◀⋮◉◈𓊈 Deer || 23 || She/Her || VtM Player & Storyteller || Artist & Writer 𓊉◈◉⋮▶ Well Hello Sinners! Welcome to the VtM Sideblog. I'm Deer, your chaotic host and Honorary Toreador(if the fae hadn't called dips on me first but here we are). Welcome to all my Vampiric shenangians where I yell into the void about my menagerie of Bloodsuckers. For better or for worse. Blog primarily covers all my content for Vampire the Masquerade and The World of Darkness as a whole. Most educated in V5 VtM as of current but I'm trying to keep up with older editions. main blog: @bohemiandeer.
POV: When the Tzimisce invites you over for a tea date. House guests am I right? One moment you're trying to politely give them a makeover(read: turn them into a human doll for your collection). Next moment they're shooting you and your pets in the face! Talk about a lack of manners. Tsk tsk. So much for showing them your doll collection.
there's not enough fun for writers in this fandom, so here's a list of writing prompts to potentially mix and match! the intent is that askers to send one or more prompts, up to a number the reblogging writer specifies in their tags, which the writer will use as (possibly combined) inspiration for writing about vampire: the masquerade!
each emoji represents an element being requested for the story:
🧓 - asker specifies an age category!
🚶♀️ - human/human ghoul character/s!
🩸 - feeding and/or the effects of blood/vitae/hunger!
🧠 - fic told via an unreliable narrator!
📵 - asker specifies a sect or lack thereof!
💭 OR 💬 - fic told either without any dialogue whatsoever (💭) or as pure dialogue (💬)!
💸 - boon/s, promises, or money!
❤ - relationship/s!
🐉 - asker specifies a clan or lack thereof!
🐎 - animal/s!
✉ - fic told as one or more letters, journal entries, or newspaper clippings! (called "epistolary" if several)
👿 - asker specifies another wod splat! (note: try to stick to splats you know the author knows about or is interested in!)
🩹 - injury!
😇 - Humanity/Path/Road/morality!
🔍 - secret/s and/or gossip!
💪 - asker specifies a Discipline or Discipline power!
⚔ - fighting! (can be social, physical, or mental conflict)
📐 - learning or applying learnt knowledge!
👩👦 - blood family (sires, childer, blood siblings, cousins, grandsires, etc.)!
🛐 - asker specifies a title/position in a sect!
🤗 - the Embrace, or lack thereof!
💤 - torpor, sleep, or death!
🔢 - fic told as a list or tab/search history!
🥕 - the asker specifies a predator type!
👬 - one or more coteries or groups!
🔞 - R18! (note: only send this one to adult authors who have said they ARE okay with this one. no minors, and nobody who's not agreed to it.)
👁 - fic told from an unusual or uncommon-for-the-author perspective! (such as second-person, or as an animal sees it)
🦷 - the asker specifies a merit or flaw!
🥶 - free space! (the asker specifies a word of their choice. could be an adjective, a character's name, an item, etc.)
also, I know this is fairly widely-known courtesy, but if you're reblogging this from a writer, send them an ask for this game!
You asked! So you shall receive! Thank you @pretend-pretend-vampire for the ask! Wish you a happy reading!
I present to you, one of Angel’s journal entries on this. It’s just an excerpt from his time working as a Envoy/Negotiator for Isaac Abrams in his 2nd year or so in LA, helping him with Masquerade Breaches and newcomers and the like. And considering his job deals with a lot of boons, and Angel is a complicated man when it comes to his morality as he holds a lot of high principles. You can imagine that, there were jobs he had to do that he wasn't always particularly sure about in the morality department. These kind of Masquerade Breaches for him being some of the hardest to handle.
______________
An excerpt from a well worn journal with a colourful cover decorated in geometric patterns, with the corners frayed and discoloured along the edges.
Meet Sharpshooter at the bar with bike keys. Feed Victor.
20th October 2017. Friday. Los Angeles.
Another night, another round of bullshit. Well, at least this particular job the Producer gave me sounds bullshit. We got another Masquerade Breach ladies and gentlemen! Hoo-fucking-ray. And frankly, I don’t know whether or not I can actually even do this one. This one might require blood on my hands. But then again did or didn’t he specify that this one is supposed to be a “peaceful” negotiation by any means? Oh fucking hell, I forgot to ask. But then again, you never know with the elders. Especially since they’re not exactly wholly there in the department of humanity and see stuff like this as less of a violation of ethics, and just, more so an inconvenience at most. Not all though. After all, Ina’s not like that. Isaac doesn’t seem like it. But then again, he’s a producer. So I sure as shit can’t trust THAT judgement. Sharpshooter sure ain’t, but pretty sure next to the Baron he is YOUNGER actually, I don’t know. Then again, think he is. He did mention that he was embraced during the Great Depression. Though, I don’t know if Isaac is a product of that time either. From what I could tell from general observation, he does seem a lot older. 1920’s I’m guessing, roughly. He kind of looks and even acts like a movie star from that time. Just when I thought my goddamn textbooks from college was basically useless now, considering I’ve been out of the business for around, 5 years now? Or was it 4? Fuck I’m losing track.
Anyhow. One of the producer’s latest project pets went rogue. A young lady by the name of April Barnes. A really sweet looking girl, from where I’ve been watching for the past while or so. One of those lovely nerdy types with a lot of talent behind a camera, a very good horror director apparently. So much so, Isaac’s been gracious enough, or, as gracious as he can be, to give her a chance. He seemed rather fond of her I guess, but as of late he has been beyond unhappy, because well, we lost another to the embrace. Some disgusting fuck took her on the eve of her bachelorette party, just because he simply couldn’t resist some pretty young doe he cannot have. And now she’s asking questions and doing things just to survive. Who knows how many people might be suspecting something is wrong with her, if she hadn’t told them or they hadn’t figured it out already.
He heard, and he’s not happy about it. The man’s got ghouls everywhere. Of course he knows. And luckily, or unluckily for my ass, they all know me too by this stage. Honestly, how could they not? With how often I get tossed out here to either provide the lot reinforcements, if not that, play AD and make sure they’re either doing their jobs and or got everything under a tight ship. The last thing Isaac wants is to end up with a few leaks in this ship. BUT, but. Luckily, especially in this case, I managed to befriend at least, some of them. They’ve been helping me out with the sleuthing. Not for my blood. First of all. I don’t even know if that’s allowed because they’re Isaac’s ghouls, not mine. Second of all, only Victor is allowed to drink that. I would never in my right mind feed a living human being this shit, even if it’d save their life. The whole idea of it feels wrong, it just feels like a violation in itself, even without the fucking “embrace”. God, I hate that word. Feels filthy. Violation is more like it.
