OON - Character Spotlight: Caoimhe Lynch

"Push you 'cross that line, just stay down this time..."

Background

Crass, vulgar, and utterly terrifying in that remorseless monster sort of way, Cardinal Lynch is the kind of "holy nightmare" fire & brimstone preachers wish they could be.

Born the fifth of seven children to a conservative Catholic family in 1820s western Ireland, Caoimhe Lynch lived the hard life of a sustenance farmer early on. Pretty enough for her parents to attract a good match, she would have been married, bred a litter of children, and died all without leaving her home county had the Great Famine not hit the nation in 1845. Her family joined the thousands of other Irish seeking to flee the country for the ample opportunities offered by the United States. So many thousands of Irish, in fact, that they were crammed on an aptly named "coffin ship" where only she and her elder sister, Caitlin, survived to arrive in America.

Making it as far as the recently incorporated Chicago in 1847, life was tough but fair to the pair, with both finding seamstress and laundering work, making enough to live better than they otherwise would have in Ireland. Though a "good Catholic girl," Caoimhe enjoyed the night life of Chicago, singing in a neighborhood tavern whenever possible. She developed a reputation for her voice, as well as a legendary temper after being disrespected by a few young men one too many times. It was the latter that lead her to be stabbed in an alleyway late one evening, and the former that convinced her sire, the Ventrue De Laurentis, to bring her back as Kindred. An admirer of her performances, he'd hoped to freeze that moment for his future entertainment, as a novelty in the male-dominated Kindred society of Chicago. Blood bound, per her sire's wishes she spent her early unlife at the bottom rung of the Invictus covenant, kowtowing to the demands of her "betters" for years.

Mortal history records that a cow kicked over a lamp and the Chicago Fire of 1871 was the result. Kindred that remember the time mark it as a reign of terror when hunters sought to cleanse the supernatural from the city by flame. De Laurentis was one such casualty, and were it not for delivering missives on his orders, Caoihme would likely have perished as well. Fleeing hunters, and the fires they brought, she traveled west nightly. By the time she reached Union City, she was exhausted, seeking sanctuary with the only Covenant she thought would aid her: the Lancea Sanctum.

She served faithfully and dutifully through the decades, growing in power and status among the Lancea despite her gender. When not attending to the needs of the Church, she spent time studying mortal and Kindred historical texts, especially those written in Gaeilge or Irish Gaelic, the language of her breathing days. As the oldest extant European language, she was convinced that she would find secrets of the earliest days of the Covenant, when Rome and Roman Christians occupied the Isles. Though it is debatable whether or not the texts she deciphered over the years have led to any Lancea secrets, she has shown remarkable understanding of Cruac blood magic practiced by the heathen Circle of the Crone.

Entering an extended period of torpor following World War II, Caoihme emerged into a city of strife. Women and minorities had risen up to fight for their Civil Rights in mortal institutions and Union City, an Invictus stronghold since its founding, was now firmly in the hands of the Ordo Dracul. Conflict between the Church and the First Estate had weakened both of their respective positions, allowing the neutral Dragons to ease into power. Not harboring ambitions towards it, Caoihme nevertheless stepped into a position of authority with the Lancea bereft of central leadership, Those opposed to the move pointed to the strictures placed against women in the mortal Catholic Church. These arguments were swiftly and easily rebuffed when she, not for the first time, reminded all in the Covenant that they weren't mortals and thus not beholden to any rule of a mortal organization. She emphasized her point with a display of Theban sorcery that silenced, literally, any further objections.

Now generally referred to as "The Cardinal," Caoihme sits on the Baron's Council as a Primogen, advising him on matters of religious import, regardless of the particular religion. Her own night to night Danse revolves around teaching her particular interpretations of gospel to a ghouled deacon so that he may spread it to the mortal masses, as well as continued study into the mysteries of Theban sorcery and the knowledge to be gained from deeper understanding of the Testament of Longinus.

Stats Block (1st Ed VtR)

Name: Caoihme ("kee-vuh") Lynch
Virtue: Justice
Vice: Wrath
Concept: Firebrand Preacher
Clan: Ventrue
Covenant: Lancea Sanctum

ATTRIBUTES
Power - Intelligence: 3 Strength: 2  Presence: 4
Finesse - Wits: 3  Dexterity: 2  Manipulation: 2
Resistance - Resolve: 4  Stamina: 3  Composure: 3

SKILLS
Mental - Academics (History) 4, Crafts 1, Occult (Cruac, Theban Sorcery), Politics 2
Physical - Athletics 1, Brawl 1, Drive 1, Firearms 1
Social - Empathy 2, Expression (Singing) 3, Persuasion 2, Socialize 1

DISCIPLINES
Dominate 3
Resilience 2
Theban Sorcery 4
Majesty 2

MERITS/FLAWS
Haven (St Francis Cathedral) 3
Herd 2
Status: Lancea Sanctum (Primogen) 4
Language: Gaelish 3
Language: Latin 2
Retainer: Deacon Armstrong 3
Allies 2
Contacts 2
Resources 2

