Gregory Yates

Stanley Lovejoy, a Londoner from the south side, was a bad little boy even before he was a dead one; after spending the better part of his childhood on the streets, hopping between foster homes and institutes, he signed up to the British Army in 1936. And although it wasn’t meant to last, his enthusiasm was certainly there. He enjoyed those first six months in the military career, filled with young eagerness to give Germany a bloody nose.

Sadly, the cold reality of war kicked in soon. In one particular skirmish with the enemy in France, his unit were pushed to the front, and gunned down mercilessly. Stanley can even remember to this day the nightmarish scene – the screams, the throes of agony, and the deafening rattle of the guns. He managed to stay alive, though; he staggered back to the camp, half-dead on his feet and splattered with the blood of his comrades.

Ironically, he received a medal for his bravery, and was upped to a Sergeant. But he was a changed man, filled with bitterness and deep, loathing hatred for his adversaries. He went on to commit a number of atrocities towards the conclusion of the Second World War, the least of which were too horrific to mention for most. Suffice to say, Stanley Lovejoy was dishonourably discharged in 1941, and sent back to a district penitentiary back home.

Prison opened his eyes to the reality of the world. Nothing meant anything on the inside, and nothing was sacred. He learnt quickly to be the meanest, toughest bastard in those four walls – and, after just one year behind bars, managed to scrabble his way to the top. Prisoners were terrified of him, and the guards knew to give him a wide berth. One look at his crazed features was enough to assure them that it wasn’t worth messing with him.

Stanley loved all this, of course, delighting in the feeling of power it gave him. Which was why, eight years later, when his time was finished, he was almost reluctant to leave.

For those first few days on the outside, he considered all sorts of felonies – anything to put him back where he belonged. But, just as quickly as he’d adapted to prison, he worked out how to ‘play’ real life, too. He got in contact with a few friends that were released before him, and soon found himself doing the same sort as work before: blackmailing, intimidating, and threatening. Only this time, it was for someone else. Some mystery man behind the scenes, named ‘Howley’.

It got worse. With the economic slump in industrial England at the time, he was forced to do more and more to make ends meet. Blackmail turned to outright extortion, and threats were replaced with GBH. He even burnt down several offices in the rich end, and hence earned a bad reputation with the local police. But that never stopped him. He needed it.

The ultimate test came on Christmas Eve, 1953, when ‘Howley’ contacted Stanley, and instructed him to do something he’d never done before. Kill one of his friends, in cold blood – just for cash. Sure, he’d killed many times in the War, but that was different. They were the enemy. This was Brigg Bailey, a man he’d known for the better part of ten years. Could he do it?

Standing over the body, clutching the knife and breathing hard, Stanley found out the answer. This was it. He couldn’t sink any further.

“Just my type of scum,” a voice said behind him. Stanley whirled round, eyes wild, and found himself face to face with a tall, shadowy man, with a face like a smashed pumpkin and a reek of graveyard earth. Before he could say anything more, the man pinned him to the floor, and tore his throat apart with a set of long, vicious fangs.

Four excruciating minutes later – though, they seemed like hours – and Stanley awoke again, among the ranks of the Nosferatu. His face, which he had previously regarded as ‘ruggedly handsome’ on a good day, was criss-crossed with deep, lacerating scars and livid cuts. He was disfigured. Vile. A quick glance at his hands showed him the same thing.

“What am I?” Stanley asked, suddenly afraid.

“You’ll see, m’boy. You’ll see.”

Turns out, the Kindred that Embraced him was Howley. He had been testing Stanley, for all those years, pushing him to the limit as to ascertain whether he could last eternity at his side. When he could willingly turn on one he loved, then it was finished. He was always a vampire within, and now he was a vampire without.

Twenty-five years went by: a blink of an eye for the Elders of the night, but an agonisingly long time for Stanley. He was forced into the Carthian Movement on his sire’s whim, and was actively involved with the forwarding of their political agenda in London for quite some time. He was smart, cunning and efficient – and, more importantly, was never afraid to get his hands dirty.

He was too good, it seems. He had secretly begun to grow tired of the Rabble, and all their endless squabbling, and wanted out. There was no chance Howley would listen, so he fled one night, sneaking aboard a riverboat, and then onto a ship bound for New York. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the only Kindred to do so; there was an Irishman aboard the ship, named Owen Gallagher, who was fleeing England for similar reasons to Stanley. The two talked over a number of things on the long journey, one of which being the group he’d never really considered: the Circle of the Crone.

Stanley quickly became enthralled by the idea of unity, and celebration of vampirism. He’d never really had a family. Maybe this was time to try one out?

When he reached the Big Apple, he sought them out. And though they were naturally distrustful of this nomad at first, they quickly realised the value he had for their covenant, and introduced him into the Chorus. Whilst he would never really develop by way of faith, his loyalty, and devotion to the group as a whole made it worthwhile. Everything he did for the Carthians, he could do for the Circle, and that was certainly not to be underestimated.

The year is now 2007. After a nasty episode involving one of the Primogen in New York, Stanley has left the city with the destination of Atlanta in mind. His fellow Acolytes assured him of a position within the Circle there, and that they’d be welcoming him in.

How much truth there is in that statement is open to interpretation, but it doesn’t unduly matter. Wherever Stanley goes, he shows a remarkable ability to adapt, twist and alter the situation to suit him – and Atlanta shouldn’t be any different. He’s smart, ruthless, and wily.

The city could use a man like him, right?

Description

Stanley is tall, and wiry, with a kind of scraggly strength that only comes from a lifetime on the streets. His hair is a tangled, dirty blonde mess, occasionally flopping down onto his green eyes; though, unlike most, his eyes aren't the first thing you notice. His skin is literally covered in deep, livid scars - torn apart in places by the lacerations. Coupled with the maddened glare he always seems to carry, this Haunt is physically disturbing to look at. Watch out.

Quote: "This ain't my fault. It was society that made me this way, y'know? Now hold still, else I'll cut you so bad you'll look fucking worse than me."

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