Katarina Lupeiscu

Quick Quotes Version:
Kat had a rough life growing up. Workaholic dad,  alcoholic mom. They were killed when she was seven. She lived with her grandfather after that, who died when she was 12. Went into foster homes after that, until she hit her majority. She spent a few years trying out college and different jobs, but never really felt it. At 21, she was found and Embraced by Nicolai Durmontov, a Bishop of the Sabbat. He brought her into the Sabbat and taught her some of his tricks, especially concerning the Protean Discipline. He attempted to Blood Bond her, but failed; it doesn’t work on her. Furious, he tried to kill her, but she escaped. Practically the whole of the Sabbat is on the hunt for her. She’s spent the last six months lying low, finding blood where she can and as quickly as she can. She’s been in a fair few scrapes already, but managed to either triumph or escape, depending on the sitatuion. She recently met and helped a fellow Gangrel of the Camarilla known as Jed, who in turn helped her out by vouching for her for the prince. She’s now off to meet the Prince and see what fate has in store for her.


Her past is simple. Her father was a beat cop, one of the grunts of Atlanta’s finest. He spent much of his time on the streets, and when he was home he had little time or patience to spare for her. Her mother was a drinker, and often took to the bottle whilst the father was out at nights, running his beat. Ever and often she would take care of the menial chores of the house and take care of her mother when she was in one of her ‘moods’. From the young age of six, she was learning to cook and clean for her parents. Although it sounds very bad, there were good times. There were times when her father would come back from his night’s shift feeling happy and content; a good day’s work with little to no problems. Her mother would swing back and forth between tragic and angry depression to happy and uplifting giddiness. There were even those times when her mother would give up the bottle for a week or two, a few times that had even lasted for a couple months! No, it was hard, but it was not all bad, and she loved her parents desperately.

The best times of her childhood were spent with her paternal grandfather. He was Gypsy, from a long line of gypsies, and, although he was old, he made his living peddling on the streets and haggling with local shopkeepers. He was a lovable, if slightly crotchety old man, always ready with a story and a song. Of course, they were normally vastly inappropriate for a girl her age, but she would giggle and laugh all the same, enjoying herself immensely. The times after the songs where she would have to ask her grandfather what some of these rather naughty-sounding words meant were somewhat less enjoyable, but educational nonetheless. He taught her some of the rules of life. He taught her to be a survivor, a hard worker, someone who wasn’t afraid to get their hands dirty to get the job done. He taught her of how to love with tears and how to hate with kindness. He was also the one who taught her German. His family had lived in Germany and thereabouts for generations, going from town to town. Until the second great war, at least. They were driven out and sought refuge in Eastern Europe, using their dark hair and color to blend in. After the war, her great-grandfather took his family and emigrated to America, where they had lived ever since.

In short, even though her circumstances would be considered dreadful by most, she loved her family and she loved her life. She was bright, cheerful and energetic, always ready with a smile and a laugh. She truly loved life.

And then it happened.

Her parents were brutally slaughtered when she was seven. An addict broke into their apartment and slew them both in cold blood, beating in their heads with a tire iron before taking everything of value they could find, looking for that next fix. She was at her grandfather’s at the time. When she returned home and found the dreadful scene, she did not go into hysterics. She did not scream and cry. She went to the phone, dialed 911, and with a slightly shaking voice told the emergency response unit exactly what had occurred and what she had seen. She then hung up the phone, sat down in the corner very calmly, and stared at the bodies of her parents until help arrived. Even as the paramedics carted the corpses of her mother and father away and the homicide department began sniffing around and asking questions, she merely stared into the middle distance, almost entirely unresponsive. After a short while, she was taken down to the police station to answer further questions.

It took a long time before she would speak, and even then, it was in the form of one word questions. A psychologist was brought in to talk to her. She began to open up a bit more, responding coherently and reasonably to all his questions. By the time the session was done, the psychologist was sighing sadly. It was apparent to him that this child was holding all of her grief and pain inside her, which was unhealthy and unnatural. But there was no way to convince her to let it out, not without going outside the bounds of his practice.

