You were raised in bitter exile as the last scion of a long and illustrious line of Balkan nobles. Your family held its ancestral lands through Ottoman incursion and Hapsburg oppresion alike, but Soviet tanks finally forced you to flee to the West, Your heritage was instilled in you early on - you spoke only Romanian at the dinner table; were allowed to associate only with those of proper breeding; were instructed in Greek, Latin, fencing, and other gentlemanly skills; and were cloistered away in private schools for most of your adolescence.

People found you charming, though they thought it odd when you wore white gloves everywhere you went, or placed your cape (yes, cape) over mud puddles to allow ladies unsoiled passage, or used your cane to thrash insolent clerks up and down the storefront (your parents got the charges dropped), or refused to toil like a common tradesman in the bourgeois sewer of capitalism.

Then your parents died, leaving behind a morass of unpaid debts (weren't the servants supposed to handle such matters?) Your money evaporated, and you had neither the temperament nor the skills for work.

You were on the verge of selling your prized ancestral coat of arms when Uncle Demetri arrived from Romania. He had watched you for many years and deemed you an ideal candidate for the Tzimisce clan - the real Tzimisce, not the Sabbat upstarts. This was your true heritage, and you gladly allowed yourself to be inducted into the nobility of the night. Money was never again a problem.

Uncle Demetri had enemies, as the great always do. One night, they attacked your manse, slew your sire's ghouls, drank Demetri's blood and captured you. They offered you a choice:join the Sabbat or join your sire in Final Death. You thought the offer over, and come to think of it, Uncle Demetri had always seemed a bit of an ass anyway, hadn't he? Thus began your sojourn in the peasant-infested but rather intriguing Sabbat sect.