But the more I know, the more I don’t know what to do about this. Isaac doesn’t have time to fix it. And frankly, I don’t want to know how he’d even fix it. Again. Elder. But there is the other question of, how do I help this girl? She has a family. No doubt at least. She has to. She has a job, a promising career, if she hasn’t lost that by now like I did. She must be so lost and SO fucking afraid. Wait I, maybe I can take her in? I don’t know. Or, do I have to take her to Isaac? But, what will he do with her if I follow the orders and do that? But at the same time. Maybe I can do a mercy kill. Give this poor woman some peace. Spare her from having to endure this fucking existence any longer than she already had. Again, she must be so fucking scared. It’d give her peace, yeah. But, no. No. Fuck no. No. I can’t do that. Maybe even when asked. I don’t want more innocent blood on my hands. She ain’t no fucking mutt. This is, an innocent woman. She didn’t do anything to deserve this. Mutts deserve to die. There’s no one to cry at their funerals. Or well, unless the people that do are just as shitty a bunch of individuals as the mutt they’d be mourning. How would I know? My funeral to them is usually just throwing them in a dumpster. But fucking hell, you don’t do that to innocent people. I’m not a monster.
You know what? I’ll ask her what she wants! For all I know, maybe she wants to stick around and endure this? Or maybe she wants someone to just put her out of her misery? Or maybe all she’d want is answers. Maybe Isaac can provide that. I don’t know if I can. I barely know shit about this world myself and I’ve been this fucking thing for what? 4, 5 years? Goddamnit. Where is Ina when you need her!? Or her girls. At least they got it all figured out but I don’t know if that’s a Yarrow House thing or a Tremere thing. But then again, Isaac’s been getting impatient with me and I’m getting scared now. Fucking hell. What am I supposed to do about this?
I have no choice. I have to do it. I owe the man. Or, so he likes to remind me.
After all. He was the one who took me in and gave me this contract. He was the one who found me. Or well, more accurately, it was his sweeper. That guy in particular is a bitch and if I didn’t value my job and keeping my hide intact, I would have straight up recommended that the man get a new one that doesn’t perpetually have a stick up his ass so deep that he might as well be a popsicle on legs. But bloody hell, this man actually acknowledged who I am. Not as even as Angel. As Malachite. He actually called me by name. For fuck’s sake. He acknowledged that I existed. And, it feels good to know that, at least someone in this city hasn’t forgotten you. Even when I didn’t even initially know about him as a person. Everyone knows me as Angel now. It still feels so weird to go by a name that isn’t your own. But still. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? To have an actual sire? Not, someone who only wants you around because they see you as a fucked up play thing they leashed up for their own pleasure. But someone who cares, I guess. Or more accurately, someone who actually treats you like a fucking human being and not just either some glorified errand boy, or a piece of meat, or some lowly ass peasant, or an inconvenience for just basically existing in their presence. Sure there are exceptions among the Elders but very few. So many of them are just, like that.
Maybe I can ask Nines about what the shit to do about this? I have to return his bike from the mechanics shop anyways, especially since the shop was in the area I’m currently motel hopping in, I’m going that direction anyways. That boon on his end is pretty reasonable. Why can't all boons be as reasonable? But, perhaps he’d have answers on how to handle this kind of situation? He’s probably HAD to deal with this kind of situation before and, I trust it that he has a gentler way of going about it. But then again, I don’t know if that’d be violating this boon because I DO owe Isaac still. If not for flat out taking me in and giving me employment, for treating me rather well so far. He even pays me. Rather well at that too. I could afford a damn good hotel room on the Sunset Strip on his dime, but eh, motels are cheaper on the long term anyhow, much more convenient. But fucking hell, I got to keep the man content, I can’t have him getting impatient with me.
For all I know, he’s the type that gets violent. I know the man in the suit always got violent whenever he was impatient with me. I mean, yeah, sure, Isaac is far from the same guy, he doesn’t, feel like the type to do the same kind of disgusting crap the man in the suit always did. But- he’s a PRODUCER. You never know with the producer types. You can never, ever trust a producer. Not again. Not after what he did. I’m NOT making that same mistake again. He may not be Neill, but who is to know? Who is to know whether or not he CAN get violent, especially when upset? Just because he’s far too couth and put together to do THAT doesn’t mean the man can’t hit you. But then again. Even mutts can wear suits and talk in pleasantries. But at the same time what if he isn’t a hitter at all in the physicality department but rather the type of man who goes for your reputation when he’s pissed? I can’t afford that either.
No. I got to do this. I have to find her. I have to talk to her. I have to bring her to him. Then I have to cover it all up. I already got the perfect part set up for that. He might kill her for all I know over all of this shit. But for all I know he might help her too. But I got to do it. I have to do as I’m told. I'm too scared to know what’d happen if I don’t. She must be so fucking scared right now. But the truth is, I’m scared too.
SUMMARY: A callback to when it all first happened. Not the nightmares, no. But rather the first time The Man in the Suit came to Malachite in the form of night terrors. But more so than that, this is a moment of contemplation in his newfound freedom, a reflection of emotion towards the man who all of the sudden was now an uninvited guest plaguing his mind whenever dawn called. Despite the fact that the man was thoroughly dead, and Malachite, finally free of his presence in his unlife. It's a complicated stew of emotions overall. Luckily though, at least back then. There was someone to help him through.
PART 1 IS LINKED BELOW THE POST. HAPPY (OR UNHAPPY, I DUNNO) READING.
| : LONDON. 2011. DATE UNKNOWN. : |
For the first time in a while, Malachite thought he’d have a peaceful night’s rest, or day’s rest rather. After all, all he could do was sleep it off, lying in his blacked out room in the house they were given by the Tzimisce, damn well near comatose, at least when he wasn’t idly ambling about during the night. He can’t even piece together what was happening, only really being able to recall absent minded recollections of Tour de France and a royal wedding from passing the time with the coterie mates downstairs when he managed to surface, complete with the Whore and the Clown’s insistent bickering as the Doctor silently watched the screen, completely unbothered, and his old friend sat in the basement, tinkering with who knows what. But for the most part, he kept to himself in his room, purposely secluding himself, curled up in a ball like a lost stray as he slowly ran a pair of fingers through his hair. He was starting to remember now. A lot of things. His mother. His old life. His old love and the discarded ring, the memories of a dead career and exactly how it all died. The things that Neill did to him that he didn’t want Malachite to remember.