Not too long afterwards, her grandfather came to pick her up, cradling her to him lovingly and telling her it would all be alright, his eyes wet in tears. As she held him, she finally found her emotional release. The tears came, the crying, the horrified whispers. She wept bitterly and long, and through it all her grandfather held her close, whispering loving words in her ear as he mourned with her.

It took her some time to fully get over the deaths of her parents. Finally, though, she became her old self again. She lived with her grandfather, cooking and cleaning for him the way she had for her parents. He would often insist that she was doing far too much work, doing all these chores about the house and attending school at the same time was too much for such a little girl! But she merely shook her head with a smile and carried on anyways, happy to help her grandfather in any way she could. She loved him dearly and with a devotion that was amazing to behold.

She was happy again.

Then, when she was eight years old, there was a bit of a ruckus at school. There was a boy, Sam, who constantly went out of his way to tease her and generally make her life horrible. This went on for several weeks, day after day. She couldn’t even go to recess or eat lunch without the brat messing with her. But never once during this did she so much cry. Whenever he knocked her books over or spilled her drink or pulled her hair, she just smiled sadly and said that, whatever it was that she had done, she was very sorry. This annoyed and unnerved Sam to no end, and as such it prompted him to do it more, which just caused more of the same.

A vicious cycle.

And then, one day, she’d had enough. Sam came to mess with her during lunch. She was moving to a corner table to sit by herself, as she always did. On her way there, Sam intercepted her and began taunting her and teasing her. She smiled at him. He called her names and pulled her hair. She apologized for bothering him. Finally, he tipped her tray of food on the floor. It was meatloaf day. The soggy lump of meat slathered in ketchup hit the floor with a wet smack. She looked down. And, for a horrifying moment, she went as white as a ghost. To her, for that long, eternal moment, that mound of ketchup covered meat looked like the corpses of her parents, piled on each other and soaked in their own blood.

She snapped.

She took the plastic fork that came with the meal and slammed it into his left eye without so much as a hint of hesitation. As he screamed and fell to the ground in agony, she dropped everything she was carrying, crouched over him and started to beat him as strongly as her tiny fists could muster, slamming into him over and over with all the repetition and timing of a well-oiled machine. She was pulled off within twelve seconds by a horrified teacher, but the damage was done. Sam was lying there with a stream of blood coming from his destroyed left eye. His face and arms were covered with a plethora of bruises, his nose was broken twice and he’d had several teeth knocked out. The skin of her knuckles was torn and bleeding, and she’d broken a bone or two in her hands from bad form, but that wasn’t what really scared the teacher the most.

The most frightening thing about the scene was the animalistic, primal fury that was etched on her face throughout. She was beating the life out of an aggressor and enjoying every second of it, the instincts of a territorial predator destroying the competition. Her teeth were bared, her eyes were wide, and she was practically snarling in rage and ecstasy as his blood pooled on the floor.

It was only because of her grandfather interceding on her behalf that she walked out of that building with nothing more severe than an expulsion and a restraining order. Charges were pressed by Sam’s family, but nothing much came of that. Her grandfather made a few subtle exchanges of money, and the problems went away. She went to a new school, and for a while, all was fine again. But her reputation followed her wherever she went. Every school she went to, there was someone there who knew of her past, of what she had done. She was ostracized and pushed away from the group at every opportunity. She would change schools as frequently as twice a year, but nothing ever changed for long.

Even in the midst of all this, she still strived to be happy, to take joy in her life.

Then, when she was no more than 12, her grandfather finally died of lung cancer. He had held on as long as he could, but he had little money left over to spend on his own treatment. His medical history made it practically impossible for a transplant surgery, even if he had the money for it. But, no, the majority of his funds went towards making sure his granddaughter had what she needed, and there was little left to spare for himself. She never knew about it, not until she found her grandfather collapsed on the floor one day when she arrived home from school. He woke up only once at the hospital and explained to her what had happened, how sorry he was, and how he wished he could stay with her and make her happy. She smiled through the tears and told him how much she loved him, that he would be all right and that they would go on living happily, like they always had.

