Writer's Notes: This is probably one of the wackiest character concepts I've ever used--a Toreador artist/toymaker, who used her skills to become a masked vigilante. Contrary to a lot of other similar concepts I've seen played, she was neither crazy nor stupid; and to the rest of the vampire community, she was a model Toreador: elitist, concerned with art and status, and obedient to the Traditions. She never let so much as a hint of her other nocturnal activities leak, and everyone just accepted her at face value, never once connecting the prissy Toreador to the 'mysterious masked avenger' that was running around breaking the Masquerade. I found it intriguing how well the Bruce Wayne/Batman concept worked in practice...

It’s amazing how loud the clock ticks at two in the morning. I’d never had reason to notice, before. Now--I sat there and stared into the blank clay gaze of Spiderman. The toy waited, half-finished on it’s wire frame--cold, grey, and lifeless; a lot like me.

You see, the Embrace had surprised me. Victoria de Poissons had been very discreet--so disreet, in fact, that I’d never noticed her watching me. . .judging me. She was just another collector of rare toys; willing to pay my prices. Up until February 16, 1978--when my skills apparently won final approval from Toreador clan. On that night, I went from living to undead--and Victoria de Poissons from mere collector to the final arbiter of my existence; my Sire.

I was never asked if I wanted this--before, during, or after. I was told I should feel exhilerated, and grateful. I was told I now belonged to a select club--an immortal one. I was told I should be proud to be Toreador; the most prominent and skilled clan of vampires to ever exist. Truth be told, I couldn’t feel much of anything. I was cold and numb.

Victoria taught me the Traditions, the ways of the Toreador. She allowed me all the time and resources I needed to continue my work. And I did, because pleasing her had become a forced habit in my new existance. After a time, she took me to Elysium--and in that glittering, pale company of predators, she presented me. . .not as an equal, but more like a prized pet. I bowed, and nodded, and murmured the appropriate phrases as I had been taught. . .but inside, some part of my mind was watching--observing.

I observed the terrifying power of the elders. I saw all the jealousies, the hatreds great and small, the backstabbing and rivalries carefully nurtured in the Kindred community’s collective cold gaze. I saw the less powerful used--and abused. I saw the more powerful wearing the scars of that abuse--and using their power to grasp at more. I saw immortality. . .and all the ways and means they used to fill the endless progression of years.

The coldness and numbness seemed to increase as I saw what I was to become.

So I walled myself away in my studio. Surrounded myself with all my old familiar tools, and toys. I hugged Crazy Hairy, the old stuffed patriarch of the studio, and tried to lose myself in my work. But the joy, the imagination, had left with my life.

So I sat, staring at the half-sculpted Spiderman toy, feeling cold right down to my bones. My life was no longer under my control--and I didn’t know what to do with it. In a sudden fit of anger I swept the toy off to one side--only to stare in sudden amazement as my arm moved in an unnatural blur of speed and vampiric-induced power. Spiderman stared at me accusingly from the floor--as I was struck with a sudden realization.

Of course! It made sense. I couldn’t believe it had taken me this long to realize it. All my life I had read comic books, listened to the radio plays, and dreamed of being a superhero--like the Phantom, or the Shadow. And now that I was an honest-to-God bona-fide supernatural being, what do I do? I sit around on my butt and mope!

I laughed out loud at myself. I had superhuman speed, strength, and supernatural acuity of all my senses; if I chose to use them. Add that to my natural mechanical inclinations, and the resources I’d built up over the years, and there was no reason I couldn’t pull it off! If I was to be a blood-sucking member of the undead, than I might as well do it in a way I’d always dreamed of.

It would take care and planning, though. I’d read too much to not realize that becoming a masked vigilante is not as easy as donning a pair of tights and a cape and leaping out into the night. I needed protection, resources, and an effective disguise--most especially from my own kind. In my case, the supervillains weren’t the foes I confronted from night to night--they were the individuals I had to be friends with from Elysium to Elysium. That added a new element to my decision.

It took me ten years. Ten years of gathering materials and equipment, bit by bit, so as not to arouse suspicion. Ten years of convincing my Sire that I was the model of a young up-and-coming Kindred. Ten years of training myself for the athletic feats and constant brawling that I would be subjecting myself to. But after ten years, I was successful.

I had made myself a spandex constume--but with kevlar and spidersilk body armor underneath. I had acquired myself a police scanner, and inserted a remote receiver within the helmet of my armor. I had acquired and made several tools of the trade--a titanium alloy collapsible grappling hook, a small beam flashlight, etcetera. Nightly training with a dojo had made my grappling and brawling skills adequate, though I did not prove as adept at that as I had hoped.

However, the toughest parts came after the rest. I managed to wheel and deal with a Malkavian in order to gain the powers of disguise, but it took another two years of searching before I found the right kind of ghoul--someone who had the military and espionage skills I lacked, and who was willing to play Alfred to my Batman. And unlike *my* conversion--I asked him first.

The final bit of planning took the longest. My freedom. I waited another three years, playing the Toreador games, producing great toys, and increasing my personal fortune--all in order to escape my Sire’s control. Finally, she Released me--and I gained acceptance in the eyes of the Prince of San Antonio. It did not take me long to realize that San Antonio was not a good place to start my missons of justice; too many Kindred knew me too well, and there were too many powerful Elders there that I could not hope to fool for long. It soon became apparent I needed to relocate.

After more quiet listening and watching, I soon heard about Fargo. It seemed perfect for my purposes--remote, not a great deal of Elder presence, and a good dose of chaos to boot. If I ever could pull this off, it would be there. For good measure, the Toreador clan there was weak and a laughingstock of the Kindred community--a perfect reason for me to go. I petitioned my elders for the chance to go and organize the guild in Fargo--meanwhile, my ghoul was already setting up the building acquisitions and resources I’d need. I soon gained permission to go--as I had expected.

So now--the rest is for the future. And perhaps, just perhaps--I’ll make this little crusade of mine work.