But no, that was supposed to be love, wasn’t it? He said it was supposed to be. Every time he saw him, he couldn’t help but feel entranced. But if it was supposed to be “love”, how things are supposed to be, why did it always hurt? Whenever he did it. How come he was always so bloody fucking scared of him? Or was. That is not what “love” is supposed to be, right? And worst of all, why does some stupid part of him still “love” the man who abused him? Or used to love him? Did he actually even love him to begin with? Or did Neill make him believe that he “loved” him, so that he could beckon him forth like a dog and hurt him more whenever he fancied? To use like a toy. After all, that was all he ever was to him. A toy. Property.
The whole thought process made him feel filthy all over again, not that it helped to shower off the filth. That he had tried, multiple times. He had tried scrubbing at his skin until it was raw and almost bleeding from how he couldn’t feel anything anymore, and scrubbing his scalp clean with The Whore’s menagerie of shampoos until the water ran clear. But no matter what he didn’t, he couldn’t purge the filth, it wasn’t a filth that could be purged by a cleansing of soap and water. His soul was forever stained red now, with blood, with memories, with things done to a body that could never be undone. Perhaps the only way to clean the filth is through wringing it out in the sun. No. No. He couldn’t do that. She still needed him. They already lost so much she couldn't lose him too. Malachite could feel himself almost reach out for the sun’s non-existent beams, before yanking his hand back, shuttering as he resumed hugging himself, feeling his eyes flutter as he swayed himself back and forth, ever so slightly, just like he did when he was a child, worried sick for his mother as he’d wait for her to come home every night she worked night shift. After all, he knew what bad men did to pretty girls when they were out alone, he heard the stories around the Rez, and his mother was pretty, who was to say a bad man wouldn’t take her too? Never in his life did he think that the bad men didn’t stop at just pretty girls, even when he knew from experience that gents weren’t exactly safe either. Fuck, if only I’d listened. Then perhaps I never would have been here. But still- the job.
He didn’t know what time it was when he heard the door open, snapping awake to see who it was, curling further into his corner as he gazed up to whoever it was. No, it was happening again. FUCK.
In the doorway, right before him, appeared a man in a suit. An older middle aged man,pale face well worn with neat grey hair and a beard to match, staring at him with soulless blue eyes. A normal man, a sickingly normal man. The kind of man who would have been considered handsome in his youth. The kind of old bastard usually seen perched in Producers’ chairs and on office couches. The kind of sick man who selfishly pulled him into all of this to begin with.
But behind this man, there was a presence, this malevolent, demonic presence that carried the same type of aura as the sickingly sweet scent of a dying corpse. Yet it didn’t carry the smell. This thing smelled like nothing, or so he swore it, but he swore could still smell the thick stink of Guerlain Vetiver from his memories, to him it might as well have been the same thing. The old bastard’s cologne, mixed with the remaining acrid scent of soot and ash that he still hadn’t managed to clear from his nose. He knew it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. The last time he saw the old fuck, it was when he was reduced to ashes by the Clown, all bent over him, literally drinking his soul out. But oh if it didn’t feel so real. Like Neill had come back right back from the dead. Just to torment him. And then, the thing spoke. His voice. As clear as day. “Oh, there you are~ I was looking for you. Surely. You know by now, that hiding from me is no use to you.” The old bastard uttered with a tsk before approaching him, a slow, arrogant saunter like a lion’s, as if closing in on his prey. He always had that way about him, that made Malachite feel small, so much smaller in comparison to him, and the closer the visage got to him, the more his dead chest felt like it was possessed by a caged bird, trying to rip out of it in a panicked flight. But all Malachite could do was sit there, paralyzed and afraid beyond belief, barely uttering a whimper as the thing crouched down before him, caressing his face gently at first, like some fucked up lover, before it violently went for the throat.-
That was when he started fighting back, feeling the suffocating sense of touch, violently kicking away at something but he didn’t know what until he heard a voice break through the haze, vocalizing the struggle caught up in his own cords as Neill shook at him, or whatever it was, shook at him.
“Come on. Snap out of it! It’s okay Mal! It’s just me. FUCK, fucking hell. Can you calm down!? You’ll hurt yourself.”
It wasn’t until then he realized that the voice wasn’t at all like the man in the suit’s, a lot hoarser, raspier, ghoul-like in a way, tinged with a somewhat thick British accent. It wasn’t until then that his eyes flew open, and what he saw wasn’t the fucking dead man, no, it was a different man entirely. To most, he thought, perhaps this one wouldn’t have been as much of a comfort either, as he found himself eye to eye with a tall, lanky Nosferatu dressed up in his black coat and slacks, practically holding him at arm’s length by the shoulders until Malachite stopped struggling against him altogether. Usually, it was difficult to tell what the Nos was thinking, his poker face was as immaculate as can be as far as Malachite could tell, but now, he could see the Nos’s face contorted in concern, perhaps with a mild bout of irritation over being nearly met with a heel to the chin, but predominantly concern nonetheless. But in that moment, if like any other, he calmed down upon seeing his friend, slowly but surely but calm enough to just slump into his arms altogether, shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“Zodd. Oh thank fucking god.”
He gasped out in relief, bordering on a sob as the Nos just held him, slowly wrapping him in a hug as Malachite clung onto him like he was a bastion of safety in the daylight before the other man let out a long sigh.
“Was just about to say that I might be ugly, but surely not THAT much.”
He heard Zodd dryly quip with a raspy chuckle, more so if anything, to help bring the native man down to earth. But for the rest of the afternoon, they remained quiet, just sitting there on the floor, side by side when Malachite grew finicky from the feeling of being touched for too long and Zodd broke apart the hug to respectfully give the man his space. There were times Zodd gently tried to pry, to figure out what was wrong with his friend, to hear more of the story. But he learned very quickly that it’d just make Malachite clamp up even more, now more so than ever, that it was the kind of sensitive topic that the man flat out refused to talk about in any sort of detail. It was the kind of thing that made Malachite push everyone and everything away at worst. Even among friends, Malachite believed no one would even fully believe him. But Zodd was a smart man, a quick learner, so it wasn’t of any surprise that he learned that the best language to speak in moments like this, was silence and acknowledgement. Sometimes, he’d talk. He’d share stories of his life before the day he died, from back on the Rez, and in LA. At least the memories that weren’t hazy and blocked off. In return, Zodd shared his own stories of what he could remember.
