Character Sheet: Jonathan Loparlo Appearance: Prelude Journal Entries:
Name: Janathan Loparlo Player: Mike Jansen E-mail Address: n/a Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Vampire Nature: Traditionalist Demeanor: Judge Clan: Nosferatu Generation: Xth Haven: Large Mansion Concept: Camarilla Enforcer ATTRIBUTES: Physical: Strength-1, Dexterity-3, Stamina-2 Social: Charisma-3, Manipulation-4, Appearance-1 Mental: Perception-3, Intelligence-3, Wits-4 ABILITIES: Talents: Acting-3, Alertness-2, Brawl-1, Empathy-1, Intimidation-2, Streetwise-2, Subterfuge-2 Skills: Firearms-2, Melee-1, Stealth-2 Knowledge: Bureaucracy-1, Computer-1, Investigation-2, Linguistics-2, Politics-1 DISCIPLINES: Obfuscate-3 Backgrounds: Contacts-2, Herd-1, Generation-3, Resources-5 Merits & Flaws: Enemy, Judicial Ties, Media Ties, Mistaken Identity, Noteriety, Political Ties, Underworld Ties VIRTUES: Conscience-1 Self-Control-4 Courage-5 Humanity-5 Willpower-10 Blood Pool-13 Appearance: When using his vampiric powers, Jonathan appears as a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman who only wears the finest of clothes, often with a continental sense of style. In truth, though still impecably dressed, Jonathan is a hideous example of his clan, with mottled shriveled skin that has clumbs of ungainly hair growing out in odd tufts here and there while his hands are mere scaly claws more fit for a dragon. Jonathan often lets his true guise reveal itself when in the exclusive company of other vampires. Prelude: (To be added later) Thursday June 1st, 1995 2:49 a.m. Jonathan twirled the head of his cane. Staring out from the front window of his mansion at the fog enshrouded ocean, he could see the faint luminescence that came from the nearby lights of Capitola. Closing his eyes, he could hear the sound of the surf as it rolled onto the compacted wet sand of the beach just below his window. He had already walked on the beach that night, breathing in the salt air, just to taste it. How the memories had come upon him then. When was it, he wondered. How long ago as a young child, walking with his mother and sister on that beach, the Mediterannean sunlight reflecting off its gentle waves a myriad brilliance that sparkled just to delight him in life. He imagined his chubby child's hands clapping together in wondrous joy, his mother smiling at him, her face shielded with a parasol against the sun. How the sun seemed warm back then. Jonathan wondered if it was as warm here in California. He saw the pictures from television, the videos, but they seemed so alien to him. Sometimes, in Italian movies, those directors seemed to be able to catch the sun just right - the way he had known it. But Jonathan never watched those films, fearing the memories that came to him as they came to him now. Waving his hands around his head, as if trying to shoo his thoughts away, Jonathan's chest heaved once, as he affected a deep breath of emotion. A red tear travelled the torn crags of his grotesque face and fell to stain his Egyptian cotton shirt. He curled his fingers, his talons biting into the flesh of his palms. And then the pain brought him back. Jonathan stared absently at the pools of blood welling up in his hands. He drank it back, only then realizing his hunger. Jonathan pushed a button on his armrest and Marco appeared, as if prescient, bearing a warm cup of blood. It bore the taste of Genevieve, and she had been eating olives again, even though Jonathan had sent word for her to stop. He would speak to Marco about it and have her disciplined. Walking over to a wooden shipping crate, he noted that not everything had been unpacked from Monterey, and he became agitated. Tearing open box after box, he delved into their styrofoam packing, yanking out priceless antiques that he discarded casually. It took him at least a half-hour, but at last he found what he was looking for, relieved that it hadn't been lost in the retreat from Monterey. He hadn't seen its image in decades and, seeing the fragile cracked porcelain portrait, Jonathan once again looked upon the face of his mother, noting how truly beautiful she had been. Then the tears came and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Thursday June 1st 9:58 p.m. Marco drove the limousine slowly, following Jonathan as he walked along Via Gaviota. Jonathan looked down at the multimillion dollar mansions that neighbored his own. They were different , and alike, each one marking wealth more by size and quality than by ostentation. Gone were the days of Victorian splendor. Jonathan found he missed those days when the nouveau riche had flaunted their brilliance for all the world to admire and envy. Then democratic ideals had come to reach an absurd level after the second world war, and wealth had become a thing to be tastefully hidden behind Spanish stucco or grey redwood siding. Reaching the end of the block, Jonathan concluded his tour and got into the limo. Turning up Clubhouse Drive, Marco drove the car toward the highway. They would be going to Santa Cruz. Thursday June 1st 10:28 p.m. The limousine drove down Cedar Street, dropping Jonathan off near the parking garage. Marco parked the limo