Fire is an odd thing, a study of contrasts. It creates and destroys at the same time, in some ways completely predictable--and in others, completely unpredictable. It is our oldest tool; and our oldest enemy. Perhaps it is fitting, then, that I fear and hate fire so much--and yet it was so integral in my creation.
My mortal life was. . .fleeting, to say the least. I prefer not to dwell on it--I have become so much more since my breathing days. To be brief: I was born in London in 1319, May 4th, to a bourgeois bookseller and his wife. My father was a scholarly man, well-read and educated for the time--my mother, a mousy and timid woman with a perpetual cough. My father was remote and focused on his studies; the only time I had with him was if I helped him in his research. He never acknowledged my presence, however, and soon I found my own preoccupations in the studies I had started for his approval. I had of course received a few marriage offers, but turned those lovesick young boys down without a second thought. What I found in my father’s ancient manuscripts was more fulfilling than anything I could ever hope for from my parents--and more challenging than a husband could ever be.
A year or so later, a noble colleague of my father, Lord Galloway, approached him with an unusual request. He had need of a librarian and research assistant, and had me in mind for the job. At the time, I believed I was simply lucky to receive the job--after all, I was not known in scholarly circles, nor likely to be in the future. In retrospect, however, I realize that Lord Galloway had more long-term goals in mind. To be blunt--he needed ghouls.
I soon started work at the Galloway mansion, under the direction of Lord Galloway. I believe I was an able assistant, though by no means was I the only one--he had many "guests" and their assistants living and working there. I soon was given the truth at the same time I was ghouled--that his manse was actually the Tremere chantry of London, a bastion of House and Clan Tremere. His "guests" were in actuality his superiors and their ghouls. I joined their ranks, and became a Tremere servant for the next 130 years. The work was grueling, and my masters capricious at times--however, at the same time, I was learning so much more than the other ghouls. In aiding my masters in their research into Thaumaturgy, I was secretly learning myself--often faster than the apprentices I aided, as I was the one who did much of the laborious step-by-step research that their studies required. I have also found in the time since, that the harsh treatment I received as a ghoul had become my advantage--the ability to ignore extraneous interference, to brush aside insults and arrogance, in order to focus solely on achieving what is important--new insight and knowledge into Thaumaturgy and occult lore.
Eventually, my own knowledge of research methods and knowledges caused me to rise in the ranks of the ghouls--and made me a valuable tool for the Tremere instead of a mere menial servant and possible experimental subject. My responsibilities increased, and I was no longer at the beck and call of apprentices, but instead aided the masters in their ritual research--sometimes even the Regent himself. I was still merely a ghoul , of course--but a talented and influential one.
In the year 1466, however, fire changed everything--including the face of London. A horrible plague had swept through, and corpses were rotting everywhere in the streets of the city. Many of the other clans had left the area and the chaos that accompanied the plague--the Tremere were one of the very few that stayed; simply because they could not afford to abandon their chantry and its defenses. Several ritual magics protected most of the servants and the ghouls from the plague, but with so few untainted humans in London, our masters were feeding off of us heavier than ever before; tapping our strength to maintain their own. Even with the riots, the looting, and the ever present plague, however; we were holding our own. Until the fire came.
A forgotten candle, a stray cinder--no one is sure how it started. What turned into the Great Fire of London destroyed most of the city--including the Tremere chantry. We were foolish. We believed that our defenses were enough, and that the mansion was fireproof enough to withstand it. Ultimately, though, we ended up in the heart of the raging inferno, and when flames licked at the roof, both our magical and mundane protections failed. In the early afternoon, the mansion began to burn. The chains of blood began to tell as our masters’ lives were threatened, and all of the ghouls began their frantic efforts to save them. As I was aiding the others, the haze of fear and worry that clouded my mind suddenly lifted--and in a clear, timeless moment I realized that with all the ghouls aiding in the removal of the Tremere to the catacombs beneath the manse, not a single one was concerned about the focus of all our lives--the fragile, flammable manuscripts and research materials that were so integral to Thaumaturgy. I began fighting the demands of the Blood in my veins, and abandoned my master’s coffin to run back into the blazing mansion. I didn’t have much time--and the blood bond was screaming in my mind. I focused my efforts on the rarest, most irreplaceable scrolls and tomes, covering what I could not take with me with bricks and stone in an effort to save them. I made several desperate trips from the manse back to the catacombs underneath, despairing at the sheer number of tomes I was endeavoring to move. Finally, with the last of my strength and will, I broke into the Regent’s laboratory. Reeling with pain from both the wards and the flames, I gathered his research journal and papers inside my clothing, and made my final run through the mansion as my skin and hair burned.
I collapsed in the blessed dampness of the catacombs, smoldering and burnt. By this time, I had used up both the last of my strength and my Blood, and I was only dimly aware of those around me. A strong, pale hand turned me over, and the journals fell out of my charred embrace as I gazed up at the blurred visage of the Regent. As my vision dimmed, and I began the long, inevitable slide towards Death, I heard his order. ‘Embrace her.’
Due to the circumstances of my Embrace, it did not go as smoothly as most. To this day I do not remember receiving the Blood--for I was too badly injured to even recover consciousness before my new vampiric nature began healing my body. I was administered the Oath two nights later, after additional sustenance had awakened me, by my new Sire--a seventh-circle Apprentice named Caroline Riechert. To my dismay, however, I have found that the Blood did not heal all--while the major portion of the damage done to my body was healed, the resulting disfigurements from them were not. I was as hideously scarred as any Nosferatu. As before, I found both solace and alleviation of my condition in my studies; except that now I was the researcher, with assistants of my own. I aided in the rebuilding of a new, fireproof London chantry and its attendant protections; and have continued my research there ever since, rarely leaving except at my Regent’s command or on trips on the Continent to collect new bits of arcane lore. I was often regarded with suspicion by the other young apprentices--called Nosferatu and other epithets because of my lack of concern over the political maneuverings of Kindred society. They have since been proved to be wrong--my research has resulted in a great deal of advancement and resulting respect in the eyes of my Clan, as well has enhancing my reputation as a scholar of ability. There are very few who scorn me now, and I am free to do what I’ve always wished--pursue my studies where I will.