-
-Over the past few days, if not the entire time he’s been with the Coterie, Zodd’s been the only one to really consistently check up on him. The one to risk putting himself on the red list killing an old man on his behalf the first time, when Neill found him and tried to rope them all into the Tower, just to get his precious fucking doll back. The first one who saw. The first one who stood up for him. He quite liked Zodd, despite the fact that initially, he was somewhat scared of him. The Nos was an honourable man at heart who didn’t take shit, and that was the kind of person Malachite liked having as a friend.-
| : LOS ANGELES. PRESENT DAY : |
Angel sometimes wondered about him, about Zodd now and then. He still had his contact on the phone, mainly to help the Nos put his old SI skills to use within the Kindred side of society, as a favour for all the times he stood up for him. But still, he missed his presence sometimes, if not, most of the time. He offered Zodd come with him back then, when they were standing on the docks, if only Zodd had come with him to Edinburgh then. For years, he thought Zodd was dead and that the sun god in a dead man’s body won him out, despite knowing that if worst comes to worst, that’s what Zodd wanted, to go out doing right by everyone rather than die a death he considered devoid of a purpose. But now and then, he’d see him, occasionally following him, as if to make sure Malachite was okay regardless, and sometimes, they’d talk, or even sit side by side in each other's silence, just like old days. Angel missed that though. He missed having someone in his space that made him feel, safe.
PART ONE:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 1 · 𒐬𓊈THE MAN IN THE SUIT 𓊉𒐬 · Michael Allen - Eternal Nights
CW: Implications of SA and Abuse.
SUMMARY: If there is one thin
SUMMARY: If there is one thing that Malachite knew all too well. It was nightmares. It had been the one constant in his unlife ever since he was "embraced" into Kindred society. Every day, as soon as dawn broke and he was stuck in day sleep, it would happen again, over and over. Often of the same thing. He thought they would have gone away by now, now that he's Angel, and the thing that haunted him most was burned to dust what felt like eons ago. But what's worse is, even after he'd long forgotten its face, and even its name. It still comes to haunt him to this day.
| : LOS ANGELES. PRESENT DAY : |
It was happening again, the dreams, or the nightmares rather. Angel got them from time to time, on a semi regular basis. He hated falling asleep, even when he had to do it, because every time he’d lay down, he was scared that he was going to see him again, the man in the suit. The man in the suit had a face once, an older white face with silvery hair and a sharp chin, Angel couldn’t quite remember, he refused to. But as the years went by, he forgot what that face looked like anymore, so, the man in the suit’s face warped into that of a horrifying fusion of man and shadow instead. He once had a voice too, the man in the suit, Angel was sure of that. But nowadays he only spoke in the voices of the men Angel drank from, sometimes a lone voice, sometimes an amalgamation of them. But there was one thing that was always consistent with the man in the suit, whenever Angel would see him, whether he closed his eyes, or saw him slink out of the shadows in the corner of the room, he knew he was in for a bad time.
Whenever his close his eyes and see the man in the suit in his dreams, it would always be of the same place. If it was, even a dream, there were some parts of it that felt like the half forgotten replay of a memory, like a damaged home video with half the video while the rest is just, reduced to static, an empty nothingness. He still remembers the first time it happened, the first time he, saw him, before he had started leaking into reality as well. It was all in that office in the London penthouse, with that big red couch, perched up all nice and pretty under a menagerie of art. The man in the suit would invite him, he’d sit on the couch, answer his questions, just like he would answer a producer when it came to matters of business.
”This role is that of a vampire, you think you can play this part?” ”Yes. Of course I can. I play anything if I set my mind to it.”
If only. He had known. Then, the cup. The wrist. The sensation of a heavier body against his. The sensation of, losing oxygen and suffocating alive. It’d feel so real he’d often find himself struggling in a desperate bid to push off whatever wretched thing had him pinned down, sometimes accidentally waking himself up in the process as he’d fall out of bed, yelling at this thing to leave him alone, pleading with him to stop touching him, get the fuck off of him, sometimes so caught up in that vivid image that, it’d take him a moment to realize he wasn’t **in** that penthouse anymore.
There were many more like it. Sometimes it was that goddamn fucking office. Sometimes, it was the bedroom, or the dining room, or some ballroom where he’d have him sit down in his arms, frozen as he tried to shout or reach out for help from whoever else would be in that particular dream, only to find that he could do nothing, or that they would just disappear into a wisp on the rare occasions he could muster it to get up and run after them, desperately scrambling at suit jackets and the skirts of dresses, screaming with a voice that never wanted to come out.
Why aren't you listening to me? Can't you see me? Can't you see what's happening
That was all he saw whenever he closed his eyes, for years. That was until the bouts of sleep paralysis started, or nightmares warped into night terrors that often left him acting out.
Gradually over the years, the man in the suit started to leak into reality too, often when he’d have his eyes open, reluctant to sleep but unable to when his body would flat out refuse to move, only to see him in the corner of his eye as he’d creep into the room, and climb into his bed. He hated it. More than anything. Just feeling the weight of the bed shift as this thing would climb in with him. Sometimes it’d just lay there, but more often than not it didn’t. There has been many times he’d close his eyes and pray to ancestors and gods that have long abandoned him, only to open them up and find the man in the suit on top of him, wrapping its hands around his throat or just, staring into his soul with that relentless grin as it drank in his fear like blood. Sometimes the only way he could snap out of it was to pray, or to count, or to think of literally anything else and fixate his eyes on the bedroom lamp when he can’t manage to keep them closed at all. Fuck, where's the fire? Someone please, just set me on fire. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. Just. PLEASE. Anything to make him go away. I’d give anything to make it go away.
And then. Nothing. As if he was never there.
Angel hated it to go to sleep, and for damn good reason. He doesn’t remember anything about that man anymore. Yet, even in death, his presence haunts his dreams. At this stage he has grown used to associating the day with fear. Not in the same way as other Kindred in regards to the fear that came with the sun, but more so, the fear of sleep, the fear of waking up screaming again, or dashing against walls and falling off beds, trying to fight off the horrifying blend of nightmares into reality. Most days he’d only get sleep once those episodes passed.
