Gregory Yates

"Live fast, die hard."

This is the motto that Azzo Drechsler was brought up with, from an early age. Live fast, die hard. Live in the present. Do life for the kicks.

Growing up in Munich made him realise how true to life this maxim was. He was born into veritable shambles, his father being an overworked white-collar and his mother having long since fled the scene, and experienced a pretty scarring first few years of life. By the time he was five years old, his father had committed suicide, feeling unable to cope with the burdens of being a single father. He was sent to live with his uncle - a rough looking biker with more leather than sense.

Curiously, though, the man did a fine job of bringing up young Azzo. Though he lacked in any degree of intelligence, he took him under his wing, and told him the real values in life. How to drink, ride, and bring in the chicks. The stuff they don't teach you at school - a place where Azzo spent very little time, anyway. He couldn't really concentrate in class, and there was nobody forcing him to stay. So what was the point? He just spent most of his time doing odd jobs for various people, or 'delivery' work for his uncle's compatriots.

His eighteenth birthday saw him riding his first motorcycle, which placed him in a higher regard with the rest of his uncle's crew. It was a sort of christening for him; in a way - a social acceptance of a bizarre kind.

"Keep on the road, Azzo," one of the old bikers had said, "And always keep your ass in line. Else you'll get got by pigs."

A nice philosophy, by any account. And one that Azzo would remember for time to come.

Eventually, though, Azzo drifted away from the gritty lifestyle of the biker, gravitating instead to the new 'industrial' scene rising in the city clubs. He loved the harsh, grinding nature of the beat music - and even more so, the leather-wearing women that came with it. He started to make a name for himself on the underground radar; being young, urbane, and good looking, had no problem with Germany was his oyster.

By the turning of the millennium, he had already started his own music project - Frag Uhn - and was making his way up in the industry. Rivetheads, goths, and punks alike adored him for his chaotic sounds, and booming presence on stage. He got popular, and pretty soon found themselves touring in the States.

An Awakening

One night, on stage in New York, there was a gunshot in the club. A gang war, or something; Azzo had no idea what the reason for the killing was - but he saw it all. In detail. He saw the bullet rip through the woman's skull, exploding out with a burst of blood and skull fragments. He saw the look on her eyes as she collapsed, dead before she hit the ground. He saw he ruined body, and tasted the coppery flavour on his lips.

It screwed him up.

Days went by, with no sign of Azzo anywhere. Gigs were cancelled, recording sessions wasted...

He seemed unable to get over it, spending the time locked in his apartment. He sat in a wreck, drinking and taking all manner of toxic substances in hope to forget the violence. But it didn't work. It stuck in his mind like an ugly thorn, twisting painfully.

Everything seemed to be against him. Whenever he turned on the television, images of violence and war would flash up; whenever he tuned into the radio, sounds of gunshots and screams filled the apartment. Even the kitchen appliances seemed to be louder than usual - more grating, as if they were ripping through his mind and throwing away what was left.

"I can't take it!" Azzo had screamed, grabbing his gun from the draw, and holding it to his head. He pulled the trigger...

...and woke up, in an entirely different place. It was still his apartment - but the walls were covered in strange sigils and symbols, that he only understood on a base level of his consciousness. They overlapped and merged with one another, showing Azzo the one underlying fact of reality:

Chaos.

Then, something spoke, in a voice as old as time itself.

"Azzo. Are you ready to forsake the chaos and find true meaning?"

"Sure, why not..." the man replied. But his heart wasn't in it; he was too mesmerised by the icons scrawled all over his apartment.

"Are you sincere?"

"Sure, why not..."

This time, however, something else happened entirely. The subtle power of the Mind Arcana laced his words, fooling the spirit into thinking that he was, indeed, telling the truth.

"Then take your guide, and be one in the power of the Awakened..."

There was a rushing of the wind outside, and Azzo glanced down to his arm to see a small snake winding its way round his arm. It blinked up at him with red eyes, its tongue flicking out in an insidious movement.

"Fucking awesome..."