and, after turning on the car alarm, walked about a half block behind the boss, making sure no one interfered or attempted to harm Jonathan. Jonathan walked nonchalantly, bearing neither cane nor suit, but wearing slacks and summer sportscoat as might any well-off young person. Looking up toward Beach Hill, Jonathan could see Crown's brooding mansion, gazing down on Santa Cruz as if the city belonged more to Crown than to the mad Prince of the Boardwalk. Jonathan would have to present himself to that Prince soon. No doubt word would get to him that Jonathan was in Santa Cruz. Not that he feared the Malkavian would reject him - no one in his right mind would reject someone with Jonathan's wealth. But just then, what he had been thinking struck him - in his right mind. Jonathan chuckled. Well, he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. He wondered which other of the kindred of Monterey had made it out. Some were probably still on the way, though it had been a week since Jackson had been found dead, her head torn off and every drop of blood drained from her body. And here in Santa Cruz, with Brujah like that Purdy fellow running around, Jonathan felt that most of the Monterey kindred would be afraid of feeding, afraid of being found trespassing by the Brujah. They would wait, slowly starving themselves until their beasts took over and took things out of their hands. If the fools waited that long, then they would probably do even more damage to the Masquerade. Of course, Jonathan couldn't blame them for their fear. One of Jackson's own childer had come to Santa Cruz the year before, only to be murdered by the Brujah for having trespassed on their territory. It had almost caused a war between the two cities and all of Jonathan's efforts then had been to preserve the peace, and Camarilla power. In fact, Jonathan had already entertained the fact that it had been one of the Santa Cruz Brujah who had murdered Prince Jackson - probably at Purdy's orders. Still, Jonathan had no proof of that, but it was an idea to be considered. Turning down Walnut Avenue, Jonathan walked onto the Pacific Garden Mall. The Mall bustled with activity by day, but this late on a weeknight, event during the summer, it had only sparse traffic. A homeless man was hiding in the covered entrance way of shop. He asked for change, his breath smelling rank and drunk. Jonathan dropped the masque for a moment and the man cringed back, but then, quickly reassuming his gentle face once more, he handed the man a five dollar bill. The man looked up and, seeing Jonathan's smiling "good looking" face, he took the money and thanked the vampire. The fool probably didn't even remember his glimpse of truth, seeing only the money now in his hand. Reading the addresses of the shops and buildings, Jonathan came to a pawn shop. The sign on the glass read Rader's Jewelry & Loan Co. the glass was fronted by a steel roll up cage door, but this did not deter Jonathan as he had the key to the place in his pocket. Unlocking the cage, he rolled it up and then back down again. Then he unlocked the door and, because he could, locked it again after entering the dark pawnshop. Someone moved inside and, in the back, a light came on. Jonathan waved toward the light. Thursday June 1st 10:43 p.m. Cathy Emerson heard the bars go up and then come back down again. As the door opened, she turned on the light so that her "customer" could find his way. No one came, though, and Cathy had the terrible feeling that she might have let a burglar in. Grabbing the pistol out of her desk drawer, she turned off the light and then watched for any telltale signs. "Good evening, Miss Emerson." The voice came from behind her. Cathy just about jumped out of her skin. "Jesus!" she yelled. Turning around, she confronted the voice by turning on the light. It revealed a tall young man, rather Latin in appearance, but quite handsome and dapper, sporting a large mustache that was well out of fashion. It made him look European. "Mr...?" "Garibaldi," Jonathan finished for her. "I'm here for our appointment, Ms. Emerson." Jonathan reached into his pocket and pocket and pulled out an envelope stuffed with twenties. Cathy took the envelope and quickly counted the bills, taking a few out to inspect them for authenticity. When she was satisfied, she put them in her purse and turned back to Jonathan. "You have what I asked for, I presume?" Jonathan asked, taking a seat on the desk of one of her coworkers. She nodded. "Where is it?" he asked, waiting for her to hand him something. The human woman smiled, tapping her index finger on her head. Smart, Jonathan thought. She was taking no chances. "Well then?" he motioned for her to proceed. "I did what you asked, Mr. Garibaldi. I tracked this Mr. Bouchard back to his primary residence. It was quite a surprise, believe me." Jonathan simply nodded. "Well, to get right to it, my sources tell me that the person you want can be found in one of the cottages at the Mystery Spot during the day." Jonathan thought about this. Bouchard, keeping his main crypt at a tourist attraction, visited by hundreds during the summer days? It was insane, and therefore had a ring