He didn’t get them everyday, but goddamn if he didn’t live in both fear of getting yet another one yet again as soon as it’d hit 5am, or relief when the expectation of fear would never be met and instead would leave him with blissful nothingness. Those were the good days, the quiet days. Sometimes he didn’t even dream those days, and, if he did, it was of memories long passed and dreams long gone. Just peace. He’s been getting so much more of those days the further away he’s been moving from 2011. But still if only he had more of those days and the man in the suit would leave him alone. For good. If only ALL he had, were those days. Why is it that everything in those dreams, the penthouse, the rooms, the people, the theatre, *the sire*, is gone, but the man in the suit still stays? Even in the day.
He thought whatever non-existent oh so mighty being or two up there protected people during the day, after all, isn’t that what Shiwoye always said? That the ancestors would always fucking protect them when they needed them most? Where were they?? Why aren’t they answering?. Perhaps, they had abandoned him after all, discarded him as, a filthy with tainted blood, eternally stained dirty by the white man. He certainly felt filthy every time he woke up from an episode. The native man in him, figured it was high time and a good idea to get a talisman or some sort of cure for, whatever was happening to him every time he tried to sleep. But the other half of him would often disregard that train of thought altogether, knowing damn well that, it might not even help. This was not some evil spirit to banish away in ceremony. No, it was just his mind, playing a very fucked up trick on him. Something that can’t be cured with a smudge and a prayer or a visit to a holy man. The only person who can get him out of it, is himself, and in all frankness, that was one of the things that scared him most about these ordeals. The idea that, there was no one else to save him.
No one else to understand. Who could see the man in the suit too.
PART TWO:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · 𒐬𓊈THE MAN IN THE SUIT : PART 2 - THE PROLOGUE 𓊉𒐬 · Mother Mother - Angry Sea
CW: Implications of SA and Abuse.
SUMMARY: A
there's not enough fun for writers in this fandom, so here's a list of writing prompts to potentially mix and match! the intent is that askers to send one or more prompts, up to a number the reblogging writer specifies in their tags, which the writer will use as (possibly combined) inspiration for writing about vampire: the masquerade!
each emoji represents an element being requested for the story:
🧓 - asker specifies an age category!
🚶♀️ - human/human ghoul character/s!
🩸 - feeding and/or the effects of blood/vitae/hunger!
🧠 - fic told via an unreliable narrator!
📵 - asker specifies a sect or lack thereof!
💭 OR 💬 - fic told either without any dialogue whatsoever (💭) or as pure dialogue (💬)!
💸 - boon/s, promises, or money!
❤ - relationship/s!
🐉 - asker specifies a clan or lack thereof!
🐎 - animal/s!
✉ - fic told as one or more letters, journal entries, or newspaper clippings! (called "epistolary" if several)
👿 - asker specifies another wod splat! (note: try to stick to splats you know the author knows about or is interested in!)
🩹 - injury!
😇 - Humanity/Path/Road/morality!
🔍 - secret/s and/or gossip!
💪 - asker specifies a Discipline or Discipline power!
⚔ - fighting! (can be social, physical, or mental conflict)
📐 - learning or applying learnt knowledge!
👩👦 - blood family (sires, childer, blood siblings, cousins, grandsires, etc.)!
🛐 - asker specifies a title/position in a sect!
🤗 - the Embrace, or lack thereof!
💤 - torpor, sleep, or death!
🔢 - fic told as a list or tab/search history!
🥕 - the asker specifies a predator type!
👬 - one or more coteries or groups!
🔞 - R18! (note: only send this one to adult authors who have said they ARE okay with this one. no minors, and nobody who's not agreed to it.)
👁 - fic told from an unusual or uncommon-for-the-author perspective! (such as second-person, or as an animal sees it)
🦷 - the asker specifies a merit or flaw!
🥶 - free space! (the asker specifies a word of their choice. could be an adjective, a character's name, an item, etc.)
also, I know this is fairly widely-known courtesy, but if you're reblogging this from a writer, send them an ask for this game!
i always love to hear about vtm ocs!! so for the ask game, how about 37 + 49 for your vamp?
AYYYYY. THANK YOU! And ofcourse! I'm more than happy to yap about my traumatized son~
🐈⬛ 37.What is the most common feeling or emotion in your OC's life?
In Malachite's case, it's a mixture of melancholy, frustration and just the feeling of being perpetually lost, with a little bit of nostalgia for the past mixed in. The feeling of being perpetually lost is especially prevalent nowadays after he got embraced. Mainly because before his embrace, he was FINALLY getting a footing in his life. His life was just getting started, he had a promising career, a whole lot of good friends, his own place in LA(even if it was a sorta questionable apartment in Orange County). And not just that, he had already found a purpose in his career as an actor, or so he thought.
Until that whole world got yanked out from under him against his volition and left him with nothing purely because of the selfish whims of someone else. So, now he's just the Kindred equivalent of a perpetually lost stray cat trying to find a purpose in unlife after being forced to essentially start all over again. And that in itself comes with all its own melancholy and oh so many frustrations. It's frankly a miracle he didn't develop anger issues with all that pint up frustration with no where to go outside of his feeding practices. Much less that he manages to keep everything tucked away under such a amicably polite facade a vast majority of the time without crashing out.
🐈⬛ 49 Does your OC fear Death?
Yes. OH YES. Yes he does. For one, he doesn't want to die because it would leave his mom alone as the only surviving family member of his direct family, excluding his cousins. She has no one left but Malachite now essentially. His uncle, her big brother, is gone. His grandparents are long gone at this stage. Yeah there is his aunt and cousins but a good few of them already flocked away. So he is wholly aware that if he dies, she'll be all alone and he KNOWS she'll not be able to take it.
Then on the other hand, for him as an Indigenous Kindred, death carries a particular fear for him now. For him, growing up, death carried the somewhat? comforting context of reunion. In his grandmother's beliefs, it meant reuniting with your ancestors and your loved ones who already crossed to the other side. He saw it as this thing of "Yeah. You're gone now. And that sucks. But at least you're with your family now, you're not alone in this, and frankly, you never were. They'll be here for you". For Malachite, there was something akin to SOME peace in that. But he feels that the moment he got embraced and died the first time, not only was he deprived of that, but he'll never get that chance to reunite with his family, ever.
