Giano

Description:
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Giano
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* Prudence, Sloth
* Mekhet, Brothers of Ypres
* Unaligned

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ATTRIBUTES
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MENTAL (Secondary) PHYSICAL (Primary) SOCIAL (Tertiary)

Intelligence: 3    Strength: 3        Presence: 2
Wits: 2            Dexterity: 3       Manipulation: 3
Resolve: 3         Stamina: 3         Composure: 3

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SKILLS
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MENTAL (-3)         PHYSICAL (-1)    SOCIAL (-1)

Academics: 1        Athletics: 1      Animal Ken: 3
Radio: 3            Brawl: 3          Empathy: 1
Crafts: 1           Drive: 2          Expression: 2
Investigation: 2    Firearms: 2       Intimidation: 0
Medicine: 2         Larceny: 3        Persuasion: 0
Occult: 0           Stealth: 3        Socialize: 0
Politics: 1         Survival: 0       Streetwise: 0
Science: 1          Weaponry: 1       Subterfuge: 0

SPECIALTIES
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Expression: I Know That Song
Stealth: On The Run
Animal Ken: Cat

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ADVANTAGES
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MERITS
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Native Language: Italian
Free Language: French
2xp: Language: Genoese
40xp: Blood Potency 3

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VAMPIRISM
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* Blood Potency: 3 (13 max Vitae, 1/turn)

* Humanity: 4

DISCIPLINES
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ASPHYX 1
AUSPEX 1
OBFUSCATE 2
CELERITY 1

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EXPERIENCE POINT EXPENDITURE
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chargen only
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CURRENT STATUS
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* Health: [ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ]
* Willpower: 5/5
* Vitae: 13/13, 1/turn

COMBAT VALUES
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* Initiative: 6

* Defense: 2
* Armor: 2/1

* Speed: 8
* Size: 5

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INVENTORY
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* Frayed Coat
Bio:

Isonzo, 1917

Back and forth, back and forth he rocks in mud and shit. His knees are driving into his chest; each breath is a sucking struggle against his mask’s filter. The rhythmic beat continues unceasing outside the hole. The shelling goes on throughout the night, and Giano sleeps to dreams of a thudding, dying heart.

Gaspar sits hunched where he died, legs splayed like the fallen columns of some great greek monument in a shallow pool of filthy brown water. The rain drops around him, accumulating on the rim of his helmet and dripping in time to the thunder that continues around him.

Bare fingerbones rap on his door a world away. A disturbance catches his ear, something stirring (thrashing?) in the pool outside his hole. He gathers the courage to hoist himself over the rim to see Gaspar still staring down at his nonexistent reflection, unmoved.

Another sunrise, again unseen through the haze of gas and fog and rain. Crimson coils of rust unfurl and curl around the rims of his mask, filling the foggy panes, curdling the filter and choking him on his spit. Awakening suddenly, he finds that Gaspar is gone.

Night comes and the shells cede the air to silence. As Gaspar speaks to him, the mask crumbles apart in brittle pieces, revealing an open sky beyond. Stars wheel overhead in patterns unfamiliar to the city-dwelling boy who thought he was a soldier. He watches them pass from his open grave, content, until the first hints of dawn forced him to his feet.

Giano

We'll Always Have Paris ill_repute