Character: Quinn Bailey
Position: Current Prince of New York, Seneschal Enyara Blake
Quinn Bailey was brought up in New York city during the 1930s as the son of an Irish immigrant. Frowned upon as low class, and abused for his descent he often found himself more in street brawls in his younger years than in the classrooms of his school. Though he completed his degree, he always maintained that those first few years of his teenage life had taught him a lot about the nature of people.
The war had created a vacuum around him, especially in his district. A lot of young men had left to fight and die in Europe, but the thought of following never really occurred to him. A devout Catholic, falling in amongst his peers in the rising gangs of New York lacked moral justification, so instead he joined the only local cause he thought was worthy of any effort; the police.
Ignoring the jeering and teasing of being just another paddy in blue, he hungrily set about doing
trying to establish himself as an effective ‘copper’. On several occasions it meant having to clash
with those individuals he considered childhood friends, and the occasional raids he was involved in at
the beginning were reminiscent of those brawls on the streets. His raw potential was eventually
uncovered, and he was shifted to homicide. Despite his impressive physique he had a knack for spotting
things out of the ordinary, which separated him from the common lawman.
As he was reaching his late thirties, one particular investigation took him deep into the dockland
areas with his partner, Chris Fallon. Bailey and Fallon had been following a series of brutal
assaults, with the victims left beaten and bruised. The particular perp always left two signature
puncture wounds to the neck, and Bailey along with Fallon had been directed to track the man down.
It was raining that night. The world was slick, and cool, the humidity in the air thick enough to
taste. An anonymous tip off had led them here and the shoes slapped noisily along the wet concrete
of the dock. Fallon lit his cigarette. “Fuckin’ ridiculous; there’s nothing here. Some joker
having a laugh at our expense I bet”. Quinn squinted his eyes, peering into the fog. His ears twitched.
“Chris… hear that?” Fallon blew on the lit end of his cigarette, hunched over it before taking a
drag. “Hear what, Quinn?” “Exactly”. There was a long, slow creek ahead of them as the ajar door belonging to the porter’s office swung slowly open. “There”. One of Quinn’s hands already fingered at his brass knuckles, the other reaching for his revolver. Fallon already had his out as they approached. He called out; “Anyone there? Ho there!” There was skittering sound, and what could have been air shooting from a tire, as a hiss illuminated the silence around them. “Come on out, there, whoever ya’are…” Quinn managed. The door slowly swang shut with a clank. Fallon, gun in hand took another deep drag, gun and falling to his side. “Fuckin’ hell, Bailey! You’re makin’ me nervou–” The door exploded into shards of wood and glass as messy blur barrelled into Chris Fallon, knocking the wind out of Fallon. He crashed to the ground, gun skidding away from him. Before Quinn had a chance to react the wiry, long haired THING before him leapt and smacked him down hard to the floor. His eyes widened as the man’s hands changed shape, its fingers twisting into wicked sharp claws. “Owza ya’ doin’ chump?”
It laughed at him before its chest exploded, bullets splitting blood across Quinn’s face. The thing
turned and lunged at the firing Fallon, now on his feet and running. The thing caught him so quickly
he barely had time to react as the claws rent him apart. His gurgled scream echoed across the docks,
his mangled body crumpling apart into a bloody heap. The man turned to face Quinn now, covered in
blood. It slowly licked the bits of torn flesh off its claws as it approached, slowly. To its surprise
it was Quinn who acted first, landing a powerful right-hook across its cheek, before finding a knee
smashing hard against its abdomen. It laughed. The laugh was dry, hoarse, and mirthless. It swotted
Quinn aside, but not before he could fire off a few rounds before he was disarmed. The thing pressed
him hard against the soaking wet ground, blood dropping from its jaws as it observed Quinn’s firey
eyes. “Do it then, you fuckin’ demon! Come on!” Quinn screamed. He swiped his leg out, landing it
neatly in the thing’s groin, but its immediate response was an elbow to Quinn’s face. Its claws
snaked slowly across his face. There was a moment of supreme silence, then a hiss broke the morbid
tranquility and it bit deep into the man, tearing at his flesh. Quinn could feel himself dying,
and he tore at the thing’s naked back, digging his nails in. His strength began to fade and the thing
let his head drop to the tarmac floor. Gasping for breath he looked up at it with dying eyes, hand
reaching for the cross at his neck. The thing, seeing the cross, screamed and ripped it from him,
dangling it at its eye-line, observing it as if it were some trophy. It looked back down at Quinn,
whose hand was holding shakily up for it. The thing swotted the hand away and loomed over its victim,
and then in a gurgling sound, vomited blood onto Quinn’s face. The sticky, wretched vitae invaded his
eyes, nose and poured into his mouth and choking throat. He could feel the weight of the thing leave
him, and he was alone again. He began to shudder. The taste was exquisite, but short-lived. His body
began to die there, alone, in the rain.