Because his whole unlife relies on hurting people just to survive, on top of him just, flat out foregoing what spirituality he had after his embrace. Essentially, he's been severed from his connection to his people prematurely, in more ways than one.
Not to mention, he's heard from a couple of Kindred here and there that the only direction ANY Kindred soul is going regardless of how good their intentions, is basically fucking hell. All because of what some dude he has never even met did like 5000+ years ago? Yeah, and he does NOT want to find out whether or not that theory is true.
It's bad enough that he'll never get to see his family again, including his mom when she does eventually pass away. It's even worse that at the back of his head, he knows he'll probably spend final death banished to the Shadow Realm. Unless he gets the "pleasure" of being turned into a wraith. Which, also sounds like a miserable existence to him.
He may hate being effectively undead. But he fears death itself more.
YEEEEEEE. THANK YOU FOR THE ASK. OML THIS IS MY FIRST EVER ASK. THANK YOU SO MUCH.
Anyhow! Answering for Malachite.
🐈⬛ 5. What is your OC's Gender and Sexual Orientation? Is this what they also identify as in Canon, or are they (not) fully aware?
Malachite very much identifies as a man, even if he is somewhat androgynous about it at times. And he is a bisexual disaster in all ways. He has always identified as both, even if he thought he was straight for a time in his youth and he is not wholly aware of the more androgynous angle of his masculinity. The man grew up with Michael Jackson as a role model, so ofcourse he sees flamboyamce as a perfectly valid way to express one's masculinity.
Initially he was very insecure if not somewhat hesitant to explore his sexuality because he grew up in the 80's - 90's where bisexuality was heavily stigmatised and treated as "Oh it's just a phase" still, especially for men as it came with the double whammy of not only being seen as promiscuous automatically but also being treated as a gay man who is too afraid to suck it up and come out already. Not further helped by the Aids crisis. And one can imagine how all of that would affect an Indigenous man during that time. This was prevalent for him well into the 2000's, where he took to dating men secretly in comparison to his girlfriends and put in a lot of effort to keep his sexuality a "mystery" throughout his film career just to keep his job in fear that he'd get ditched for being bi. Not just for the "allure" of it to keep the audience like some would paint it at the time.
But as he has grown older and the world more open minded, he is a lot more open about it. In fact, he is that one guy at the gay bar who would be giving relationship advice varying in questionability and discouraging the poor souls there to drink and forget their ex NOT to call them. Because he has been there and it NEVER ends well. No matter what the gender. He still shows attraction to both but is a lot more apprehensive towards men due to trauma inflicted on him by his sire, so for men it just takes a while longer for him to open up around them than previously.
🐈⬛ 11. What does your OC carry around in their pockets? What about their bag?
His pockets? Phone, wallet, pocket knife and car keys. He also carries a pair of revolvers but usually in his coat pockets. Sometimes he would carry blood packs for emergency use.
And his bag usually consists of clothing, his jewelry, his toiletries including his hair brush and perfumes, as well as his journals, false documents, and when he travels for work, whatever he needs to ferry around. He also has a laptop.
🐈⬛ 18. What is your OC's bad habit?
For one, making impulsive choices and rushing his decisions, including in situations where his life is in danger. He has a penchant for rash decision making and acting first before thinking later. And it's gotten him into quite a good few dilemmas. Which can be frustrating for others to deal with overall. But his other biggest one is neglecting himself mentally in favour of "manning up and brushing it off" before moving on due to how he was raised. Which, did not serve him well at all as an adult. He used to have a bad habit of staying in toxic relationships but ditched that in favour of his self preservation, as well as smoking, which he still occasionally does. Not to mention he also has a bad habit of over-extending himself at times and avoiding asking for help.
🐈⬛ 38. What is the most recurring theme in your OC's nightmares?
For him it is his sire. Specifically what his sire did to him. His time under his sire was very traumatic for him, to the point of the old bastard giving him night terrors and bouts of sleep paralysis. He doesn't remember his sire's name or face anymore, he simply calls him "The Man in the Suit" because he'd appear as this shadowy thing in a suit in his nightmares. But more deeply than that. The most recurring theme in his nightmares is being stripped of his agency, in addition to being ignored and treated as nothing but a doll, a plaything, even when he speaks up to others about it. There is this overall helplessness that becomes a pattern in his nightmares, that makes him feel like he's perpetually trapped in London all over again. And it impacts him immensely in his waking life because not only does it influence his fear of speaking up about any of his struggles overall to just about anyone and henceforth fuel his trust issues.
It also plays a key part in attitude of "I am an unbound bastard. No one is allowed to control me and my life. No one is allowed to own me. The only person I belong to and that has full control of me at all times, is myself". He didn't have any control as a fledgling, and he does not have control when he sleeps. So he over compensates by trying to maintain control of himself and his life at all times when he is awake instead.
Because I want to answer them all but it's too much for one post so doing it in chapters.
So. Some lore on Malachite for shits and giggles!
🐈⬛ 1. Where was your OC born, and where did they grow up?
He was born on the Mescalero Apache Reservation in New Mexico and actually grew up on the Rez. He didn't move out of New Mexico until his late teens/early 20's for college.
🐈⬛ 2.How does your OC remember their childhood? Is this an accurate reflection of what their childhood was actually like?
Oh he remembers! Malachite remembers it well. He even logged it down in one of his journals lest he forgets. He was raised by his grandparents, his uncle and a single mom who was somewhat of a child herself when she had him. His mother was a loving but somewhat immature/irresponsible mom in her youth, so growing up he saw her as more of a cool older sister figure than a mom. Though she did mature and become a more responsible parent overtime.
But even then his initial view of her never fully went away and it resulted in a relationship akin to Tino and his mom's from the Weekenders, well into adulthood. His grandparents were the ones that raised him for the most part, if not them, his uncle and that branch of the extended family, his mom was working two or more jobs out of high-school throughout a majority of his childhood to provide for him. But outside of waiting late into the night for her to come home from her diner job and seeing her off at 6 in the morning, he doesn't regard that part of early childhood as much with how absent she was, besides the worry for her. She always made up for it with VHS tapes and movie nights.
