"UGLY. FUCKING UGLY."

For the Nosferatu the Embrace is a journey through abjection, as the Blood of the horror gradually deforms the struggling tissues of the human body into grotesque abominations. Weeks of pain result in deformities similar to terrible birth defects, cancer growths, crippling injuries, and leper-like sores. Those who endure it find themselves as monstrous echoes of Murnau’s silver-screen vision. But perhaps pain and humiliation teaches compassion. The Nosferatu, as they jokingly call themselves, are the most humane of the Kindred, wearing their curse on the outside rather than the inside. To blend in, some call on the Blood to wear the borrowed faces of their victims or disappear from sight, while others rely on prosthetics and heavy make-up.



I guess those inquisitorial cunts can be thankful to the good Lord above for the curse we Nosferatu bear. Of all their targets, we’re the easiest to identify. It’s not like my face is a subtle examination in horror. Yeah, once they learned to look at us without fleeing, they started posing a few problems. Still, what’s fucking new? If we weren’t hunted by our betters, by mortals, shapeshifters, or our ancestors, we’d come up with something else to run away from. Does that make us cowards or doomed to final death? No, on both counts. Of all the clans, we’re the most likely to survive this new purge. Roaches and nuclear bombs, baby. We screwed it up with SchreckNET being compromised, but guess who took the brunt of that blast? Not us, because we were long gone by then.



We know to go to ground before the panic starts spreading. Why would we go and try to explain our case in a crowded Elysium used as a hideout when we can just as well send a servant and not risk the anger of our more attractive cousins? No, we’ll kindly refuse the outreached hands of those who would throw us in the path of danger. And as of right now, that doesn’t just mean the Brujah, it means everyone outside our clan. We wait. We put up walls, take stock, and adapt to the new realities. And that’s why we’re a clan of survivors because we’ve learned to like it underground, in sewers, catacombs, and deserted subway stations. Personally, I prefer an abandoned rowhouse basement, while my sire occupies an old bunker, but the concept is the same.



We may not be pretty or able to blend in with the kine. We can’t pretend to be anything but degenerate monsters. But you know what? That gives us perspectives every one of those other deluded bastards lacks.

ANIMALISM - OBFUSCATE - POTENCE