Few have much to say of the Master of Beasts. He is that. Nothing more, nothing less. Those who speak tell of a tale of a beautiful and talented cavalry officier in Napoleons Grande Armé who saw his world shattered in the cold winter of Russia by a nameless horror. His world fell and he was Nosferatu and cursed to live of the blood of men. A wretched and broken form ill fit for the love of Toreadors or others. His noseless face with its sickly, yellow parchment-like skin thinly streched over bone is visible. He wears his costumary tall riding boots and the grey longcoat. Barely visible are the worn white pants with the red line and his blue shirt with the golden bottoms. - A kindred can lose his mind for many reasons. Other kindred for example. |
One of the countless Nosferatu of Paris - My soul, you imbecile! |
The first member of the Sabbat to be named in this Chronicle, Leondegrance is dangerous and hideous. - You would be wise to kiss my ugly butt when that happens. Bet it doesn't taste much worse than Toreador butt! |
Arnaud
Lantheme
Marcel
Leondegrance
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