His grandparents were both boarding school survivors, and his grandpa in particular was not just a Vietnam vet on top of it but an AIM Activist too. Though he was a honorable man with a shrewd personality to him, in fact, that's where Mal got it from, he was an alcoholic due to the trauma he faced in his life from the school and the tunnels. He was a great grandfather when he was sober, but Mal only saw that side of him sometimes. Most of the time he spent more time taking care of grandpa than grandpa did taking care of him because of how often he was strung out to just, forget things. If anything he knows more about his grandpa from his grandpa's AIM friends, who took the family in as their own and sorta raised him in his place when he passed away.
His grandmother was an anxious woman trying her best to give him a good life and keep shit together when his mom wasn't there. She was a fussy and high traditional but loving old lady who made a diligent boy out of him but spoiled him rotten at times. So Mal spent a good amount of his childhood taking care of her too and making sure she was okay just as much as she spent that time taking care of him.
His uncle was like his father, fun, kindly but firm when needed. His cousins were like his brothers. They were inseparable in his youth, ever since he was born. In fact they were very protective over their baby cousin, even if they often roped him into their schemes and simba'd him around because of the amount of attention he'd get them from the girls. They started his love for acting ala reinacting film scenes with his uncle's old video camera well into high school for the fun of it.
Despite the hiccups, like nursing his grandpa on the couch whenever he was drunk, the nightly waits that left him falling asleep on window sills, the lack of money or time with his mom, his grandmother's panic attacks, his grandpa and uncle's passing from liver complications caused by a bottle, having to be picked up by grandpa's AIM buddies from school, because mom was out working shifts some days, worrying about whether or not she'd even come home, based off the stories of the ladies and girls who would go missing on the road at night. He still considers it a happy even if somewhat melancholic childhood. The people who raised him were all traumatized and complicated and overall messy in their own ways but they still very much loved this boy, and did nothing but their best to make sure he got a good life. He acknowledges that first thing and appreciates it. He was raised with love.
They tried to hide their problems from him, to make sure he never saw any of the mess left behind by generational trauma, they knew full well how it did nothing but lead to disfunction. They did not want him to repeat their mistakes. But no matter how hard they tried to do that, it still very much peeked through and he was still exposed to it all. It's just that he wound up so used to it that he drowned it out as a normality, even if it was upsetting. But even then they did their best and it was enough.
🐈⬛ 3. If your OC could revisit their childhood, what would they like to change about it? Anything at all?
A good few things. If he had the means, he'd get his family help. He get his grandfather and uncle help for the alcoholism before it took them. He'd help his grandmother, and the rest of the family, heal. But her especially so she didn't have to be afraid of the dark or go into panic attacks when things got too much. He'd help his mom get a stable job or at least more money in the house so she wouldn't have to be gone so much. It would be less so for the benefit of him, for that little boy caught in the middle. He'd do it purely because he'd want to help his family, to make them feel better. So they wouldn't have to be so "sad" anymore, as kid him would describe it. It'd mean less death and worry.
🐈⬛ 4. Describe three of the most important photographs your OC owns.
His mom retrieved all his albums when he initially disappeared from his apartment. But the ones he specifically carries around is the last photo the family took together when both grandparents and his uncle was still alive, the last photo he and his cousins took with his eldest cousin when he was still alive and a photograph of his mom and him when he graduated from LA Film School as one of the first members of his family to get a higher education. She was so proud of him then.
That the vast majority of Kindred Society basically treat him like a Bad Luck omen. To the point where literal Princes fear his presence in their city. To the point of the Camarilla at least, having their own specialized code that is basically a personal code red SPECIFICALLY made for whenever Beckett makes his presence known in their dominion. Like the moment he walks into a room, all the Elders give this long exasperated sigh of "Oh fuck. It's Beckett." ..... Purely because everyone is afraid of what the shit he is carting after him more than Beckett himself.
Yet. They still entertain him and his presence before booting him out because he and his information is just THAT valuable.
Oh. And that he is the type of Archeologist that licks dirt off his fingers after rubbing it between them when observing some random ass excavation site as a method of dating said excavation site. And somehow getting it more or less right everytime lmfao. No one knows how.
And that is without going into the idea of him having so much obsurd ass facts and knowledge about the human world he accumulated first hand that he be dropping the most unhinged WW 1 and 2 lore smack dab in the middle of fricking Gehenna to pass the time. In reality, it's because he is so old. But to every Kine out there that has the experience of having him as a Archeologist buddy, he just comes off as a particularly ardent history buff.
okay im going to post this on tumbler as well cos i think its important for artists to know,
if you like having control over your oc never enter a official WOD art competition like the one they have announced recently
this is the big issue "Give Paradox Interactive a non-exclusive, worldwide, royalty-free license to display, reproduce, distribute and publicly communicate the artwork on any platform (or list the platforms) for an unlimited duration."
it gets worse
" Intellectual property
By submitting your content to us you hereby grant Paradox a non-exclusive, perpetual, transferable, irrevocable, sub-licensable, royalty-free, and worldwide license to use, modify, reproduce, publish, perform, display, distribute, make derivative works of and otherwise commercially and non-commercially exploit all content submitted by you in any manner or medium now existing or hereafter developed, without separate compensation to you or any other person or entity. "
so yep "make derivative works" = your OC belongs to us, so "cool design its ours now"
transferable = that they can give to another company at any time
this all includes for Ai training btw
on top of their base licensing shit that lets them sell your art or put it in books use it to advertise and never pay you a cent even if you don't win, just submitting it
if you are okay with your oc being used for profit, and going uncredited
by a giant company that could easily pay you if they wanted to, go a head submit...
but if your not okay with that yeah don't enter
the "prize" is a PDF and discord role btw
look a lot of companies do shit like this so just know if you enter you are signing your oc over to a corp far beyond your control
Why Hello Sinners! Yes I would like to confirm that I am still alive. I have not said hello to Mr. Sun and abandoned this account yet. Though I do apologize sincerely for my absence. I had to take a small break from VTM for a small while and for good reason. Heads up that there is some relationship drama involved.
I initially got into VTM because of my ex. He was the Storyteller of my very first Chronicle as a Player, hell he admitted one of the reasons he even planned this thing was as a failed attempt at salvaging a dying relationship when I drifted away from him towards our group at the time in his emotional neglect. He was the one who introduced me and installed VTM:Bloodlines on my computer, even helped me with some difficult bits. He was one of the players at my table during my very first stint as a Storyteller for a game to where he even helped me as a ST with resources, though, a majority of the Chronicle I built myself with my own hands, but that game has long since been canceled due to his presence tainting it and mutuals being uncomfortable with the idea of playing with two halves of a broken relationship.
