Campaign of the Month: October 2017
Blood & Bourbon
Army captain turned Setite hunter
“The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.”
“I’m the one that’s got to die when it’s time for me to die, so let me live my life the way I want to.”
Warren was fit and trim in life, the product of nine years of living under the US Army’s physical fitness standards (which are actually higher on cadets than for active duty). While most people imagine fitness as ripped and toned abs, he possessed a wiry strength and endurance in life built on regular ten mile marches with 70lbs of gear. That kind of strength has served him less well in tireless death than it did in life—but it’s also less conspicuous than rippling muscles.
His blue eyes and blond hair, cut short in a high and tight, combined with his height make him conventionally attractive—all the more so for the dark intensity and mysteriousness with which he conducts himself: the Caitiff goes out of his way to make himself less approachable in all the least effective ways and despite his efforts attracts young women like moths to a flame.
Warren dresses in drab colors that don’t stand out in a crowd, favoring plain t-shirts, jeans, and loose jackets he can hid things under and in. He pays little attention to fashion, preferring function to form. Since his Embrace he’s gotten noticeably worse at ensuring the cleanliness of said clothing, often wearing the same cloths for days at a time unless prompted to change. He’s rarely without at least one firearm on his person, and typically adds a collection of additional ‘gear’ ranging from knives to handcuffs to his ‘daily’ carry.
Name: Warren Robert Kontkowski
Date of Birth: October 11th, 1988 (Metairie, Louisiana)
Date of Embrace: June 3rd, 2016 (New Orleans, Louisiana)
Apparent Age: Late 20s
Real Age: Approx. 30
Weight: 195 lbs
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Blond
Education: B.S. Mechanical Engineering (West Point, 2007—2011)
Occupation: None (2016—present), captain (O-3), U.S. Army (2011—2016)
Religion: Monachal Sanctified (notionally)
The oldest of three, Warren Kontkowski came from a proud but fading New Orleans family on his mother’s side, much of their wealth spent. His father was a third-generation army veteran who expected his son to continue the tradition of service that had married Warren’s mother half for love and half for prestige—she’d married him mostly for the stability the successful post-army-turned-attorney (and later district judge) offered. Warren admits he isn’t sure there was ever any love there, or if their marriage was simply one of convenience for both parties: his father got to use the tarnished glory of his wife’s family legacy, while she found stability.
It wasn’t an unprecedented circumstance, and Warren was luckier than most in that he never recalls seeing them fight. His father was a firm, but fair man, and his mother every bit the southern lady. Warren followed in his father’s footsteps, as he’d wished, applying for West Point in his junior year and serving his five-year obligation following graduation as an infantry officer. He rose to the rank of captain before submitting is resignation with the intention of pursuing graduate school at Penn State.
It was in his first semester at Penn that he received a distressed call from his mother: his sister was missing and his father was dead. He flew back to New Orleans that night. The homecoming was brief. His father had been struck by a drunk driver while crossing the street in the Quarter. The tragedy was explicable. His missing sister was not.
As he investigated he discovered missing valuables from the house—and additional ones that went missing after his arrival. Further investigation revealed many of her friends were also missing from school and home: all attractive, wealthy, white teens that had demonstrated behavior shifts prior to leaving home. Several had been reportedly seen in the Quarter. He assumed the ‘worst’, that his sister and her friends had become some manner of addict and junkie on the streets. If so, the answer was obvious: he was going to bring her home—and may god have mercy on her dealer, for he wouldn’t.
He staked out the family’s Lower Garden District mansion and was rewarded when he saw her breaking in one night, looting all manner of heirlooms, jewelry from their mother’s jewelry box, and anything else she could fit into her backpack. He barely recognized the scantly clad teenager as he followed her in his rental into the quarter, a 9mm tucked under his jacket.
Whoever had done ‘this’ to his sister would pay dearly.
What he found, and what followed, was so much worse. Jessica wasn’t some strung out teenage addict or runaway—she and many of her friends were the ghouled slaves of a sadistic Kindred that had taken particular satisfaction in enslaving and destroying the lives of wealth, privileged, white girls.
He grinned when Warren confronted him with the 9mm. He grinned all the more when his ‘whores’ intervened, helped bear Warren down. Grinned as he stomped down on the pinned man, heedless of how many of the girl he hurt along the way, as he beat the former soldier unconscious. He grinned too when Warren awoke bound and bloody. It’s that chesire grin that Warren remembers more than anything else, pearly white fangs over ebony skin.