WEAKNESS
-2 penalty on Humanity rolls to avoid Derangement after failed degeneration roll

Health: 8 Willpower: 6 Blood Potency: 4 Vitae: 8 Humanity: 8
Size: 5 Speed: 4 Defense: 2 Armor: 0 Initiative Mod: 5 Experience: 204

DEVOTIONS
Veridical Tongue

RITUALS
Sinner Song 1
Theban Inscription 1
Vitae Reliquary 1
Damned Radiance 2
Blood Fire 3
Stigmata 4


Unused Caoimhe Lynch ideas;

Hunter - A "paranormal investigator" that ran into the real thing, and lost three friends that night

Werewolf - Pack Alpha Bone Shadow, with a nose for mystery and a penchant for getting her pack into more trouble than it can handle

Torn (Apart)

"The more I bless, the more I bleed for you..."

"W-w-what... The fuck... Shit!"

Clothing shredded, covered in burn marks and rips, skin struggling to heal no matter how much blood was devoted to doing so, Sara looked like a poor recruiting poster for the benefits of immortality. The attack had come out of nowhere. Her ghoul's ex-lover, a stalker by nature, had not taken the hint by Jamie's (faked) death. Revenge was a potent and not-entirely unreasonable motive, but it still caught Sara off guard.

Stumbling through an alleyway blocks from the bar, she looked for anyone to feed on. The Beast inside of her growled in hunger and frustration, needing to be satiated before she abandoned what little remained of her humanity entirely. The struggle was made the more difficult if she thought about what had happened. Losing a ghoul was never that much of a problem, since there would always be more that she could charm into her service. The upstairs haven, and the "watering hole" that was Philly's, however, was not so easily replaced.

Sara was a Carthian, a member of an anarchistic and revolutionary sect. Rabble-rousers and trouble makers, her group was a thorn in the side for local movers and shakers. That in no way endeared them to the Ordo Dracul, the scholarly order to which the city's Baron belonged, nor to the Invictus or Lancea Sanctum, the two most dominant groups in the city. And she had made enemies amongst all three factions over her decades of unlife. She survived by laying low and not drawing attention to herself, something the attack and subsequent fire would make impossible.

Food and shelter, those were the only drives the Beast would acknowledge. The moon had already slipped from view and dawn wasn't far off. The temptation to crawl into a hole and sleep was forefront in Sara's mind. The need to feed on unlife-sustaining blood was the only thing pushing that temptation down and keeping her senses focused.

It was that hyper-attuned focus that alerted her to the presence of another monster in the alley, the singular fight or flight response only provoked by her fellow Kindred. Half-feral, her fangs and claws painfully extended, she faced the interloper, knowing that she had no flight and only as much fight as she could coax from the Beast by giving it free reign over her body, when the figure spoke.

"Ah, my little one, ye've gone and fucked up now, haven't ye?"

Sara didn't need to see the speaker to recognize the soft voice tinged with the barest hint of a sing-song Irish accent. Leaning against the brick of a warehouse wall, wearing the simple black garment of a priest, Cardinal Caoihme Lynch stared at her, arms crossed and head tilted like a predator studying its prey.

Of an average 5'6" height, trim, with classic Gaelic features and hair pulled back into a functional braid, the Cardinal didn't possess traits that would conventionally be considered intimidating. If she were mortal. Nor would her garb and title be something so casually carried, if she were mortal. As the head of Union City's Lancea Sanctum, and a master of the esoteric Theban blood rituals, the Cardinal was most assuredly not.

"C-c-cardinal? Help me! Please??" Exhausted, Sara pleaded.

"Aye, I've tried. Good Lord above knows that I've tried to help ye, and the rest o'the Godless hordes in this city. But have ye ever come to confession? Have ye ever come to God when ye weren't in desperate need?"

The Cardinal locked eyes with Sara, muttering an incantation in a language long dead in the annals of mankind. Sara could feel her blood begin to boil as fresh wounds opened on her wrists.

"N-n-o, please!! I'll confess! I'll join the Lance!" The Beast, prepared for a fight, nevertheless whimpered and retreated, leaving her to her fate.

As the incantations grew in fervor and pitch, new wounds ripped themselves open on Sara's ankles, and a deep gash tore itself into her side, drawing out the little Vitae remaining in her body. She collapsed against the concrete, mewling like a sick kitten into the ground. The deep, nightmare-laden sleep of torpor tugged upon her awareness, struggle against it though she might.

"Don't ye worry, God'll hear those confessions for ye. And our fair city will be blessed for one less unbeliever in it." Curled into a ball, Sara was blissfully unaware of the consecrated dagger being pressed into her cervical vertebrae, cutting until her head was a separate entity from the rest of her body.

As the corpse transformed itself into ash, the Cardinal smiled, and whispered "trí ghrásta Dé..." before walking away, content with an evening's work.