Such terrible, beautiful lies we tell, sometimes.

He spent the better part of a week in a comatose state before finally slipping away. She had lost what little was left of her family, and was now completely alone. Although her grandfather had left her a tidy sum of money and the ownership of his quartet of condominiums on the far edge of town, she felt like she had nothing. For many long, sad hours, she would spend her time staring brokenly at a charm bracelet she had made for her grandfather when she was ten. It was her last link to a man that meant the world to her, and, for a long time, it was a ritual for her to gaze at that crudely fashioned bracelet and remember.

And so her life went on. She was sadder, now. The happy days with her grandfather were over forever, and she rarely smiled anymore. She was taken in by a foster family, but they didn’t keep her long. In fact, nobody kept her for long. For the next six years of her life, she was shunted from foster home to foster home, never really having a place that she could truly call home. They were dark years, and as time went by, Kat felt her heart withering and dying inside of her. While she strove to act happy and cheerful, full of life and love, it grew more and more hollow as the years passed, and by the time she was nearing her majority, she found that her once bright nature had become little more than a meaningless façade over a bitter and sorrowful soul.

When she turned 18, she was granted release from the foster care program. She now owned and managed her grandfather’s quartet of condominiums just outside of downtown Atlanta. Also, she received a small windfall in the shape of a tidy sum of money in her parent’s savings. She made a passable living for herself, living in one of her condos while covering the majority of her bills with the income from the others. Between that and her parent’s money, she was financially taken care of, at least for the foreseeable future.

But she didn’t care about any of that. In the end, she was alone, and while she found herself growing more accustomed to it as time passed, she’d never be comfortable with that fact. In fits of loneliness, she’d take on jobs or go to college, but it never lasted long. Her attitude towards her coworkers was hesitant and clumsy, having lost many of her social skills over all the years of emotional isolation, and her forays into academia left her feeling restless and uneasy. She felt that she would never truly fit in anywhere, no matter how long or how hard she tried. By the time she was 21, she was still alone, still hollow, still that same person she’d grown to hate.

One tragic, glorious night, that all changed.

She had been having drinks at a small bar at the edge of town. She often went there; it had a calm, quiet atmosphere, and everybody there was too preoccupied with their own troubles and drinks to give her much attention. She was left to her own woes, but that was fine. She’d always been like that, for as long as she could remember.

As she sat at the corner of the bar and sipped on her rather foul-tasting beer, a man walked up and sat beside her, ordering a drink with a commanding, deep voice. She glanced up at him and looked him over. He was a tall, well-built man, with the sort of lean muscle that you see often in athletes and runners. Almost as if he sensed her looking him over, he turned to her, and for a moment, she was lost in his eyes.

They were cold, uncaring and emotionless, and yet there was a strange gleam to them. It was as if there was a raging fire smoldering deep within them. He stared back at her in a knowing fashion, his soulless eyes glinting knowingly. They were the eyes of a beast, a predator, and she was spellbound, enthralled in a mix of horror, fascination and… envy?

He spoke to her. He knew of her, he told her. He’d often seen her about the place. He knew her name, her age, her favorite food. Every night for the last month, he told her, he’d followed her, and there was little about her he did not know, inside and out. All of this said in a low, yet intimidating voice, a voice that bespoke total control and mastery over her.

“I know you,” he told her in a voice filled with a dark promise. “And now… you know me.”

She was terrified. Utterly scared shitless. There was something about this man, this beast, that promised death if she tried to resist, and death if she did nothing. She was helpless, totally in his control. She was weak, meaningless, pathetic, nothing. She was…

Fuck that.

