Number of fucks given in this post: 3
So where did all this shit start?
It could be said to have started in Rotherham, Yorkshire in 1960, where a girl called Heather was born and grew up. She had two older brothers, who themselves grew up to work in the coal mines. Her mother was a housewife and her dad was a mechanical engineer who maintained the mining machinery. He was the one who taught young Heather about engines and transferred his love for them to her. More than that, he taught her to stand up for herself and to share her skill and learning with others. The family wasn’t well off, but they loved her, even as she shunned stereotypically feminine pursuits in favour of fast engines and loose interpretation of which laws of the country were important to adhere to.
It could be said to have started in the Fryston Colliery in 1985 when she got caught in a cave in caused by explosive charges set by MI5. At this time, Margaret Thatcher was shutting down the coal mines and destroying the lives of families, including Heather’s. Heather was heavily involved in the Unions and NUM, even though women were only supposed to serve coffee in the community halls. Instead, she turned her driving skills to avoiding road blocks and circumventing government restrictions on movement and the Unions. She’d caught the attention of a man… or what she thought was a man… called Peter Fraser. From her understanding at the time, he’d come in from further north to help organise strikes and fight against the government. She caught his attention and he pulled her further into the anti-government consipiracies. He was a charismatic leader and Heather followed him without question. That took her to a secret meeting in the mines, which had been leaked to the government by someone, and the government responded by creating an “tragic accident” to take out the leaders of its opposition.
Just before the explosion, Heather had a sudden flash of warning, of disaster, and she ran at Peter and pushed him and herself with her full force to take them both just far enough out the way of falling support beams and rocks. The debris knocked her unconscious and heavily cracked her ribs, but she and Peter survived. They were in a small air pocket and Peter quickly realised that Heather would run out of air far before help would arrive – help that he couldn’t be here for. Peter Fraser was a vampire. He was a leader of the Anarchs and had come from Ireland to help the mining communities fight against the schemes of the Kindred of London. His original intention hadn’t been to sire Heather, but it would be the only way she could live after her sacrifice to save him. So he decided to do it.
(Years later, I would realise how close this was to how the Sabbat make shovelheads – being a hungry new vampire having to dig my way out. It makes it easy to leave family and the old life behind. )
Certainly, neither of us could be seen in public after having a mine fall on us. So he took me to Ireland.
Then, it could be said to have started when I rejected the teachings of the Anarchs as complete bullshit. Like, I have sympathy for the ideals, but living through a portion of the Troubles in Ireland… you learn. War is shit and destroying and breaking down families and communities. The Anarchs build nothing and… nothing is not something to aspire to. Don’t get me wrong, the Camarilla is shit in a different way. I have no illusions there, but you need structure and organisation and knowing what your responsibilities are if you want to build something better. I bet Peter still regrets teaching me enough about the Camarilla to function in one of their cities.
Maybe, it could be said to have started when I arrived in Glasgow in April 2008. Not that I’d had any specific plan on where to go after Ireland, but it was relatively nearby and seemed like a good place to start. I took my bike on the 10pm ferry from Belfast over to Stranraer, then straight up to Glasgow. That first night, court was in a hotel. There was no visible security apart from the attendant who showed me into a grand conference room as I clutched my Letter of Introduction from the head Brujah in Belfast. At that time, Glasgow’s Prince was Viscount Charles Augustus Stewart – a staunch and blustering Ventrue – but he let me stay in the city without any particular issue.
But really, it all started at court in November 2008. I’d been in Glasgow for maybe 6 months and was trying to work my way up. I was junior hound or deputy of the Sheriff or some shit. Viscount Aldworth was Prince and he was just as much of an asshole then as he is now. The Sheriff, a Brujah called Magnar, quite reasonably hated him and was plotting against him with The Duchess, a Toreador with her own ambitions. Aldworth found out about it (they really weren’t suble) and confronted Magnar, offering him a deal; Aldworth would let Magnar live if he testified against the Duchess. At the time, he agreed. The next court came around and Viscount started his speech, passing the floor over to Magnar expecting him to call out The Duchess for her plots. But he didn’t, instead Magnar started on some kind of rambling rant, pacing up and down and winding himself up for action, until eventually he frenzied and attacked the Prince.
Now, myself and the other Brujah had some idea of what was going on. Personally, I’d warned Magnar off when I discovered that the Tremere, led by Hercule Bastion Rothschilde, supported Aldworth as Prince; who knows what the Tremere magik can do? Cassidy, an Anarch, said that he couldn’t join in any coup against the Prince directly but would help on anything else. Antonia…. more on my opinion of her later.
So Magnus is pacing and ranting in the middle of the room. Aldworth was on the raised dias where he’d made his speech, near him as protection was Angus, a Gangrel and Scourge, and Arkady, who I think was also Ventrue and blatantly Russian Mafia. I had been standing at the side of the dias, trying to look tough as Prince’s Sheriff’s third assistant twice-removed and Rothschilde was standing beside me. He was there to show general support of the Prince. There was a Ventrue clanmate of the Prince there, too. I see Magnar mouthing off and think, “Oh, shit, he’s not going to do it, is he?” And then I think, “Yes, shit, he is.” And I straighten my shoulders, scan the room for the terrain, and put my handle on the machete ready to draw. The Ventrue is oblivious. Rothschilde, however… he looks at me. Looks at the machete. Looks at my hand on the machete. Looks at me. (Magnar is still pacing and waving his hands about.) Then he carefully withdraws and joins the rest of the Tremere who now make a line across the room, in front of the dias, muttering quietly to each other.
Finally, Magnar works himself up into a frenzy and attacks the Prince and Angus. I can’t watch however, because fucking Magnar has effectively left me to hold off the rest of the court to ensure they don’t interfere. Jeez, where was the fucking plan? The closest risk to me is the Ventrue, so I hit him with a handy chair. I didn’t really want to hurt him, just push him back and distract him, but he’s such a weaking that he just drops. That leaves me staring at the line of the Tremere. Now, my plan was to reach them and throw back them out the way, but they just saw a Brujah ready for violence heading their direction. I start running to them. Tremere number one reaches out his hand and blood tears out of me and flows into him. Tremere number two does exactly the same. As does Tremere number three. And I’m closing in on the biggest threat, Rothschilde, but now I’m fucking hungry and just wanna sink my fangs in. Just as the tips brush his neck, I feel the most excruciating pain like my blood is literally on fire. And it goes black.
…
