The Player Name
: TheChorusisAlive [At] Hotmail [dot] com (MSN)RP Experiences?
: 8+ characters on here plus several years of forum role-play in a WoD setting.
: Abram StocksAliases
: The Chorus; Tragedy, Comedy, HorrorAge
: 178Aesthetic Age
: Late twentiesSexual Preference
: Heterosexual (celibate)Species
: Amelia Saint [Secret]; Henry Sutton [Name given]Clan
: Martyr Complex, DepressionDisciplines
: Auspex , Celerity , Presence , Quietus Misc
: During the last 2 years of his mortal life, Abram suffered from both Syphilis and mercury poisoning which later resulted in the onset of dementia and peripheral neuropathy.
He has a prominent, well-known obsession with the song Ave Maria and a propensity for lighting kreteks although he does not actually smoke
Because of his continual lapses into torpor due to ennui, Abram is blase and consequently unaffected by the powers of Presence [Merit: Blase]. Abram can only gain sustenance from the blood of harlots and prostitutes [Flaw: Selective Feeding]. His mind is also a meticulous little machine that records the passing of years with excruciating clarity, only to haunt him with the shadowy figures of his past [Merit: Eidetic Memory & Flaw: Obsession].
He has committed the Amaranth twice in his life. The first was upon his sire (unknowingly) and the second was on an Assamite during frenzy. The second dragged his humanity down and heightened his already existent masochistic tendencies to a fevered pitch.
He is incredibly active within the various Toreador guilds and salons across the globe, often acting as both presenter and commentator at their functions. As such, he has garnered a fair degree of notoriety among members of his clan.
He has two ghouls under his employ: Abigail Rhodes, a voluptuous secretary at the city coroner’s office and Maggie Jessup who offers her services to the highest bidder as a paid escort.
His favorite writer is William Blake.
In terms of combat prowess, Abram has been known to use firearms on several occassions and has been seen wielding a Raging Bull Taurus .454. As an agent of the Chorus he opts for fully- and semi-automatic weapons, ranging from light- and sub-machine guns and assault rifles. He often employs his vampiric abilities in an offensive manner when resorting to violence, whether ranged or melee. Clan/Sect Prestige
+ Served under the Toreador Primogen of London for a good portion of the 20th century
+ Cameoed as the Keeper of Elysium of London sometime after 2000
+ Made a challenge for the praxis of Las Vegas
+ Staunch defender of the Camarilla agenda
+ Sometimes Anarch sympathizer (to a point)
+ Has a penchant for feeding from prostitutes
+ Is active among the Artiste and Poseur guilds
+ Has killed a handful of Sabbat and Anarchs in service to the sect
- Committed the amaranth before the Prince and court of Las Vegas
- Is an Alastor
- Is a Malkavian
- Is an Assamite
- Is a Poseur
- Sired a member of the SabbatAppearance
: The fragmented cut of the hair does not help the disarray in which it hangs, like a sad mop of a dog unkempt; black as pitch it hangs across his face in unruly strands or pushed back to free his visage from impairment. Sometimes he opts to comb it neatly to the side, though does so on whim. At 5’12”, Stocks appears athletic and svelte while bearing an almost militant gait that commands respect – or attention, at the very least. An angular, gaunt face evokes romantic notions of fae-like beauty vampires are sometimes said to possess, while the remnants of that fiery night in Las Vegas still linger in a patchwork of darkened and shriveled flesh along his jaw, neck and left arm. Some might call him beautiful but such would never be the word used by Abram to describe himself.Fashion Sense/style
: Charmingly disheveled: A nice way to put how Abram Stocks usually appears. It is not that he doesn’t share the Toreador’s obsession with appearance, he just doesn’t go to very drastic lengths to maintain one; his dress has differed only in designer and freshness as he dons the same flair he favored in his mortal days: a pair of pressed slacks (usually dark brown or black), classic brown wingtip shoes, white button down shirt, and a fitted blazer (a dark shade of brown). Though he might wear designer labels, the clothes on which these labels reside are typically in disarray—the strings of his shoes are often untied, most of the top buttons of the shirt are undone, crumpled papers and notes are in almost every pocket of the blazer and occasionally a pants pocket will be inside out. Other colors one may seem him donning are muted grays and white pinstripes; a Cabernet-red tie is the only article of color he is likely to wear.