She bit back. In equally low, threatening tones, she told him precisely where he could stick his information. He was a stalker, a low-life, a pervert masquerading as a man and he was nothing. This was hardly her first time dealing with this sort of thing, she told him. She was armed and ready to fight, and if he did not leave her to her drink in peace within the next ten seconds, he would have to do without a very valuable piece of his anatomy. She pulled out her combat knife, a gift from her grandfather years ago, and placed it casually on the counter, emphasizing her threat. She stared him down in rage mingled with fear, yet still calm and capable despite the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

He laughed. He laughed loud and long, a deep, guttural bellow of a laugh. Then, quick as lightning, the knife on the counter was gone, and she felt the prick of the blade’s edge against her gut. She blinked. She hadn’t even see him do it. Ice ran down her spine, but was eradicated by the flames of fury that were rising inside her.

She would not fear this man any longer.

They were motionless like that for a long, long moment. Then, with another laugh, he pulled the blade away from her stomach and laid it on the counter, a small bead of blood trickling down the stainless steel surface. She reached out to grab it, but he snagged her hand first, drawing and arresting her gaze with those feral eyes.

He told her, no, he ordered her to come with him. There was something in that tone of voice that, try as she might, she could not fight. She struggled every step of the way, but almost before she knew it, they were in the dark alley beside the bar. He was leaning almost casually against the wall eyeing her with an appraising, calculating look. And her?

She found herself  kneeling on the cold cement, one hand on the ground and the other holding her knife, slowly creeping its way towards her bared throat. It was as if she had no control over her body; the overwhelming, bestial presence of this had wiped her mind clean of all things but fear, and that fear was in control of her. The only escape, whispered her mind, was death.

She begged to differ.

With a titanic effort, she forced herself to shakily rise to her feet and, with a feeble throw, hurled the knife at the man.

In another flash of movement, he was standing behind her, knife in one hand and her chin held cruelly in the other. He moved like a hurricane; a blur of action, and he had snatched her knife out of thin air and appeared behind her before she had even time to blink. As he clutched her to him and showed her the knife, she knew that she was bested. She would die here…

She ground her teeth together and stood firm, her hands balled into fists and her eyes angry and unrepentant. She may die, but fuck all if she died in fear. To the end, no matter what, she was her own master, and she would not fear this man.

“Such strength,” his voice growled into her ear. “So beautiful, so potent in one so young. You may be of use to me yet.” She stiffened and, in an act of desperation, whirled around in his grasp, hoping to get a lucky hit in before she went down.

Then there was a flash of white fangs and a spray of blood, and she knew nothing.

Then she woke up. Pain. Such awful pain. She felt blood running from the back of her head and coldness all through her body. She took a deep breath and felt a great ache well from within her. And then, she opened her eyes, only to scream in panic.

She was completely surrounded by earth and stone. She’d been buried alive.

Such panic she felt in that moment. It would stay with her until the end. Her mind was assaulted from all sides by a feeling of malignant terror, a sudden knowledge that this moment would undoubtedly be her last. There could be no escape from this tomb of earth, this natural sarcophagus. And, worst of it all, she knew that there was no one living who would care that she was gone, no one to give her the helping hand she so desperately needed.

So she did it herself.

A strange sort of serenity seems to clamp down on her senses, and the overwhelming crimson terror was scattered to the distant corners of her mind. With an assured, methodical approach, she began to claw her way through the soil, fingers clutching and grasping and tearing as she widened her prison. Then she dug. Using every modicum of strength she had accumulated over the years, she tore and ripped her way up, through the dirt and the grime and the dark. She dug without desperation, without fear; it was with a self-assured certainty that she fought the earth, not so much the certainty of victory as it was the knowledge that this was just another battle, and all battles could be won.

She didn’t like to lose.

After what seemed like an eternity, she broke free of her premature grave and broke free in a shower of dirt and stone. As she pulled herself out of the hole with bloodied fingers and trembling arms, she heard the sound of soft, slow clapping.