of truth. "And?" Jonathan asked. "And when he's not there, he sleeps in an old abandoned basement of the Emeline Hospital, which isn't used anymore, except for parts that fill in for the morgue and some administration offices." "May I ask how you acquired this information?" Jonathan asked. "My sources are private," she replied. "But don't worry yourself, Mr. Garibaldi. My information stays with me. My sources won't talk to anyone else, and that I can guarantee." "I believe you, Ms. Emerson. Your reputation speaks for itself. I'm just sorry that our acquaintance has to be of so short a duration." "I don't see why it has to be," Cathy told him. "Oh, but it must," Jonathan informed her. "You're really been much too clever for your own good. The information you provided to me could be given to another if the price were right." "Part of my fee includes my silence," she reassured him, not liking his tone. Trying to be nonchalant, she reached for the pistol, which she had dropped with the money into her purse. Jonathan saw what she was doing at once and, dropping the masque, let her see him for what he really was. Uncontrolled terror made her drop her purse, money, and gun, and she started to scream. Jonathan reached out and, pulling her to him, sank his teeth into her neck. She stopped struggling, moaning in ecstasy despite her terror. A noise behind him made Jonathan stop and turn around. A glint of metal was all he saw as a blade whirled out for his neck. Jonathan used a nearby lamp to deflect the swing of the sword. But still the sword cut off Jonathan's arm. Screaming with rage, Jonathan dropped down to the floor, grabbing his severed arm. The dark stranger holding the sword whirled around, but he could see nothing but Cathy, who was groggily getting back up from where Jonathan had dropped her. Since Jonathan hadn't licked her wounds clean, blood still seeped slowly from her neck, and she held her hand to it, trying to stop the flow. Now hidden, Jonathan debated attacking the stranger from behind, but something in the man's studied caution and the way he had skillfully used the blade suggested that Jonathan should leave him alone. Retreating, for the moment, Jonathan quietly went upstairs. Opening a bathroom window, he crawled out onto the roof, walked across several rooftops, and jumped down to a parking lot near Locust Street. He signalled Marco with his beeper and met the ghoul at the limo. Marco, seeing his master's wounds, gasped. "Home!" Jonathan barked. Soon the limo was speeding away into the night. Friday June 2nd, 1995 12:52 a.m. Jonathan nursed his arm, now reattached but healing slowly. It would normally be days before he was fully recovered, but with his steady diet of blood, both from his herd and purchased from medical banks, he might be able to cut his healing time in half. Still, it was painful. He hadn't expected or even sensed the stranger, leading him to believe that the man had been no mere human. Marco tended Jonathan's arm, applying a new dressing and making sure that it was healing like it should. The phone rang. Jonathan was surprised, believing that no one in the country knew him to be in the area. Nodding to Marco, the ghoul brought the phone over on a tray and Jonathan picked up the handset. A voice, unrecognizable, spoke on the other end. "Greetings, Loparlo." "Who is this?" Jonathan asked. "Why did you want to kill the girl?" the voice continued, ignoring his question. Jonathan was about to lie, but the voice cut him off. "And don't bother with any subterfuge. We know all about you, and what you were after. I wonder what the Prince would think about you snooping into his sleeping arrangements." "What do you want?" Jonathan asked. "We want to know what the girl told you," the voice told him. "Tell us that and you're off the hook. We'll keep you out of it." "Why don't you ask her?" Jonathan suggested, trying to buy time to think. There was a pause at the other end. "We would, but she's dead," the voice informed him. The news came as a shock, even though that was what Jonathan had intended for her. "No doubt you'll hear bout it in tomorrow's news. The man with her was killed also. Seems his head was cut off." "And you think I did it?" Jonathan asked, neither denying his involvement, nor confirming it. "We don't care who did it," the voice told him. "We just want the information she gave you. Give it to us, and we'll leave you alone." "And if I don't?" Jonathan asked. There was another pause. "Well, Loparlo, let's just say that we know where you sleep." There was a click and the phone went dead. Jonathan put the handset down. The great irony in all this was that when trying to find out where the Prince of Santa Cruz kept his crypts, he had done it to watch over him and try to protect the Prince, to keep him from suffering the same fate that had befallen Prince Jackson. Now, with Anarchs and Sabbat baying at the doorstep, was not the time for Ventrue and Malkavian to be fighting about who was master of the house, when the house was in danger of burning down. Jonathan had come to save the Prince, the Camarilla. But who would save Jonathan?
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