When the mood strikes, Abram can be somewhat of a dandy; he easily dresses to suit the tastes Toreadors are known to possess and has no qualms with adopting the appropriate persona to match.Personality
: Abram Stocks is an aggregate of tragedy, comedy and horror – his embrace occurred only because his life was miserable, and because his sire found beauty in that misery; he quietly echoed her own dissonant complexity, this vitality that existed only to end itself. Abram lived each day to the fullest, not as if each were his last but as if to make
each his last. Amelia saw him as the embodiment of her clan’s ideals, of lasting beauty – that wilted rose which yet remained a rose, black and withered, until its last petal lay upon the ground.
His inherited legacy, the Chorus, has kept the Ivory Tower as its focus unrelentingly throughout his existence; he played the parts nobody else could play, all to advance the cause of the Camarilla. The Toreador’s fanaticism is nothing short of common discussion among members of his clan and they only know half the story.
Stocks has a penchant for young women and finds their company intoxicating; while he hasn’t had sex in over a century – due to the lack of sex drive – he’s become a bit of a voyeur and enjoys watching them copulate. He considers the act of sex artistic and the female form one of supple perfection, ideal for all the twists and bouts of flesh he can imagine. Because of his sometimes preoccupation with women, he has had no shortage of jilted ex-paramours. He believes himself to be quite the charmer and regardless of an other's response to his advances, he's likely to continue pressing the matter if it amuses him enough.
His voice manages a surprising baritone and the laugh which often accompanies that toothy grin echoes that which the Devil must employ -- mocking and confident.
Abram is the type of person who is usually found scribbling furiously into a journal, or with his nose in a book—no matter where he is. An excellent writer of almost any sort of prose or poetry, his way with words grants him a knack for oration—whether they be teaching, diplomacy, or the like, he commonly excels in a battle of words. Accompanying his gift with words and wits, the voice used to deliver them is quite versatile as well. His knowledge of literature and law aid him in the every night situations, which he attempts to put to use as often as possible—but when words and academics fail, Abram is not without other defenses. He often finds himself acting capriciously and remarking snidely to vampire and human alike, brimming at their failings with an unmatched intellect that cuts much deeper than a knife.
Although an exquisite writer, one of his largest failures is his inability to finish the majority of his works, leaving many to wonder if there isn’t something else wrong with him. Possessing the Toreador’s preoccupation with ‘all things beautiful’, Abram suffers doubly, from this and from a similar ailment that finds beauty in tragedy—mostly his own—and which often causes him to seek out both old and new sorrows to wallow in.
“The Chorus” once dominated his thoughts with a trio of voices, each shedding their particular brand of insight on any given situation – these voices fell silent after his arrival in Las Vegas and have lain dormant since. While he is still very much an agent of the society his faculties remain intact and seldom has he heard the creeping laughter or barking fury of his alter-egos since the consumption of his most recent soul, which in and of itself served to further warp his humanity and mind, lending him the zeal of his Assamite victim. On occasion he has muttered a few lines of Arabic though he seems to pay them little attention. Because of the inexact nature of the amaranth, Abram has become insular and alarmingly more pensive than previously – he dwells on the status of his soul and wonders when his own will be taken by the Beast.
Unlike the majority of his clan and sect mates, Abram isn't above getting his hands dirty and performing less-than 'savory' tasks.
There is a dangerous passion burning within him that yearns for that final release but he knows there is still too much to do and too much at stake to end it now. Until then he waits.
