Ventrue (Male)

Conquer, rule, then tax the fuckers. The Ventrue motto tried and true throughout the ages. The Ventrue were once warlords, nowadays they have replaced the sword and shield for pen and paper, law and diplomacy. To say the clan is of high prestige would be an understatement. Your goal as a Ventrue is simple and straightforward. Excel, drive the ravel away from you with a tide of meticulous planning and cutthroat action, and emerge victorious.

You've never had a very high opinion of yourself. You weren't a pushover by any means, but to say you were confident. Well, that would be a overstatement.

But now, laying in a dirty bed in some seedy hotel room in downtown LA, with blood crusted onto your neck and your clothes torn to all hell. You feel an absolute, imperious, sense of superiority. You stand up straight and stretch. You feel a little sluggish, but not too bad all things considered. "Where the hell am I?" You look around the room, it's dank, dirty, and disgusting, and not a soul in sight. "Anyone there?" You raise your voice to no avail. Last night is but a dream, you recall a woman, she made love to you. Her skin was cold. You step carefully through the room and towards the door. Before you go to open the door you can hear muffled voices from just beyond it. "He's in here, passed out on the bed, stake his heart and tie his limbs. Then cart him off to the van. Got it?"

Your hand freezes just above the doorknob.