Vampire:History
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"Come closer," the Nosferatu rasped from the darkness enveloping them within the tunnel underneath the city. "I'm not gonna bite. Not the payin' customers, at least." He let a ragged, phlegm-filled laugh escape his cracked lips, before he continued, "So you know what we are. Smart, smart cookie. But you wanna know how we came to be in this place?" Another chortling bit of laughter, and he says, "Alright, alright. Well, you did pay out the ass for it. I'll tell you how it started, but I can't tell you how it ends. Maybe you can help us figure out that last bit, hmm?"
The Nosferatu's eyes cast a slightly luminous glow in the darkness, studying
the one seeking such secrets of Toronto's past. Finally, he spoke again. "It
started with Clan Gangrel, they say. Long ago, I guess... seventeeth century?
Yeah, something like that. They wanted to get away from the career politicians
and backstabbing bigots, so they came to live with the First Nations people or
some shit. Hell, no need to be politically correct. Indians. I figure you can
be called a lot worse than an Indian. But anyway, the Gangrel... I dunno, they
got kicked out, maybe. Ran into pups, I figure, didn't have backup. Dumb, but
with good intentions, see?"
The Nosferatu let out another wheezing fit of laughter, before he continued
talking. "So, there's nothin' out here, man. Nothin'. Some fuckin' fur trading
post, or somethin'. The French eventually got kicked out by the English, s'why
most people down here can talk proper and those poncy tarts up North still
sound like a bunch of crossaint-munchin' faggots." His eyes narrowed into
slits as he stared down the passageway. "Pardon my language, cupcake."
He cleared his throat, and continued, "So there's none of our kind here. Place
starts out in 1750 or so as a fur-tradin' outpost, and becomes a military
installation with just a few hundred folks. Nobody pays it any damn mind for
years, 'cept this one Brujah that had weaseled in and started feedin' off the
military folks and shopkeepers they brought with 'em and junk. Nathaniel...
Colm. Yes. Definitely, that was his name. Almost a whelp himself, but it
wasn't like anyone was gonna come take this heap of shit away from him. He
claimed himself Prince, and had one of the longest tenures over the biggest
pieces of crap you've ever seen. Had to come and go a time or two with a new
identity, but all in all he didn't get contested til like... 1830, or
somethin'. Rediculous." His eyes flickered wide for a moment, yellow teeth
gleaming sickly in the palest of light. "Don't fall asleep on me now,
sunshine, we're just gettin' warmed up."
"So you with me so far?" The Nossie started pacing, almost nervously, wringing
its hands in the darkness and seemingly eager to share more of its tale. "The
Ventrue can spy a penny on a sidewalk from a thousand yards, and finally they
got the hint that the place was gonna bring big bucks. Ethaniel Broderick was
old and greedy as any of 'em, and he finally showed up to turn Colm out on his
ear." He paused, eyes narrowing upon his companion. "Shame, really. A Brujah
who didn't put up a damn fight. Just gone, but I'd like to think they at least
fucked with his head before they turned him loose. Give him an excuse."
"So this old fuck comes in, starts ghoulin' people, doin' what they... do..."
He grinned, as if to show there need be no explanation for who "they" might
be, "...and the place starts growin', slowly but surely. Buildings go up,
money comes in. People flood the streets, and like a fuckin' parasite -- " the
Nosferatu jumped up once, its scaly bare feet splashing in the shallow trickle
underfoot. "We come with 'em." He started laughing his sickly chortle once
more, before saying, "But you know, we're even worse than the men. So greedy.
Rail lines went up, maybe 1850, and it all went to hell. Fighting,
disrespectin' traditions, Prince after Prince after pompous Prince for fifty
some odd years. Too many to count, and none of 'em any damn good. Leeches, if
I ever saw any."
"So Broderick's childe, Roger somethin' or another... Doyle? Yeah... he
finally takes over, does an ok job I suppose," the Nosferatu says, almost
grudgingly. "Held the job down for about twenty years, at least. Had a couple
good Primogen, though word was somebody had his strings and was pullin' hard.
The Toreador started whinin' that he wasn't payin' any attention to culture,
and would you believe that was enough to get him booted?" His eyes widened, as
sludge started to create an echoing drip from a sewer grate above. It was now
raining outside.
"Replaced him with some French Toreador tart named Antoinette le Blanc, and
she was a bitch and a half man. She's known for two damn things, and only two
damn things. She started the Toronto Symphony, and one of her childer ripped
her throat out while she was still tryin' to snooze one night. 1926, 1927...
somewhere in there. She threw such tantrums, was so fuckin' sick... hell, I
don't think the Primogen even -tried- to catch him for it. Chased him down to
the states and the Scourge lost 'im." He shakes his head, a soft smile still
playing upon his greasy, cracked lips.
"Now call me biased, but we had one good Prince. This cat named Mordecai
Jones. He was ugly, like me. But he saw these licks through World War II, and
Toronto started takin' leaps and bounds. S'a shame he retired. Not many of 'em
do that, y'know. They either get pushed aside, or they get killed, but they
don't retire. I guess he left around 1960, and this city went to flat-out hell
from there."
The creature continued to shuffle back and forth, keeping its leery eyes on
its companion. "First incursion took us all by surprise," he said, tone
shifting somewhat grimly. "While they were still arguing over who should run
the place, we got hit. Crazy motherfuckers, popping up out of the woodwork,
screamin' for blood. The Sword of Caine, the... Sabbat." His nose wrinkled up
a little at the mention of the sect. "Even us sewer rats didn't smell 'em
comin'."
Silent for several beats, letting the sound of the trickling rainwater take
precedence, he studied the recipient of this knowledge. "A lotta us died. We
were kinda stupid not to expect it... the shovelheads had been crawlin' both
north and south of us, and we acted like nothin' was happenin'." He shrugged a
shoulder, "But they came, and we stuck together and pushed 'em back. Was a
real turnin' point for us. For as long as that lasted." He snorted in disgust.
The Nosferatu stuck his hand under the sludgy drizzle seeping from underneath
a drain pipe, idly smearing the goop with his finger. "We got smart, we got
tough. For awhile. They control damn near everything around us. They tried
again in the 80's, took out our goddamn Prince, a few of the old ones too.
Nothing happened much for a decade, maybe more...but now they're back. All
sorts of shit's been going down... Driven 'em back a lot in surrounding cities
in recent years. Guess that done pissed 'em off. Not surrounded by the fuckers
on all sides now. Recent advances," he said.
Shuffling back toward his companion, his eyes narrowed and a grin returned to
his ashen face. "I think you got your money's worth. Anything else is gonna
cost extra, and I've got no need for cash down here..." The passageway once
more filled with the sick, haunting laughter of the damned creature, as
thunder began to rumble from the sky above.
Toronto is a Camarilla stronghold that had been surrounded by cities that were
either claimed outright by the Sabbat or were in heavy contention. Montreal
fell long ago to the Sabbat. Detroit is a city heavily contested. Toronto has
long been a city under contention, but is holding steadfast now with other
cities around it backing it with Camarilla influence. New York City has never
been out of contention, with small Camarilla coteries and roving packs of
Anarchs doing all they can to bring warfare to the Sabbat who still hold a
dominant sway over the region.
The Camarilla in Toronto have fought their adversaries off more than once, but
they know the enemy still lurks in the shadows. And of late, we've heard
nothing, but not the kind of 'nothing' you'd expect after a victory. It's like
something pending, the quiet before the storm.
Those who claim independence from the Camarilla still seek to build and claim
their niche in the city of Toronto.
Only time will tell what will be the fate of Toronto's Kindred.
