A letter to the Kindred of the City upon Moorlans arrival:
Friends,
From what I have gathered of the Camarilla here in the City, it is an organisation based upon trust. Trust - if you will between individual kindred and indeed between the Clans of it's makeup. Therefore, let me demonstrate a measure of my trust in our little fellowship and allow me to share a tale of my origins, in life as in undeath.
First things first, my birthname is not James Moorlan. The man of my past is no more and his name bears no meaning anymore. I was born in the city of Belfast, a little under 30 years ago, during the height of the troubles that plagued Ulster, to a small working-class family living near the docks. It was a rough childhood, but we were happy. My mother stayed at home whilst Dad went to work in the Delorian factory. I was your average Belfast kid I suppose, went to Church on Sundays, skived off school with my friends, picked on the asian kid round the corner, that sort of thing. We lived as normal a life as any you could get in a city essentially torn apart by Civil War.
By the time I was 10, however, that all changed. My father was out - doing the weekly shop, or meeting with a friend, I can't remember. What matters is we were in the front, my brothers and I, playing a game with mum. I think it was Monopoly. Anyway, I'd left for the bathroom when a loud bang shook the house. I didn't know what had happened. I was terrified. I called out to mum or one of my brothers and when none came, I cried. I was frozen to the spot, to scared to leave the toilet for fear of what I might find. It was there I stayed until an hour or so later, a fireman broke down the door and found me, sobbing. He pulled me out through the wreckage that was the front of our house. A Pipebomb, they said. A small lead pipe filled with plastic explosive and ballbearings. I was the only survivor. My mother and brothers had all been killed instantly.
After the funeral, my father sent me to live with my grandparents in Birmingham, where I spent the remainder of my years (aside from a small holiday to Spain when I was 15 and a School trip to France). I started working at a Private Investigation business specialising in missing persons after I finished school. Work was slow and times were hard, but we managed to break even - mostly by contracting ourselves out to local police forces, or the kind of people who don't want their dirty laundry hung out for the world to see, if you get my meaning. Eventually, I came to run the company, after the previous owners retirement.
One night, about three to four years ago, I was attacked on my way home from the office. Now I've been in a fair few fistfights, don't get me wrong, but this guy was fast and strong. I've no doubt now that this guy was my sire. Anyway, before I knew what hit me, I was out cold. I don't know what was done to me, or why, but when I came to, everything was different. I could see better, I felt stronger. I knew something within me had changed that night.
I searched for my creator for months, slowly learning more of my new life, but each night, I returned exhausted, empty handed and starving. I still remember my first victim, a face that stays with me everytime I feed. I take no pleasure in the act, but I realise it for the necesity that it is for my continued survival.
Anyway, he was an old, homeless man who came up to me one night, asking for change. Now it was a little over a week since I'd been sired and I was starving and weak. I didn't even know what I was doing. I just lept on him and drained the poor soul dry. I forget what I did with his corpse, but I remember spending a great deal of time that night trying to hide it in a local waterway.
I digres. As I said, I spent the first few months of my unlife searching for my creator - something that is still a major ambition of mine. I decided to leave Birmingham and follow a, rather tenacious, lead from town to town. I faked my death and, claiming under the insurance, became James Moorlan. Now I won't go into the particulars of my travels, but I made a few friends, made a few enemies and ended up here, amoungst the first gathering of kindred (and indeed a few like minded individuals) I have had the pleasure of meeting.
I apologise for rambling on. I realise that this usually the territory of Mr. King, but I felt that with such dramatic events in our domain and elsewhere these past few weeks, I might as well introduce myself properly to all those I have not had the chance to converse with yet and tell a wee tale that'd been on my mind for a while.
Thankyou all for listening.
James.
From the Diary of James Moorlan:
The ashen remains of yet another cigarette drop to the ground as I lean against the small balcony rail of my first floor hotel room. A faint glow on the edge of the horizon signals the dawn of a new day. I'd better think about turning in. Another night, another new city, and I still feel no closer to finding my creator. Sometimes I wonder if looking for the bastard is really worth my time.
I know the Gangrel sometimes abandon their childer as some kind of test, but after all I've come through, just to end up here, smack bang in the middle of an all out war, haven't I proved myself enough? Or am I just not Gangrel enough for the asshole? The early morning traffic's starting to pick up. I turn back into my room, closing the shutters and blinds behind me, making sure they're secure.
It crosses my mind sometimes what happened to him. Maybe he died the final death before he could approach me. After seeing what happened when Slough crossed paths with the Hunters, it's definitely a possibility. What if he'd sided with the Sabbat? Would I have to fight him? Would I have to kill him?
I wonder if I could. Or even if I'd side with him. I don't know. I hate to think what'd happen. I've made some decent acquaintances here, even met some others of my kind. I'd hate for them to think of me as some kind of traitor. I could see myself settling down here. It'd make a change over the past few years. You never know, some stability in my life might be nice for once. If only I could shake this damn feeling that something keeps guiding me. Everywhere I've been, it's as if my arrival has been planned by something. I'm not a big believer in fate or anything like that – you're in control of your own decisions, even if your hand's forced sometimes.