So when we broke up 6 months ago, a messy break up by the way, my love for the game wound up caught in the crossfire. I moved on just fine because I have long been unhappy in that relationship, while he could never let go and thought it a good idea to traumatize the both of us through such. For the longest time I tried to maintain my passion through VTM, replanning the game I canceled for other players down the line, partake in other Chronicles with other people, playing post by post, replaying VTMB, continue writing my stories.
But up until now, VTM didn't feel like... mine. Like whatever I did, it was tainted by this previous relationship to a man I just didn't love. Because well, in that relationship it was treated like shared property rather than as an individual passion on both ends.
Not to mention there was a good bit of dismissal and backhanded discouragement whenever I'd share ideas or talk about my characters and my stories after a while. Nothing but shallow engagement at best. Unless it pertained to his interests. It was very discouraging overall and for a moment I thought I lost my passion for VTM altogether.
After all, I had been convinced that the stories I had to tell weren't all that interesting to begin with unless it pandered to an audience. Hell, it infected my love for the game so bad I couldn't even watch vampiric media I used to love and still do, Castlevania, Sinners, AMC's Interview with a Vampire, What We Do in the Shadows, all influences in my more, bloody and fang happy storytelling. VTM felt like a custody child I was sparsely allowed to see and just couldn't look at in the eyes. Something that was for a time resented.
But I have long since moved on now. I'm in a new relationship with a lovely man, my Sonvanger, who revitalized my passion for life. Not only does he share my interests including VTM through VTMB and being a long standing player at our tables, but has actively been encouraging me to resume creating. First it was through my original project. Then it was others, before reaching VTM. I got back into the community again through post by post, met just the most fun and wonderful community of individuals, I started revisiting my stories again, doing research into both V5 and V20 and revitalizing old characters, ofcourse starting with Angel who has practically been the soul of this endeavor since I made him in 2025 and he sauntered onto the scene in 2012 era London with a story to unravel.
I've even resumed planning Chronicles again. One set in Johannesburg. Another set in LA, a reboot of that old abandoned Chronicle burned down by the hands of another man. Hell, I even got into LA by Night! Something I initially thought impossible because my ADHD simply didn't allow me to maintain focus on long form podcasts, judging by my previous experiences with The Adventure Zone. But hell nah, here I am, binge listening the episodes while doing my planning shifts at work.
For the first time in 6 months this game feels like mine in a sense. Like something I forged together with my own community, with my people, with my own hands. It felt like something that I was a part of for once and a proactive part of it at that. And I frankly can't thank the community enough for welcoming me back in despite the absence and the circumstances. Hell, I've been with my current group for what, 3 weeks now? And I have never had more fun with or just overall welcomed into this world than I have within those 3 weeks. So shout out to Bloody LA for that one. You guys deserve it.
As for any future plans? Sinner's Chronicle will still be sticking around and resuming business, hopefully sooner rather than later. Due to a lot of projects being left abandoned within those 6 months, I'm currently sorting out and piecing everything together in addition to filling in gaps and redoing what was already neat concepts, but in hindsight could have been done better. Like the Daughters of Yarrow and their Chantry, or Solitarchy if we're going with considerably more accurate terminology for them.
I'm currently still doing my research into both V5 and V20 and playing around with the idea of how to utilize the mechanics and lore of both in a narrative. A fun idea for me is the idea of basing Angel's choices and interactions off of actual dice rolls made during the writing process, both to practice my dice digitally but also to bring in that VTM feel into it. A lot like how Fallout incorporated their respective games' mechanics into the show.
Though in addition to such I plan on expanding the narrative beyond Angel and exploring other characters as well. One of the projects I have lined up on future is a 19th to 20th Century Hunter the Reckoning narrative set in a Gothic Western setting featuring my beloved Tremere Scholar as a central character, on top of exploring the story of a new Tremmie altogether and some narratives and overall content set in my home country of South Africa as material for this country and its menagerie of Capitals is scarily sparse in the World of Darkness and perhaps in need of a potential update. So I'll be doubling down and filling in the gaps for Johannesburg and beyond because South Africa(as a whole) has far too much potential for a WoD setting to be left in the shadows. I'll even be sharing my process and my materials here for anyone else to use if interested in running a Chronicle in Johannesburg as well anytime soon, even if just as inspiration. As for beyond that? Character profiles, maybe a short story or vignette or two of other characters.
But Johannesburg and especially Angel is my main focus in that department for now. Especially since he is going through a bit of a revamp(pun unintended) as of current to clean up his story and properly prep it for a linear narrative. (Speaking of which, heads up to Mr. Blue Jay. I'm taking the Tzimisce Landlord in the divorce. Because I doubt you're even gonna use him again or just, flat out use him anymore anyways, considering the London Chronicle is kinda cursed at this stage lol).
Tumblr wise, once I have settled into my work and university schedule, I'm looking forward into creating more content, doing more art and joining more zines. Especially since I had SO much fun with the VTMB Pin Up Zine. I still have the mod that came with it installed on the PC and it's glorious. But yeah, hoping to join more Zines, like the POC Vamp Zine among other saucy and not so saucy VTM Zines since I've been meaning to make more character pin ups and horror posts on top of just experiment with my artwork a little, especially if it means improving my occasionally rather stiff anatomy and playing around more with dynamic posing and compositions. Not to mention how I represent different individuals from different backgrounds.
So, like it or not. Y'all are going be stuck with me because I ain't going anywhere MUHAHAHA.
Anyways. Hope everyone is having a lovely morning. Or evening.
Is the lore cogent and comprehensible? No it is not.
But is it it's mechanical system balanced and easy to learn? Not even slightly.
Are it's writing choices free of problematic stereotypes and insensitive early 90s jank? Nope.
But the vibe? The vibe in fucking impeccable. 10/10, kick you in the teeth fantastic. Gothic modern horror drip utterly unmatched by all it's competitors and copy cats. Both defines the genre Gothic Punk and serves as it's only real example. If you want a story where the PCs are struggling against their own inner demons in a world that feels like it wants to strip away their humanity, you legit can not do better then World of Darkness.
To be fair on the mechanical side of things. To me who has trouble with DnD sometimes because the mechanics are hard to follow on occasion. I actually prefer VTM more in the mechanics department. It is surprisingly ADHD friendly.