The Toreador is visceral to the fullest extent of the word; he enjoys goading and testing others, pushing the limits and reveling in his nature as a vampiric creature. His obsessions keep him in a suspended state of existence, caught between depression and bedlam as he continues to fight against his memories and those from his past that still haunt him.History
: Born in 1833 on the back of a carriage, Abram would grow up in various states across the Midwest until his family settled down in San Francisco shortly before the conclusion of the Mexican-American War. By the time he was 14 Abram showed an inclination towards prose and poetry and earned the admiration of many-a school girl for his sardonic wit and humor. The young Stocks frequented Barbary Coast where he became enamored with various women of unsavory profession. It was this budding ‘interest’ that prompted his parents to push him towards the university and with his father a well-off lawyer the family sent their son across the Pacific to Cambridge University. Abram returned home five years later in 1856 with a degree in one hand and a troubled heart in the other.
Wanting his son to succeed, Abram’s father brought him into his law firm as a clerk. He worked there for only two years before meeting his wife, Isabelle. The out of towners that had approached the law firm looking for representation found in Abram a pliable thing despite his clear lack of experience with the law – but it wasn’t a lawyer they were shopping for, but rather someone willing to play the part. Isabelle’s father was looking for a husband for his daughter and the quiet but debonair Cambridge graduate was just what he needed. Little did they know that Abram and Isabelle had already consummated their relationship after their third encounter – the woman had gotten under his skin and in like fashion, he sought to get under hers in return.
Theirs was a relationship founded on pleasures of the flesh and competitiveness, with Isabelle seeming the intellectual rival Abram had always managed to avoid. While they shared similar interests, they were on opposite sides when it came to religion. Religions were, according to Isabelle, her greatest fascination; she had a multitude of shrines to various gods and goddesses although she had taken a shine to the Hindu gods most of all. Abram on the other hand sought his enlightenment through literature and its creators. Despite their differences they grew closer and in the winter of 1860, married. At his father-in-law’s behest, the couple moved to London and took up residence in a family property.
Abram found that the closer he tried to become with his wife, the harder it was to love her. He felt isolated always and became increasingly perplexed by his inability to share his thoughts and work with her. And while he desperately loved her, there was something in him wholly inhuman that sought only to torment him and keep her at a distance. This fracture in their marriage caused him to look elsewhere for an outlet for his unrealized affections.
Enter Dolly, a luscious French immigrant and one of many castaways who sought to inhabit bustling London for the procurement of a better life, something their parents could not afford them. Abram discovered her from a far and obsessed over her for more than a year before finally engaging with her; after a solitary night of blinding passion, he stumbled home in the rain sick with joy and guilt. His home caught fire that same night with him inside of it and despite his frantic efforts Isabelle was nowhere to be found. When the authorities arrived to investigate the fire, they found Abram delirious and badly burned. Unable to pry the frenzying man from his property, they subdued him and sent him to the Royal Free Hospital of London.
Psychiatric evaluations, mercury treatments and a variety of other tactics were used to bring Abram out of his silent depression that lasted eight months. As his senses returned, he pleaded with the doctors to reconsider his release. In May of 1861 Abram was permitted to leave, declared competent and sane.
He wandered his ruined home for weeks following his release but no sign of his wife could be found. He haunted Dolly’s route but was unable to unearth the harlot. Abram found himself alone and drunk each night, clutching a book to his chest – it was on no particular night in August of 1862 that he found his sights set on a new lady of the night. Money changed hands, time was wagered and before he knew it, her corpse-cold hand was enough to quell that war-drum rhythm within his bosom. That night the prostitute calling herself Amelia Saint embraced Abram into clan Toreador and in the wake of his second birth, she staked herself. In a famished frenzy, childe devoured sire and the newly made fledgling was left to wallow in his suffering with only a journal to keep him company.
During the second half of the 19th century he followed the first of many instructions left for him in his sire’s diary which involved a four-year, premature torpor and the presentation of her ashes to the then-current Prince of London after he awoke. The bittersweet revelation of his part in Amelia’s – and the Chorus’ – plans came quickly yet it served to steel him for the remainder of his responsibilities. Abram spent the remaining years between 1875 – 1900 re-reading the diary she had left, as well as rummaging through the London estate which now belonged to him.
