Cyril Masters
Sobriquet: Primogen
Appearance: Masters poses as an elderly man of wealth and influence, a benefactor to the mortal world. His unkempt beard, wispy hair, and wrinkled visage all speak to his years of wisdom. Should he be capable of perambulation for only a few hours each night, no respectful man will question his activities. On these brisk walks, he wears heavy woolen garments, sports a silver-tipped cane, and watches the shadows carefully. When nervous, he holds the knuckle of his index finger to his lips, where one may notice a silver ring with a strangely shaped sigil. Few have the occult knowledge to recognize the Thaumaturgical wards carved into the ring, his lapel pin, and his cane. Potent strength and wards against supernatural creatures make him a veritable demon in a brawl, should his other supernatural Disciplines fail him.
Behavior: Masters is a proper English gentleman with a strong sense of justice. He speaks very plainly, for few can challenge his authority. Even if his sphere of influence is limited, his authority is unquestioned within his domain. Some of his attitudes are anachronistic, yet he firmly supports British government in its policies, even if he does not approve of them. The Kindred of London dare not speak of his brutality, zealous obedience or quiet vengeance. When his agents fail, the elders may reproach Masters, but he is stoic enough to endure their vitriol. If necessary, he will spend years hunting down an enemy of the British crown. Over the last century and a half, Masters' power has grown, and he has contemplated hunting down and driving unwanted supernatural creatures from London. If he finds an excuse to do so, he will most certainly act upon it.
History: Masters had served with distinction in several of Britain's colonial wars. Upon his return to his homeland in 1829, he was horrified by what he saw. For all of the empire's idealism, the government could not keep crime, poverty and squalor from thoroughly infesting London, a locale that was supposedly the grandest city in the world. England allegedly brought civility to colonies around the world, but a few blocks away from the homes of wealthy gentlemen and stylish aristocrats, the abject poor victimized each other like animals.
The year that Cyril returned, a man named Robert Peel presented a plan to save the city from degeneracy and decay. The largest force of police constabulary in the world would patrol the streets, becoming a visible presence to deter the schemes of criminal miscreants. Masters pledged to help wage another war, this one against crime in the very heart of the empire. His military experience earned him a commission in Robert Peel's new constabulary. The citizens of London called him a "Peeler;" years later, he would be known as a "Bobbie."
At first, the enterprise was overwhelming. Many police constables (or "PCs") could only back up the threat of the law with force. The sight of a Peeler walking his patrol, truncheon in hand, spread fear into the populace, but with fear came hatred. Justice became personal and arbitrary, especially once stories of how easily some of the defenders of justice could be corrupted. Empowered without restraint, some zealots became little more than thugs for the Empire, skipping the formality of a trial to bludgeon a would-be criminal into submission.
Masters was disgusted by these stories, but responded with increasing vigilance. His efforts paid off. Festering in London's East End, a cult of criminals had ben abducting London's citizens and butchering them in a sacrificial fashion. The victims had been carefully selected from the lower strata of society. Masters personally led a campaign against this secret society, coordinating the efforts of several officers to expose and destroy this menace. His crusade culminated in a raid on a warehouse, where he discovered that the madmen had been systematically draining their victims of blood to appease a heathen god.
Shortly thereafter, Master's superiors insisted that the general public could not handle the alarm of such a scandal. His men were dispersed to different parts of the city, the building was burned to the ground, the criminals were never seen again, and Masters was stripped of his command. At the same time, he received a most unusual promotion. From that point on, he would report to a member of the British aristocracy with certain connections to other powerful men within the government.
Cyril Masters patrolled the streets of the East End by day, but by night, he took his supper at an exclusive gentlemen's club in central London. Once each week, he reverently consumed the vitae of the Ventrue Valerius, sustaining his flesh, spirit, and career in each singular act of submission. Within the Camarilla, Valerius personally claimed London's police force as part of his domain. By this edict, any Kindred attacking a London police officer would be assaulting Clan Ventrue. Twenty years later, Masters conveniently assumed a position of authority on the police force. The seneschal of London delegated authority to his faithful servant immediately after draining him of blood and cursing him with vampirism.
By 1880, Masters' network of minions within law enforcement was formidable. A small cabal of high-ranking officers within the British police force reported to him regularly. A select few demonstrated their loyalty by drinking his blood. His spies sported the affectations of obscure gentlemen's clubs, complete with secret handshakes and jeweled rings. The few insightful fellows who suspected subterfuge typically dismissed these strange habits as the incunabula of a Victorian fraternity. The men did not frequent the same clubs, however, for the only link that united them was their association with Masters, who visited each of them in turn. When Masters retired, it was a subterfuge allowing him to use the constables of London as his eyes and ears. In the Victorian age, the police of London still carry truncheons, but for ghouls with Potence, the efficacy of their weapons has improved considerably.
Masters keeps up appearances. Just as he is an expert in the social scene of London's clubs, he lives in a modest but tasteful home within London. It is within walking distance of the theater district, where he often takes his entertainment. Because of his cultured attitudes, he finds it relaxing to converse with visiting Toreador about London's social and artistic events, even when he fails to understand them. Several restaurants and pubs are in the neighborhood surrounding Masters' haven, making it the "Rack" for those he allows to feed there.
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