I lay down on my bed, a small metal framed thing bought from the local university, and light another smoke. Cigarettes, lone consolation of the fucking miserable. I wonder if this Jimmy guy's worth the bother. Could be another Hunter ploy to lure out another Kindred. I'd better be careful, hardly anyone knows what I'm doing and with half our strength elsewhere, things could really turn sour. Wouldn't want to let Ol' King or the rest of the gang down on my first trip out now, would I? I just hope this thing plays out. Might even be able to turn up some useful intel. That should spice things up a bit. Nearly out of fags. I'll have to stop off at Tescos or someplace before hand. Don't want to ruin my image.
I should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow night's gonna hold enough excitement for my liking as it is.
From the Diary of James Moorlan, second entry
Tonight's the night. My first real trip out in what seems like an age. I check my gear before setting off. Knife's all sharpened up, gleaming like a bastard, and my pistol, an old model .33 hollowpoint all oiled up and ready to go. Nearly outta ammo. I'll need to score some more soon. Coats on, collars up and I'm out the door, tingling all over like some teenage virgin after her first kiss.
Just one thing missing. Fags. Fucking all-night service my cold dead arse. I stop off at the local Library and log on to one of their computers. One new message from Jimmy.
"Retrive the hard drive."
I get up and leave, shooting that cute librarian a wink as I head for the door. I wonder what the Camarilla's stance is on sleeping with mortals. Would she even like a guy like me? All mysterious and Perry-fucking-Mason like? No matter. I'm stopped by one of those homeless guys that prowl the streets on my way out. The "just got outta prison" type. I give him my patented 'tough guy' look and walk on.
A thousand scenarios run through my mind as I near the pick-up. Its late now and all the pubs are on the other side of town - no witnesses - just the way I like it. I stop off in a nearby alley and drop my duffel bag off behind a dumpster. Time to come up with a plan. I wonder if Slough and Samuel got my messages. Too late to worry now.
I summon a few of the local critters. Rats and street mice, no need to show off just yet, and send them off to scout out the warehouse. All clean? You sure? Good. I grip my pistol tightly under the coat and take a deap breath. Time to be a hero again James. Just hope this doesn't end up like London. Lost a few good mates there.
The warehouse is deserted, just the like the rats said. I'm a nosy bastard, so I have a look myself just to be sure. There are a few smashed desktops littering the place and some random circuitry, but it looks as if noones been here for years. Satisfied, I set to work, ripping out all the HDDs I can find and a few other things for good measure. One last look and I leave through the back door. No use staying here longer than I have to, this place gives me the creeps.
Back in the alley, I check everything over as I pack it in the duffel, ripping a transmitter off the back of a hard drive, before heading home. I'm stopped again on the way back by a polis.
"Whats with the bag Sonny?" No use bullshitting him. Don't fancy telling another contact how his stuff went missing - bad for business.
"Computer stuff. I'm in IT repairs, just down from Dublin on business." He seems to buy it. "You wouldn't know how to get to the Holiday Inn would you?" Good ol' predicatble police officers. We go our seperate ways and I end up with a whole new set of directions to a part of the city I've never been before.
The rest of the trip home's thankfully uneventful. I manage to get back, raid the minibar for a stiff whiskey and start sorting through the nights loot. I'll contact Jimmy tomorrow with the good news.
If only I had a fucking fag.
From the diary of James Moorlan. Third entry.
It did me good to get out on the job again. It's been a long while since I've felt so alive, if alive's the word for it. I still need to finalise things off with Jimmy, mainly delivery and payment but if all goes well, I should be looking at a tidy sum and hopefully some useful intel on the city.
I've decided to stay up later than usual, the sun, now in the apex of its rise through the sky, doesn't even make through the makeshift backing I've fixed to the suite's windows. The taste of my last meal, a young prostitute I found round the corner from one of Derby's… seedier establishments smoking the dregs of a fag, is still fresh on my lips as I lay on the king-size bed. Midday, I'd better give him a ring.
The phone's ring is shrill and harsh, a digital interpretation of my need to speak with the one mortal alive I feel I can trust. To an extent. Finally, he picks up.
"What?" His voice is laboured and drawn out. I must've woken him.
"Bobby? This is Moorlan. Long time no see."
"James? Holy shit! I thought you were dead!"
"Yeah, got in some trouble and needed to lay low for a while mate. How's business?"
Truthfully, I hate the swine. He's a pompus, arrogant bastard I wouldn't trust far as I could throw him - and he's a big bugger - but he's well connected and got his grubby mits in every dirty little pie in Birmingham. Catch him in the right mood, and offer him enough of the good stuff, however, and he'll play right into the palm of your hand.
"Fair to middlin'. Busy, busy, busy. Need a holiday, y'know?"
"Yeah, I know the feeling. Listen, I need a favour. I'm down in Derby at the minute, need a kid to run a few errands for me."
"Now James, you know I can't operate in…"
"Listen, I've got enough dirt on you to keep the papers busy for weeks, you understand mate? Just send the kid over. You know where to drop me a line when he gets here." I hang up before he has a chance to reply and crash back down on the bed.
Time to get some sleep.