The first two decades after his embrace served to familiarize Abram with the machinations of Cainite society. Abram also made his debut in kindred society, wooing the Elysium goers with a vibrant and fresh new take on the world; alongside other contemporary writers, he sought to join the various movements emerging and produced a plethora of prose from 1910 – 1920. In the autumn of 1922, he discovered an auxiliary diary in the cache of Amelia’s belongings that laid out the nature of a secret society called the “Chorus”. It was the knowledge of this clandestine cell system that drove his focus to wane from art to warfare. Abram continued to fervently support the Camarilla in their efforts against the First World War, typically through his journalistic pursuits as a muckraker.
A sudden bought of dementia riled his spirits and forced him beneath the remains of his mortal home where he entered torpor yet again, though this lapse in activity ended after two years when an acquaintance brought him out of in 1931. During his sleep he dreamed of Amelia and learned a great deal about himself and realized just how easily he could slip back into old habits and memories.
At the onset of the Second World War Abram joined a number of other Camarilla members who would later come to press their influence on the world leaders gathering at Yalta in ’45, putting an end to WWII. Abram’s insight and poise impressed the London court and he was placed beneath the current Toreador primogen as a whip. As he continued writing, beginning his fourth novel – a piece that had dissolved into the ramblings of a mad man – he became distanced from his mortal contemporaries, condemning them whenever possible.
He set about honing his vampiric talents during the latter half of the 20th century, excelling at reading the surface thoughts and emotions of others and when he wrote, his pen would become a faint blur amidst the page. It was this attention to the blood that ultimately drew the attention of a Malkavian named Toulouse. This Malkavian claimed to have known Amelia and divulged a great deal of information about her motives for doing what she had done, and told Abram that his diablerization of his sire had been intended Partially relieved of the guilt he had carried since his death, he finally accepted the role given to him by that harlot once upon a time and resurrected the Chorus anew. The Sabbat drew his ire most of all as they posed the greatest threat to the Ivory Tower and its traditions – a second group simply drew his annoyance.
The Anarchs. From where he stood, they were nothing more than a bunch of upstart ingrates bitching and moaning about a system they had no intention of dying for – they were pathetic. They had no qualms with setting cities a blaze and spreading their damned manifestos but they did not pursue change in these endeavors; they sought chaos, and they sowed it viciously and pettily. Not one among them knew the real cost of change save for the scant ancilla or elder among them whom had already spent their time with the Sword or Ivory Tower – those whom knew through first-hand experience that the sects which existed into these modern nights were nothing short of twisted caricatures of what had begun in 1493.
The Convention of Thorns solidified the divide between Cainites, permeating the centuries with Sect wars between the Camarilla and Sabbat, and eventually the Anarchs against everyone else. But these were not the only pacts made on that chilled October night – a fourth faction arose as an ever watchful eye, seeking to ensure that what was promised to all Cainites would be guaranteed throughout the ages. And although they fought beneath the mantle of the Ivory Tower forever thereafter, they were vigilant in their mission to do whatever was necessary
to maintain the Traditions: this society provided the saboteurs, domestic terrorists, martyrs and heroes requisite to procure the truths and ideals proposed at the Camarilla’s inception.
What would later be known as “the Chorus” – a group comprised of no more than three individuals at a time – was not designed as a Camarilla war machine to spread its dogma, but as a separate entity to instigate changes that would aid in the translation of the six Traditions so they might survive through the passing of years. As the sect grew and time lurched forward, the Camarilla’s status quo
remained as jaded and stagnant as the elders who had once birthed it – liars sat upon thrones made of propaganda and perverted once-sacred canon to suit their own selfish needs. It is these obstinate kindred that the Chorus seeks to oust, playing both benefactor and antagonist to the sect’s cause while they bide their time. The group’s members became jihadists in their own right, fighting in the shadows of the Ivory Tower itself. This practice continues into the modern nights.