The grin never left, it never changed. Not when he tortured Warren, savagely beating him within an inch of his life. Not when he beat Warren’s sister in front of him as the soldier raged helplessly. Not when he fucked her in front of him. When he’d had his fill, as daylight approached, he left Warren bound to a chair in front of a computer screen so he could see just how depraved Warren’s ‘baby’ sister was, how he’d ‘ruined’ her.
The site, hidden behind a paywall, was filled of videos, hundreds of them, and dozens of his sister—his sister engaged in the most degrading sexual debauchery imaginable. He queued them to play, and the did, from her first night in his ‘care’ where she was savagely raped as she screamed and cried, to more recent scenes in which she willingly, even eagerly, participated. They went on and on—scenes of her fucking old men. Scenes of her fucking young boys. Scenes with other girls—her friends. Scenes where she begged to be bred as she was brutally gang fucked by crowds of men. Scenes where she engaged in bestiality, where she was whipped and beaten before she was fucked. Scenes where her most intimate places were stretched to grotesque proportions, where she had those places pierced, where she was eagerly tattooed with the most vile things imagined across her body, marking her forever as property. On and on the movies played until day became night once more. Then the fresh hell began.
When night fell the vampire returned with his sister—his sister who licked clean all that he’d soiled in the long hours he was pinned, who was made to bring her bound brother to unwilling climax. As he climaxed the vampire leaned close, whispered in his ear of the punishment and gift he had planned for Warren, then sank his fangs into the man’s throat. Everything went dark.
Warren awoke unbound, a man dying of thirst, overcome by it. There was someone with him, but he didn’t see their face, didn’t see anything. All he knew was the beating of their heart and the instinctive, mindless thirst for the blood in their veins. When the red receded, he held a broken body in his arms: his mother’s.
The vampire returned, he told his childe how proud he was of him, how Warren’s depravity exceeded even his sister’s, how he knew he’d made the ‘right’ choice making Warren one of them. Perhaps he’d expected Warren to be a broken man. Perhaps he’d simply meant it as a final cruelty. What was not expected was the violence with which Warren reacted—how he won his way free of his ‘sire’ and fled into the night.
It didn’t take long for the blood-soaked Kindred, wandering away from the Quarter towards his Lower Garden District family home, to get picked up by agents of the prince. In another age that would have been the end, but fortunate favored him for once as the prince’s childe, Caroline Malveaux-Devillers, interceded on his behalf. Among his fellows in the Red Right Hand she saw, perhaps, the most immediate value in the soldier—both to the archdiocese and to his coterie mates.
Though the embittered soldier never fully became all the prince’s child might have hoped, he has become something of a terror among neonates—a killer that fights with only the most marginal regard for his own Requiem accompanied by a pair of his former subordinates turned ghouls. He despises the Bourbon Sanctified for their harboring of his ‘parent’ clan and its depraved members, but even that rancor pales against his hatred for the Setites.
His own sire was a particularly vile and corrupt former NOPD officer who got his start stealing and selling copies of seized child pornography and snuff from evidence lockers before leaving the force. What he had to do to get kicked off the force in a city as dirty as New Orleans is best left to the imagination. What he did thereafter required little imagination given his prolific habit of filming it. Where his descent into corruption began—and whether it was at the hands of Setites or not was immaterial, for he fit in quite well among their number all the same.
Warren genuinely and truly despises the city’s Setites, all they represent, and all that ally with them. Rather than have his will broken by the experiences surrounding his Embrace, he has emerged as a stanch—if too direct—foe of all they are. Towards that end, he views supporting the prince and Sanctified, arguably the last faint beacon of decency in an increasingly rotten and feted corpse of a city, as an end unto itself.
Beyond the private war he wages against the endemic corruption of the city and society writ large, he professes little personal ambition—not to sire, not to hold some great title, not to rule a domain. Victory is what he seeks—or perhaps death in the pursuit of it. So far as he’s concerned he died the night of his Embrace, and all that is left to him is something to make worthy his final death.
He remains quite protective of his sister and would desperately like to ‘fix’ her, to return to her the life stolen by the depravity and sadism of ‘his’ clan. To date the tenderness with which he regards her has kept him from the most extreme methods of achieving that end.
Warren indulges in few vices, save a vicious sadism towards all things of his parent clan: from individual Kindred, to their ghouls, to their pawns. He seeks their end, but is happy to ensure it takes a long, and long suffering, time to arrive. In the absence of that he’s willing to indulge himself on those he judges as supporting their interests: mostly the Quarter rats. He takes great pleasure in rooting out what he’s taken to calling “white rats”—agents serving Savoy or the Setites from within ‘friendly’ territory—and he’s become quite good at it. He especially hates corrupt cops—an ode to his vile sire.
His faith, such as it is, is largely an expression of his rejection of the depravity and excess of his parent clan. Christianity, the Sanctified, provides a framework by which a Kindred can live what he judges to approach a just life. Towards that end he is notionally one of the Sanctified, but more by habit (believing that by habit men are made) than what might be genuinely characterized as faith, for all of Catherine Ward’s attempts to genuinely immerse him.
Warren maintains both his own haven in the Giani Building and a separate armory within the building for his krewe. Of the two, his interest resides far more with the second.
His haven is a spartan set of rooms largely bereft of signs of wealth or status. The few adornments within fall into two categories: framed family photos from a better time in his life, or military keepsakes from his time in the service, including a collection of challenge coins and a small shadow box. The haven is notoriously neglected and left a mess—Warren uses it mostly only as sleeping quarters (and even then not every night).
The armory, in contrast, is well stocked and maintained. Locked cages line the walls with well maintained firearms for a variety of functions, from the discreet to the intensely less discreet. Everything from pistols, to shotguns, to subguns, to actual assault rifles and rifles for long range shooting. There’s enough firepower available in the room to invade a third world country, give an ATF agent a heart attack, or both. Mannequins are fitted in the second room with body armor for each member of the krewe and most of their ghouls. The armory is likely the first mustering point for the Red Right Hand and their ghouls both should they come under attack—with that in mind both doors have been heavily reinforced to give them time to prepare for whatever conflict might reach them.
Warren maintains no domain of his own and instead resides in the Central Business District.
While each of the Red Right Hand has taken ghouls with military backgrounds, it is in Warren that their strength is concentrated. Warren attracted to the city and ghouled two of his prior subordinates, and has honed them into far more lethal killers with the addition of the blood. His third ghoul is his little sister—problematic loose end that she has become.
Status: Ghouls •
Isaac will proudly tell you that he spent more than ten years of his life ‘in the sandbox’ to keep barbarism from the shores of the US. He’ll also tell you how much of a kick in the teeth it was then to hear about the kinds of ‘fucked up shit’ going on across the country, and maybe right in his own back yard, at the hands of more depraved Kindred. In another life he might have become a hunter when confronted with that: instead he answered his old company officer’s call and became a ghoul. He’d never been much good at anything other than soldiering anyway. The chain smoking, dipping, hard drinking Texas native was loyal to Warren long before the blood bond reinforced it. His time as an NCO—including three years at Fort Bragg—has made him an ideal ‘trainer’ for other ghouls brought into the fold in service to younger Sanctified, but Isaac’s real passion is being in the churn. Thrice divorced with two kids he hasn’t seen in years.
Status: Ghouls •
Randal grew up in a small time in Iowa, the kind with three churches and only one general store. He joined the army out of high school in 2010—hoping to both serve his country honorably and to earn his GI Bill. He found the military different than he’d imagined—a cross section of parts of America he’d never visited—and hadn’t even been certain were real. The reserved and conservative young man had some difficult adjusting to army life—especially the macabre humor and sexual jokes he was surrounded by. His fellow soldiers were (largely) far from the ‘Christian Soldiers’ he’d expected and held in esteem his in entire life when he imagined ‘veteran’. Matters came to a head in 2012 when on watch he caught a group of his fellows using fake penises with attached bladders to fool their regular drug tests. Unwilling to ignore the frank dishonesty—and to his mind endangering of fellow soldiers through their use of illegal substances—he brought the matter to his non-commissioned officer and through him his company officer—and suffered the beating of a lifetime when those he’d dimed out found out and assaulted him in the barracks a few nights later.
The experience could have soured him on service entirely, but instead strengthened the Iowa farm boy’s resolve to be a force for good. It also earned him the respect of his NCO and platoon officer, who leaned heavily on him during the unit’s Afghanistan deployment. It was there that Warren earned Randal’s enduring respect in turn when the then still green 1st Lieutenant dragged him out of a burning Humvee after an ambush. Though his service in the army ended in 2015 as a corporal, his relationship with his once and future bosses didn’t, and he answered his call from across the country following Warren’s Embrace.
Though far from ‘okay’ with his boss’ monstrous nature, Randal has been largely able to push aside his misgivings when set alongside some of the things he’s seen since his ghouling in the fetid dens of other vampires and the fact that Warren is still Captain Kontkowski in his eyes. There are worse people he could be working for, and worse things he could be spending his life on. Besides, he owes Warren.
Status: Ghouls 0
The younger ‘baby’ sister of Warren, Jessica is a broken woman that despite the Kindred’s best efforts he has been unable to put back together. Several attempts were made in the months following her ‘rescue’ from the clutches of Warren’s sire to return her to something resembling a normal high schooler’s life—with no success. The trauma’s she endured while serving as a ghouled sex slave (and worse) were too persistent, too deep, for those memories to simply be replaced, especially combined with the poignant physical need for something she couldn’t quite put to words. Twice she turned first to recreational drugs trying to take the edge off, but the sights, the sounds, the smells, and the feeling associated with those experiences inevitably brought up more and more repressed memories.
In the end, after months of trying, Warren was presented with an uncomfortable choice, for the acute and growing danger to the Masquerade she presented could not be ignored: kill her, or ghoul her. He chose the latter—a choice she’s seemed determined to make him regret every night since as the lesser of two evils. Despite attempts to help return her to something approaching decency (as decent as a ghoul can be) she remains a wanton thing, constant in her desire for vitae, for drugs, and even for sex. He’s caught her several times sleeping with other ghouls in the service of the Red Right Hand—and is quite certain that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
There are several other more extreme options he’s considered—including sending her to a Kindred groom or even Elyse Benson at an attempt at greater ‘reeducation’ but he has always blanched at the more extreme descriptions of their methods.
Today she ‘serves’ her brother mostly running errands, taking care of day-to-day tasks, and working in the office of the Giani Building—mostly so that other more reliable ghouls can keep an eye on her. They regularly drag her along to church services and have been actively working to keep her clean of drugs (other than vitae)—but it’s a constant effort. Despite all professions to the contrary, she doesn’t appear to want to change.
Warren is an important member of the Red Right Hand, serving as their enforcer as required. He aspires to no leadership, and in the last year has expressed greater interest in the Snake Hunters than the krewe, but is mindful of his ‘responsibilities’ to the rest, especially Gina who he in many ways views as a little sister—if distantly. (Red Right Hand Status ••)
Warren is more than peripherally associated with New Orleans’ most successful Setite-hunting coterie, the Snake Hunters. He’s previously collaborated with them against the serpents, bringing them intelligence and joining them when each lacked the resources to tackle a given problem alone, and that collaboration has continued to this day—and is probably a large reason he has not yet met his end in his private quest against the snakes. (Snake Hunter Status •)
Far more so than his compatriots among the Red Right Hand, Warren has in the past been deputized to support the Guard de Ville—the prince’s iron fist taking advantage of another combat hardened vampire fully capable of following orders and in who’s loyalty there is (comparatively) little question. When the call goes out for additional fighters, he is among the first they are inclined to leverage. It’s mainly Slane Holland’s reticence to deputize a Caitiff as hound that’s kept them from offering him an official position on the Guard. (Guard de Ville Status •)
Warren serves the Sanctified less for his own firm faith—though Catherine continues to nurse it—and more as what he views as the only bulwark against the rampant corruption, perversion, and moral decay which he views as endemic in other factions. His service and commitment, alongside his own faint faith, have been noted by others within the faction, but it has not been sufficient to earn him any particular acclaim. (Hardline Sanctified Status 0)
An illegal Embrace and Caitiff spawned of Setite blood, Warren would be unlikely to garner him meaningful status among the wider Camarilla even if he tried—and he doesn’t. His service to the prince and opposition to his ‘parent’ clan are likely the only thing sparing him outright infamy. All the same, he is known to some, especially the more martial of the prince’s loyalists. (Camarilla Status 0)
The Caitiff of New Orleans hold themselves as no coherent single body, and do not measure esteem and respect among their number as other clans do. (Caitiff Status -)
• 11. Unknown
Maurice Wheeler (e. early 21st century, d. 2016)
• 13. Warren Kontkowski (e. 2016)
Warren’s sire Maurice Wheeler was a former NOPD officer Embraced into the Setites. He met final death soon after siring his childe.
Warren has no idea if his sire Embraced any other childer or not. If he hears of any, there’s little doubt they’ll be the first targets of his wrath.
Warren hasn’t Embraced and is unlikely to receive the prince’s permission to do so—not that it bothers him.