| Age: | Real: 26, apparent 23 |
You did it.
Its all your fault
And when they find out, they'll kill you.
It was late. You'd spent the entire night trying to properly express the mortality that you knew you understood, but the words wouldn't come. Somehow, you got it into your head that if you were mortal, you would know the words. You went out onto the balcony, and looked east. You saw the Morning Star then, and said the words "I wish I was mortal. I wish I couldn't resort to these easy ways to move through this world." Then you went back inside, and went to bed.
When you got up, the words flowed freely. It was a work of pure genius. They sat there, black and perfect on the white paper. You were entranced by the very sight of them.
And then the phone calls started.
Panicked calls from fellow Toreadors, bereft of their powers, calls from your few friends amongst the rest of the Kindred - it all became clear. You had done it. Somehow, your wish had come partially true - that's why the words had come to you so easily.
If anyone finds out, you're dead. That's why you came to this meeting, to make sure no one starts to suspect you. You've got to make sure that they never find the poetry, that they never think it might have been your fatal, disasterous words that destroyed everyone's Disciplines.
Image: Brooding and mysterious, you are the very model of a goth poet - black hair, dark eyes, black turtleneck skivy, jeans and boots. At the moment, you look a bit dishevelled and panicked - fairly understandable give the current situation, really. Very few people are normally worth your time.
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