What would players prefer: Should I be listing the base idea of the applications I've received so far or not?
I'd prefer you do. It helps me think to have a sort of community of ideas to look at. Then again, it seems like we're all doing that voluntarily now.
I'm still working through the sheet details, but I've got a sketch now.Kirsten Gangrel AcolyteMask:
Protean 2, Cruac 1
Everyone in Los Angeles is special. There are no normal people. Everyone's a movie star, an artist of the revolution, an enlightened mind, a wanderlusting adventurer, or else they're invisible and probably the help. Posthuman or subhuman. It's a city of dreams and wishes, and when wishes sour and dreams are broken, well, what happens to the mess? Probably it goes back home. Or kills itself. Who cares, right?
Kirsten cared. Well, she seemed to care. Maybe she was just sensitive. She transitioned young and easily, open-minded parents with not a little wealth tucked away, she was always guilty, always conscious of how it could have gone, and then there was Los Angeles, half-drowned in the tide of misfortune and madness - not that that kind of thing was meaningful past the 30th floor. She doesn't entirely remember why she came to begin with - or more accurately she remembers too many versions of things. There was a lot of confusion, contradictory blogs and journals, a lot of drugs. So many drugs. Somewhere in there she lost whatever she had been, and something else flowed in. The dust of shattered stars hoping to rise, the cast-off magnanimity of the post-human divinities. She woke up and she could feel the secret kiss of the universe on her lips. She had visions. She had to tell people. Of course she did.
Because she wasn't like the flake-outs, the fade-aways. She was special.
-Former (debutante? neo-Wiccan revivalist? talentless photographer with a $5,000 camera?)
-Few years getting kicked out of places, starting losing fights with bouncers and ever-more-numerous ex-friends, and making increasingly bizarre and out-of-touch friends
-Ended up as a street-brawling faux-mystic in someone else's hardscrabble urban neo-commune, under the influence of assorted psychotropic cocktails and bad syncretism
-Pissed off the wrong people anyway, Sanctum came and beat the everloving shit out of everyone
-Local vampires came and beat the everloving shit out of the Sanctum, things got messy, people died.
-The Gangrel who became her Sire liked that about her.
Kirsten's sunshine heart mostly shines red these days, and where once she saw there-but-for-the-grace-of-the-nonspecific-Goddess-go-I in every downcast passerby she now sees, you know, prey. And she has a real Goddess. And better drugs. She joined up with the Mask, in part because that's what her sire recommended she do, in part because they are the least bothered by her tendencies towards radical self-reinvention and her weird obsession with antagonistic, ever-mutating mystery cults. She says she's looking for something so true she can't twist it. It's better not to push her to make sense about that thing, really - most of the time she just gets angry, and she's dangerous angry, unpredictable, half-feral. Every once in a while, though, she does
make sense - and that's usually worse.