It was that man. The one she had met in the bar. As she jerked herself upright and readied herself for a fight, he merely clapped yet again. He gave her a snide, knowing smirk and looked her up and down with a certain amount of pride. She snarled and made as if to attack him, but he merely held up a cautionary hand; it would not do, he claimed, to attack the man who was offering to set you free.

He began explaining. He told her that he was Nicolai Durmuntov, who once hailed from the area now known as Ukraine. He had been born in the year of our lord 1694. He was a Vampire, one of the Kindred, a creature of night and darkness and cursed madness. He was one of the leaders of a sect known as the Sabbat, and he had come to this city hoping to claim it for his sect, along with certain other colleagues of his. He made it a practice of his to be always on the lookout for potential, and prided himself on his ability to measure the strength of an individual. He had happened upon her some time ago, and had ordered her to be watched by certain trusted servants.

He had seen what there was to see of her life. He know facts and details about her that were so intimate, she would have never dreamed of telling a soul. He knew about her tragic history and her futile struggles against an unjust world. He knew everything he needed to know, he claimed, and more.

He knew potential when he saw it.

As Kat looked on in utter disbelief and shock, he explained her situation. She had been Embraced. He, as her Sire, had given her the curse known as vampirism. She was now a Kindred, a Vampire, a pitiless wretch doomed to walk the night with a terrible power. She would never again see the sun, nor feel the warmth of life rushing through her. She would constantly struggle against an inhuman rage and fear from within that was known only as The Beast.

And, of course, she would have to feed.

That same night, he led her on her first hunt, watching and barking orders in equal measure. Nothing she did was good enough or fast enough. When, despite her hunger,  she hesitated to drink the blood of the short, rather pudgy stockbroker she had caught in an alley, he was furious. He demanded that she drain the man dry, and all her protestations were met with threats, almost violence. When, at last, the hunger was too great, she did as she was told, hating herself and her sire in equal measure. With a cackle of amusement, he cut open his wrist and demanded that she drink once more.

She did so, feeling every bit the horrifying monster that she now was.

After that, her training began in full force. He took her before the Sabbat and put her on display, praising and deriding her in equal measures. She was forced to fight and kill for Nicolai’s amusement, and she was forced to wait on him hand and foot when he desired it. She often spent her nights in bizarre and bloody training sessions with Nicolai’s senior childer, who scraped and groveled before Nicolai with such moronic sincerity that it made her physically ill to see it. If she ever complained or showed signs of tiredness, she would be forced to hunt for a Kine, drinky them dry, and present the body to Nicolai for no other reason than he knew that she hated the pointless death. What little innocence and purity was left in her, he seemed to delight in stamping out.

She hated him with a passion so intense that it terrified her.

Then, finally, after nearly a month of this, she was called before him one night. It was time, he told her with a smirk, for her to complete her initiation. She was given a goblet of vitae and told to drink it to the last drop. With a snarl of hate, she did so. When it was done, he rose and commanded her take off the charm bracelet she always wore, the one she’d made for her grandfather when she was a girl. She did so, but reluctantly and with a strong sense of foreboding. Then, with a strange, giggling glee, he commanded her to destroy it.

She refused.

Nicolai was beyond furious. He was practically apoplectic with rage. He screamed and frothed at the mouth, shouting obscenities and curses at the top of his lungs. Kat, although terrified, couldn’t help but listen to his raving, and from it she learned a terrible truth. She was being subjected to what was known as a Blood Bond, some sort of ritual that was designed to enthrall her completely under Nicolai’s control. From what she could make out, if it had worked, she would’ve been Nicolai’s plaything, in body and soul, until the day he died his final death. But it didn’t work.

And Nicolai was not happy about that.

When his raving suddenly stopped, and he looked at her with murder in his eyes and claws springing from his hands, she turned and fled, fleeing as fast as her legs could carry her. She heard his angry shouts echoing after her long after she’d escaped his line of sight, and as she fled into the dark cacophony that was downtown Atlanta, she felt as if he was right behind her every step of the way.

So she ran harder.

When finally she made it back to her condo, her one safe haven that she’d made sure Nicolai never discovered, she was nearly overcome with trembling fear. She’d nearly died, and for what? Why had Nicolai flown into such a rage? Why did this… this “Blood Bond” fail? What would she do now? If she knew Nicolai at all, he would not rest until he had killed her a thousand times for every real or imagined slight. There was nowhere she could go, nobody that she knew that was not one of his cronies. All she had left to rely on was herself.

So she did. For the next six months, she fended for herself as best she could. She fed when she had to, sticking to the shadows and stealing her prey by stealth. She never killed while feeding; not anymore. She kept to her room the rest of the time, wiling away her time with training and exercise. More than once, however, she was caught unawares while she hunted. At first, when she was found like that, she would barely manage to escape intact. Then, as the encounters happened more frequently, she began to fight back. Towards the end of the six months, she had emerged victorious from no less than six street battles, normally ghouls or hired cronies. She had even defeated a wily pair of Kindred, from whom she learned that Nicolai had posted a hefty bounty on her head, dead or undead.

Every day, her life grew more and more dangerous, and she went out less and less.

Then, one night, she happened to stumble across a brawl in a dark alley while she was on the prowl for her latest meal. One vampire was pitted against a large group of what seemed to be ghouls; about seven of them, as she saw it. She was about to leave and go on about her business when she heard the vampire scream something about “ye thrice-curse Sabbat basterds”. It was clear to her that, whoever this vampire was, he was an enemy of the Sabbat.

So she decided to help the enemy of her enemy.

A bloody fight and seven ghouls later, she and her fellow Kindred had emerged victorious, but at a cost. Her new friend, one Jedediah McAllister, was gravely wounded; so badly, in fact, that he couldn’t even walk on his own. Throwing caution to the wind, she carried him back to her haven, where she tended and looked after him for several nights. With time, a bit of blood and some proper rest, Jed, as he called himself, was back on his feet again and showering her with thanks and praises.

She learned much from Jed for the next few nights. He told her about the other sects of the Kindred: the Camarilla, the Independents, the Anarch and everything inbetween. Not all vampires were cruel and heartless like the Sabbat; or, rather, they were, but they were more civilized about it. As he told her stories of Kindred he’d befriended and battled in equal measure, she began to wonder if this sect, the Camarilla, could help her against her Sabbat enemies. When she posed this question to Jed, he stiffened and told her that the best thing she could do was to get out of this city. The Camarilla had troubles of its own, he informed her, and the Sabbat presence was higher than ever before.

“Ah dinnae ken whut yer troubles may be, lass, but if Ah’ll tell ye that the best thang tae do would be tae move right on, ye hear?” He told her that time and time again, with differing brogue but similar context. But, each time, she refused and persisted badgering him about the Camarilla. Finally, eight days after that night in the alley, he relented. He promised that he’d try to set up a meet with the Prince of Atlanta, but he also warned her that things may not turn out as she hoped. Once again, he cautioned to leave town, and once again she refused.

And now, finally, we reach the present night. Jed and Kat are on their way to the Camarilla headquarters of the city; it has been seven months and four days since her embrace, and she has grown as a Kindred and as a Gangrel. Jed will introduce her to the prince and vouch for her character, but after that he’ll leave Atlanta and not look back. She’ll be on her own in the Camarilla, and with the Sabbat still howling for her blood and distinct lack of allies, only time will tell what the future holds for Kat.

Now… Let’s begin Chapter One.



Merits

Ambidextrous: From an early age, Kat has always been quick with her hands, and for as long as she can remember, she’d never really had a dominant hand. It comes to her so naturally, she’s never noticed, and few people have ever taken any notice of it.

Calm Heart: Whether because of her tumultuous upbringing or due to her own emotional barriers, she’s developed an ability to control herself no matter what the scenario might be. Few things can pierce that icy armor she’s covered her heart in, and in moments of panic she often finds herself acting with perfect clarity.

Without a Trace: Kat has always been fond of forests and mountains, plains and valleys. And now, since her embrace, it seems they’ve grown fond of her. She’s often wondered if, in lieu of any family, Nature itself has taken her under its wing. Grossvater had always said that the world looked after those who were close to it; maybe there was more truth to that than she’d thought.

Silence: Kat had, from an early age, developed a tendency to walk and act quietly, especially when her mother was in one of her moods. Over the years, that tendency has only grown stronger, and she often surprises people by suddenly appearing behind them when, from her perspective, she was merely strolling along. It’s not her fault people aren’t perceptive, after all.

Unbondable: This has been a source of much annoyance on the part of her Sire, Nicolai Durmuntov. Whether it is due to the unusual strength and tenacity of her Beast, or whether it is her own strength of mind and nature, the enthralling qualities of the Blood Bond have no effect on her. She felt a slight fascination with her enthraller, but once she realized what had occurred, that fascination served only to rekindle her wrath to newfound heights.

Iron Will: Over the last nine years, she’s grown tough and self-reliant, mostly because there was no one that she felt would allow her to rely on them. Whatever the reason, she strives to keep her mind clear and purposeful. As a result, the hypnotizing and charming ways of many of the Kindred have little to no effect on her, and the very thought of someone controlling her merely angers her.

Flaws

Hunted Like A Dog (Sabbat): Unfortunately, thanks to Nicolai’s high position in the Sabbat and his rather substantial pull within their order, he’s put out the word that whomsoever can bring Kat to him will be greatly rewarded, whether she’s dead or undead. Practically all of the Sabbat are on the watch for her, if not actively hunting her, and even those Kindred that are unaligned are asking questions. As a result, she must be extremely wary, even among those of the Independents or Anarchs.

Notoriety: Once again, thanks to the infamous deeds of her Sire, Kat has found herself guilty by association to a great number of rather heinous crimes. Despite the fact that many of these took place well before she was even born, there are many older vampires with long memories and a fantastic capacity for hatred, and may very well hold her responsible for Nicolai’s actions.

Animal Enmity (Felines): Even in life, she’d never gotten along with cats of any sort. She’d found them disagreeable, lazy and arrogant. Now, as an undead, it seems that they have decided to return the favor. Whether because they see her for what she truly is or simply because of the faint feral musk or her aura, felines of all sort find her company distasteful to an extreme, and some may even go as far as to attack her without provocation.

Sire’s Resentment: Nicolai Durmuntov is a powerful old Outlander, but he has the paranoia of a batshit Malkavian. He trusts no one but those who he can actively control, whether through bribery, blackmail, threats or via the Blood Bond, which he imposes on any and all Kindred and Ghouls that serve him directly. It is a requirement that all of his childer be subject to the Blood Bond, and as Katarina is unable to be enthralled, she has earned his eternal distrust and hatred.

Infamous Sire: Even among those of the Camarilla that are willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and presume that she was in no way complicit with the misdeeds of her Sire, there still remains a faint, worrisome suspicion: that her flight from Nicolai and her new ‘membership’ in the Camarilla is nothing more than an elaborate ruse concocted by her sire. Those who discount this theory still can’t help but wonder whether the apple fell far from the proverbial tree, and often comment behind her back that she may very well have the same power-hungry and malignant tendencies of her Sire.

Probationary Sect Member (Camarilla): In response to these attacks on all sides, Kat has turned to the one ally that she thinks can help her out of her predicament: the Camarilla. Knowing there hatred for the Sabbat and their love of order and caution, she hoped that these wise old vampires would be accept her among their numbers and offer her the same protection that all of their sect received. Unfortunately, she could hardly have been more wrong. While she was accepted, tentatively, into the Camarilla, she is shown very little in the way of trust or kindness for a multitude of reasons, ranging from the identity of her Sire, her lack of propriety or even something as seemingly inane as her Clan. Whatever the reasons may be, it will take either time or a miracle for the Camarilla to truly accept her as one of their own. For the moment, she’s on her own.