Sunlight hurt him. This much Quinn knew. He knew, from the stench of Chris Fallon’s body, that blood
was attractive to him. He hid in the sewers that day. Instinct came to him quickly and he fed on the
blood of those rats that got too close. He could not go back to his home; the police were there. He
instead stole his clothes from passersby, hiding his face, and taking what money they had from their
wallets. He eventually made it back to his church, afraid to enter for fear of becoming tainted by
the demon at the docks. It wasn’t until a month passed that he finally came into contact with another
Kindred. This one was old, and wise. It too shunned other Kindred but took pity on Quinn, as a human
would once finding a stray dog. The Kindred’s name was simply ‘Constance’. She spoke with an Italian
accent, and became an educator and Quinn’s guiding hand. Together they left the city and did not
return until 1996.
During their time together Quinn learned a great many things. Constance, as it turned out, was what
was known as an Independent. She was an Assamite, and a hired hand at times when it suited her to
be as such. Being in her company required that he too maintain Independent status, and as he enjoyed
her rather dark humour and attitudes he was happy to accept the condition. He learned about the other
sects, but never showed much interest in entering their political games. He learned about his blood
as well. He was a Gangrel, though not of the traditional kind but more a hybrid suited to the city.
His Sire, he learned, was likely some rogue, and if not dead by now for breaking the ‘Masquerade’ had
moved on as some nomad.
When they did return to New York, Quinn had changed just as much as the city had. He was a sort of
protégé for ‘Constance’ (her real name was Nadine Abdezizaz). They trained together, and she educated
him. He never strayed too far into Camarilla territory, and those Kindred he did sometimes come across
only received a polite acknowledgement before he would move on. The Anarchs that took some interest
likewise got the same treatment, and he tended to stay away from the Sabbat altogether. The years
rolled on, but Quinn’s blood hungered for my action than ‘Constance’ was allowing. Finally, she
allowed him to accompany her as a second. It was during this time that he would fully fight his first
Kindred, some of which he would also kill. He would also return to the church he had gone to as a
child; one such belief he rejected outright was that God would simply abandon him for trying to
fight off his Sire in his duty to the people.
After the millennium, ‘Constance’ grew weary. Old and powerful, she wished to take time to rest away
from the city, but acknowledging that Quinn has re-established his roots, she gave him the choice
to join her or stay. Realizing that he had been with her for so long, he wished for a taste of
independence, and so kindly rejected her off and stayed. Alone, finally, Quinn Bailey began to seek
a truth to his nature. The desire to establish an almost alpha-dominance rippled through his blood
as he witnessed from the shadows those ‘less deserving’ Kindred rising in the ranks of their
respective sects. But he again reaffirmed his desire to remain independent. Instead, he began to
establish his own brand. In old Irish town he began to mark the walls with a distinctive logo; an
image bearing some semblance to the cross stolen from him by his Sire. Finding his religion once
again, he began to forge his own area, taking over some of the lower gangs, their leaders becoming proxies to his will. Irish town’s ganglords had to obey several ‘unwritten’ rules, and failing to do so would bring about the wrath of a man with ‘many knives’. All drug trade ceased. It became one of the safer areas in the city, and on every wall within ‘his’ territory, his mark would be seen and recognized. In fact, it was so effective he became something of an urban myth – but the unwritten rules were nevertheless followed. More recently, Quinn has begun to shed ‘human’ behaviour. He is no longer human, and God no longer sees him as such. He is a beast. A calculating, deadly beast. God’s servant, and Independent.
Nights with Quinn: