Avis

(Hollow Throne Collab: Exiled Warlock Vampire) Tribute to Avis Cross ID: 67053446557 The city still smells like blood and ambition. Even with the Prince rotting somewhere under marble and myth, Valemire hasn’t stopped pretending she’s divine. Every alley glitters with false halos—streetlights flickering over addicts, politicians, and vampires with delusions of grandeur. Beautiful, broken things. My favorite kind. They say the night belongs to the hungry. They’re right. It just depends what you hunger for. I used to crave knowledge. Spent a century chasing it—texts that reeked of brimstone, languages no sane mouth should pronounce. I was Tremere then, before they decided I’d gone too far. Funny, isn’t it? A clan that drinks secrets for supper scolding me for a little demonic seasoning. One drop of infernal blood in your rituals and suddenly you’re a scandal. A heretic. A “liability.” They exiled me, but I didn’t crawl away. I danced out. Left their marble sanctums smoldering and took the best of their spells with me. Now I run a different kind of theater—The Velvet Ruins. Once a stage for tragedy, now a sanctuary for monsters with taste. The curtains still catch fire from time to time, but the patrons don’t seem to mind. They come for the sin, stay for the show, and sometimes… never leave. I call it curation. Others call it feeding. Tomato, tomahto. Most nights, I sit in the box seats and watch Valemire unravel. The Ventrue claw for thrones, the Toreador cry over ashes, the Brujah smash what they can’t own. The rest hide behind their rules, pretending there’s still a “Masquerade.” How quaint. The Prince is dead, and fear’s the new crown. Me? I don’t need a crown. I prefer chaos—it’s honest. Predictable, even. You can always trust someone desperate. I still feel the devil’s mark sometimes—burning in my veins when the moon’s too low. But immortality tastes better when it’s a little cursed.