Morbid Artsy Type Quote:
Night flaps on raven's wings, shrouding my suffering eternal, bathing me in crimson rain . Among the tombstones I do crawl, howling to the world uncaring all my grief and pain!

Prelude:
From the earliest days in your parents $300,000 suburban home, you knew only misery. Mother and Father were aloof and uncaring, and you had no friends; no one cared about someone as insignificant and worthless as you. The world was a black and hollow place, and you wished you had never been born to witness the despair, the corruption, the stagnation and the depravity of humanity.

You stayed in bed for days on end. When your cruel parents forced you to school, you dyed your hair black and dressed in black from head to toe, for was not the entire planet a giant unceasing funeral?

At night, you hung out in the clubs with others who felt as you did. You also wrote poetry - poetry about the squalor and decay of the world. You recited your pieces on Open Mike Night, and all your friends thought they were cool.

Some chick in the corner did, too. She came over and sat down beside you. She asked you where you got the inspiration for your art. You told herÑtold her, in agonizing detail, all the thousands of reasons why you should never have had to drink the black bile of birth.

She nodded and asked you if you wanted to go for a walk. You readily agreedÑa little meaningless sex would only confirm your belief in human transience. Once you were outside, she shoved you into a wall. "Pretentious bastard," she hissed as her face melted, "you want ugliness and decay and pain? I'll give you the material for a million crappy poems!"

Thus began your journey into the real abyss. You would give anything to return to your old life, but it is not to be. Now you spend most of your nights ensconced in cemeteries, grieving for what you can never again know.

Concept:
You would have made a better Toreador. You have some small degree of skill in the artistic pursuits, though not nearly as much as you imagine yourself to have. You know a little about the occult, but not nearly as much as you imagine yourself to know. Indeed, you aren't much good for anything.

Roleplaying Tips:
You are trapped in the surreal hell of your poetic fantasies, and you share your angst and anguish with anyone and everyone in the vicinity. You use (and misuse) as much purple, florid language as your high-school education allows, and you complain about everything. Everything.

Equipment:
Notebook, volume of Byron, black clothes, Mission U.K. CD, cane, cape.

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This info is ©1994 White Wolf. It is currently used without their blessing or permission. I'm real sorry 'bout that...but I mean 'em no harm. And if they say to remove it, I'd be happy to. I'm not doing this for money, or glory, or anything except to further the reach of their already incredible game system, and probably making 'em even MORE money...but still...