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| - Let me tell you a very sad tale, a tale of a gifted and talented Irishman. Gifted with looks and talent (I know, I already mentioned that but it’s worth mentioning again). Gifted but alas, neither with money nor luck. At least, he didn’t begin life with those. S’an Breandan McFlannery was the eldest son of a 17th century Irish gentry family made poor by the Industrial Revolution of Regency England. After his father was forced to sell the family lands and titles S’an grew up in a poor, crime ridden neighborhood of Dublin. A gifted musician and wordsmith with an intense hatred of the English, as a young man he lent his voice to stir anti-English sentiment in the pubs and gathering halls, gaining enough repute to come to the attention of English forces in Ireland and hence forced into hiding. A patron of Irish art, the dark and lovely Aideen O’Finn hid S’an in her home, providing safety from the English and a rapt audience of one for S’an’s music. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending upon one’s point of view, and much to S’an’s surprise, Aideen was undead. A vampire. A somewhat unique type of vampire, of a clan drawn to all things beautiful and each particularly susceptible to entrancement by a unique form of beauty. These vamps also crave adoration almost as much as they crave blood. And one night in his patron’s arms S’an was given the gift of an eternity of beauty and love, along with heightened senses and strength. All with one little catch. The leach bled him dry first. And she ushered him into her endless nights of slavish devotion to music and blood. And, of course, to her. Which was actually quite wise. His hatred and passions mingled with Toreador’s blood could have been a fatal mixture without a century or so of tutelage. Once S’an was free to live his unlife as he chose he chose to take up the mantle of Irish independence. With the tirelessness of the undead he joined the struggle. Every few decades he would stage his own death and resurface under another name and identity to continue the insurrection. And to amass quite a fortune along the way. You see, his vulnerability was antiques. He loved them. Loved them as much as Aideen loved music. Music he could make on a whim. Antiques, these he had to ... acquire. With the peace in Ireland S’an was a Freedom Fighter with almost 200 years of experience and no cause to fight for. What is a vampire terrorist to do? He joined the Irish mob in New York City, that’s what S’an did. There his carefully honed skills could be used for real profit. And with those profits the antiques he could collect. Alas his inability to age began to threaten exposure. So he moved to Canada to help open a ‘franchise’ in Toronto. Of course he had to join the local vampire society there too. Unfortunately the prince was English! Fortunately the prince was also of Toreador’s blood and all worked out sufficiently. Until the prince left and S’an joined a lovely Italian job in her bid to become the new prince. With S’an’s aid she succeeded too. Till she went to a meeting without S’an and was killed for her trust. Killed really dead. As in no head left on the vampire dead. And S’an was being hunted by the Kindred for being on the wrong side of politics. Not as if he’d never been there before. Oh, I forgot to mention all the other supernatural friends S’an made in Canada. Of course he wasn’t going by the name S’an. In the course of two centuries S’an had used many names, Cael he was known as in Toronto. Reality twisting magic users can be pretty useful to a sleep all day terrorist, err freedom fighter turned crime boss. A couple of shape-shifting werewolves can come in handy too. But S’an’s favorites were the ghosts. OK, the fairies were fun. No self respecting Irishman would be caught undead failing to love a good time with the fae. But the ghosts, those guys can go through walls. And more than once they saved S’an’s Irish bacon from Italian Mafia or the unclean undead or anyone else who might take a notion to take a bite out of crime. But ya know, sometimes an undead man has got to do what an undead man has got to do. Nope, that fool of a Brujah posing as a prince really tried to force S’an to loose his temper like he hadn’t for at least 100 years. First the guy beheads his Princess. And she was a pretty little princess too. Then the knucklehead throws S’an’s childe into prison for getting a little too mouthy with the poseur of a prince. Then the blockhead has the gall to command S’an, or uh Cael, to an audience with him. Yeah, like S’an was going to fall for that one. Little did this new batch of wannabees know the security guards for the palace, they worked for S’an. OK, long story but they were blood bound to the Toreadore Prince’s wife who was S’an’s lover and when she went back to England (see, S’an had learned to control his hatred for the English, especially when they were that beautiful and beguiling) well, when she went back to England she bound them over to S’an. So no matter who ran the palace, no matter who claimed the throne, the palace guards remained faithful servants to S’an unless those in charge killed them off and replaced them with their own. And I already told you this Brujah was an idiot. So S’an waltzed right into the palace when no one was home (one of his specialties) then used his magnetic personality to force the prince wannabee to come to him. Him who was invisible and armed to the fangs and surrounded by his very own security force in the prince’s very own throne room. So there the prince is, he knows he has been summoned by more than autocratic decree, he who claims to be prince of the undead has been summoned by real vampiric power, Toreador’s Presence in S’an’s blood. He knows he is in a room with one he would rule but who ought by all rights to rule over him but he can’t see him. He circles, pitiful little sword in his hand, flailing at the air while the invisible but magnetic Cael-S’an bides his time. OK, enough of this, S’am pulled out his shotgun and blasted the blasted prince poseur in the chest. Then called in the entire security force each fully armed and bound by blood to do as S’an bids them. Fitting isn’t it, that a brutal and foolish wannabee should see his undead unlife end at the hands of the hired help of a real Prince. Then it suddenly went dark. And S’an Breandan McFlannery awakes in Necromundus.
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