination they didn't bother planning. They had each other, and the world was theirs if they chose to take it.

    The time that had past had been none too long and none to scarce, and tonight, here stands Hugo before a bed. Sun rose two hours ago and the will to stay awake was fading fast, and still he stood in cloak with dagger like a protective statue over the body of a lover, a friend, and his greatest companion. It was not a romantic gesture, nor was it an insomniacs home remedy. The truth stood thick in the air as cigar smoke does, choking those unused to the taste. Danger did lurk, and it waited him around every corner of a city he was unfamiliar with, but taking anyway. Thus was the life of a theif and a swindler, looking over ones shoulder, black mailing for power and information and social status. It was the Nosferatu way, Hugo's way, and he would never change. The only flaw, the single variable keeping his own personal world from being that perfect dark journey he was taught to take, was her. The Nosferatu way is the way of the Loner, carrying the curse like a badge among the people of the surface in hopes that the big fish will jump in the boat, or that you survive long enough to reel it in yourself. As I said before, its not romantic. Its factual. A clan of vampires who never gains loved ones becomes used to working alone, doing the dangerous things alone, risking his life alone, and in breaking that code he had made an ever lasting bond... and then put her at risk. Any day, any moment someone may come deciding that the young Nosferatu had been doing too well, meddling too thoroughly, and that punishment was in order. That was rule number one, one that was never beaten in or given emphasis simply because it was most likely to never come up as an issue. When he was certain the rest of the dark world was sleeping, he would to, curled around her and wishing he would never sleep.

    Rule Number One. Never Get Envolved.