"You must inscribe your name upon the golden wall, and dedicate yourself to the cause of enlightenment. You must be pure, and just; honourable, and noble-"

"Yeah, whatever..."

Life goes on

Azzo woke up, his heart pounding in his ears. The gun lay beside him, the bullet lodged in the barrel; by some stroke of luck, it had jammed, saving his life. Or maybe not luck, as Azzo had thought at the time.

A hiss drew his attention to his arm again. The snake was still there, glaring up at him with an expression of intense curiosity.

You lied, it said. The voice was barely a whisper.

"You'll get over it," Azzo said with a shrug, dusting off his t-shirt. He glanced around. Same old apartment, same old walls - minus the weird writing, of course.

But he still remembered the Chaos...

One year on, and he's just as obsessed. His life has taken on new meaning now...or a lack of. He's positively enthused with the ideas of anarchy, and the simple pleasure of disorganisation. He's hardly interested in the study of magic, or the politics associated with it; he'd rather just mess around, and indulge in whatever pleasures he can before he inevitably crashes and burns. After all, isn't that what life is about? People are just a brief flicker in the passage of time. They may as well be a bright one.

Don't get Azzo wrong. He's interested in magic. He's just not interested in studying for any length of time, or working particularly hard.

And, why Van Gogh? There's a simple reason:

"That dude cut off his ear to creep out his girlfriend. That is so fucking hardcore."

Recently, Van Gogh's travels have taken him to Boston, with a vague hope of finding out something about Awakened society. He plays a few joints here and there - specifically, he plays at the Manray fetish club - and occasionally drops into the Emerald Scroll to find someone interesting to talk to.

A cabal might be an option for him. But that would mostly depend on whether they could put up with his anarchistic nature or not. He's very adept at the few spells he knows, and probably very good to his friends. His twisted sense of charity (given to him by his Uncle) could come across as loyalty, if viewed in the right way. He couldn't give a damn about hobos on the street, but he'll help a meth junkie any time. After all, he's been there, right?

Description

The very picture of the gritty industrial scene, Azzo's 6' 2" muscles frame tends to stand out from the crowd. He has a rugged handsomeness about his tattooed features - if you can see behind the pale white powder, and the dark black kohl spread around his eyes, that is. His clothes lend themselves towards baggy cargo pants, tight-fitted t-shirts, and spiky wristbands. His hair is blue, spiky and altogether in a state of disarray. Just like his mind, really.

Arcana:

Mind 3

Forces 2

Space 1

Rotes:

Voice from Afar (Mind ••) (pg 210)

Emotional Urging (Mind ••) (pg 207)

Nightsight (Forces •) (pg 163)

Tune In (Forces •) (pg 164)

Familar

Van Gogh, during his Awakening, had a familiar bestowed upon him - in return for the promise that he'd use his magical gifts wisely. Of course, he broke the promise. But who cares? It's hardly like the spirits are going to come take it back. They can't, can they?

...can they?

It's a small snake, with dark green skin and beady little red eyes. It's usually found wound around Van Gogh's arm, content to just watch and listen for the time being. It hardly speaks, hardly socialises, and is loathe to move, really. But, if it feels threatened, it will either spit venomous acid, or sink its fangs into a vital spot. Being the violent thing little thing it is, and considering its owner's audacious nature, this happens frequently.

Attributes:

Intelligence 3, Wits 3, Resolve 2

Strength 1, Dexterity 4, Stamina 2,

Presence 1, Manipulation 1, Composure 4

Skills:

Investigation 1, Occult 2,

Brawl 3, Stealth 4, Survival 2,

Intimidation 2, Animal Ken 1, Subterfuge 2, Empathy 1

Willpower: 6

Initiative: 8

Defense: 3

Speed: 7 (species factor 2)

Size: 2

Weapons/Attacks: Bite 1 (L) 6

Health: 4

Essence: 10

Influence: Blood (••)

Numen: Innocuous, Blast (Acid Spit)

Ban: Van Gogh's familiar must consume the fresh blood of a human every night, else he suffers a -3 penalty to any actions the following day. It doesn't matter how much blood - just a drop will do - but it must be straight from the body.

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