Abram has suffered the ‘cause’ throughout the entirety of his undead existence, warring with the Sabbat and frugally insinuating himself in the kindred politicking of the Camarilla on a nightly basis – yet much of this work is done beneath the guise of anonymity, to give Cainites their very own boogeyman.
Near the start of the new millennium in 2002, Abram became the Keeper of Elysium in London, England where he quietly bided his time and attempted to reach out to other members of his clan in an effort to unite them and encourage their minds to reflect their art – to provoke change in the world around them.
A confrontation in 2003 with several Sabbat resulted in the fracturing of his already fragile psyche; he grew paranoid and abnormally violent, even without the guise of his masked alter-ego. Abram demanded to be made Scourge of London after he thought a wide-scale Sabbat assault was imminent. The whole of Elysium scoffed at his concerns and he abandoned the city shortly thereafter; where he went the city was unsure. Abram had gone into the dark and quiet countryside of the surrounding territories where he fell in with a group of Outlanders, fresh from America. The Gangrel he encountered shared secrets that they had learned from the Medewiwin
, imploring concoctions involving herbs and blood to bend the mind and harden the spirit. Abram grew close to one savage in particular, one Ezra "Grim-without-a-grin" Grymbowlski, who helped chain the Toreador's howling madness. After two years with the Gangrel they parted ways with Abram proclaiming his own return journey to his native America.
Abram had reservations about returning to his native San Francisco right away and settled for Las Vegas, hoping that the boisterous city was enough to snuff the growing madness within him. His choice of habitats was a poor one as it became quickly apparent that there were several elders attempting to replace the current Malkavian Prince; Abram’s own clash with the mad one provoked a challenge for the Praxis of Las Vegas. A debate was set to take place between the Toreador and Malkavian yet a third party forced its way onto the scene – an elder Brujah whom had made Las Vegas his home since its inception, stormed the stage accompanied by a contracted Assamite assassin. Abram and the Assamite entered into lethal combat before the whole of the gathering and amidst fangs, claws and fire – thanks to the assistance of a present Tremere neonate – the brawl ended in the destruction of the Assamite. No single kindred present that night could agree on exactly what had transpired but when the dust had settled, it was Abram left standing – albeit with a face and right arm singed like beef jerky and a soul further damned by the diablerization of the Saracen. Suffice it to say, he quite Nevada after the incident and traveled to Los Angeles. He and the Malkavian Prince remain acquaintances.
He relived the events of his time in Las Vegas incessantly over the next several years, wasting away in the back of any Anarch haven that he could find. Silence is what he typically offered those who approached him and he didn’t have much more to say to the Prince of L.A. either. He brooded and stewed, and brooded some more all while allowing his scarred and burnt flesh to fester and bleed – Abram refused to let his form heal the reminder of mortality he desperately craved. Abram also used this time to seek answers within the blood and discovered he had taken slightly more than anticipated from the Assamite he diablerized in Nevada.
And it was an Assamite who gained his attention while in Los Angeles, assimilating the culture to move closer to the seemingly unsuspecting Toreador -- but it had been the events of Las Vegas that prompted his paranoia, and he was prepared when the second assassin struck. Despite his preparations the Assamite had Abram at a disadvantage and gained the deciding, upper hand; however, their meeting had not been an attempt on his life, but rather a test. The warrior had been sent to investigate the whereabouts of his fallen clan mate although he had had his reservations about what to do with the answers when he found them. It was thanks to this solitary kindred that Abram learned how to deal with the lingering soul within him, embracing that which had seeped into his own character almost wholly unnoticed. When the two men parted ways it was as if they had never met, leaving him to dwell on the scene before him once again.
The time he spent among the Anarchs had been rather frustrating given his need to preach Camarilla doctrine but it took him those few, sullen years in company of the rabble to understand the potential they held and to appreciate them for it. Since 2008 he has been open about his continued association with the sect, much to his reputation’s dismay. He has, however, become better acquainted with the various clan guilds since his ‘fall from grace’ in Las Vegas which has given him a good deal to consider as he plots out his next move.