1843 - Victorian England. A time of great proverty and an expanding empire. A world that was an oyster - if you were rich, smart and of course, a gentleman. He wasn't that smart, he wasn't rich, or a gentleman. Or for that matter, able to see. Born to a mother in a ramshackle house, driven out when he was 5 after her death (veneral disease, occupational hazard), he hit the streets. Hard. Blind, poor and barely able to fend for himself he fell into the worst company possible at that time for his age and standard. Beggar children, running the streets doing minor chores for others and trying their best to get by.

Add another 24 years, you have a young man, still blind, still poor and still begging. Except of course he's had to learn how to survive, how to figure out a way to get some money beyond relying on the fact that he's blind. He's learnt to tell some stories, not well, not perfectly, not even by half. But it's good enough to get the money in and he remembers, he remembers all the stories he hears by the docks, all the whispered murmurings of occult practices and even fairy tales.

He makes up some of his own, he elaborates, he tells them on the street corner. A modern day bard, enough so that he eats at the least. No one (not even him) knows really why his Sire embraced him. His Sire, if he's alive (and most think not), never got a chance since he left as usual after the Embrace. And never came back. 1867, Victorian London. Mithras, Prince of London still alive and well in control of his city. A city full of sin, vice and straight laced morals. At least in some parts of the city.

Luck for him, it wasn't his part of the city. 4 years of urban hell, as he first adjusted to the fact that he was dead, that he was a vampire. And then later to the increasing, ever increasing noises and senses. The battling, almost luminous combination that would drive him half mad, that would shatter his eardrums again and again, that would assualt his nose and drive him half-mad.

4 years and the Prince at last found the one who was preying on the docks, in the city. Without a Sire to claim him, he was nearly declared Caitiff. Nearly except for the obvious signs of his Clan's weakness. Thrown to the Gangrel Primogen as a sop, to be tutored and taught the next few decades would past in a blur of pain, of beatings and constant, constant chivying. Blind, unable to fight, unable to move in the night like a predator he was a failure. For the few few years at least, he failed. Yet his refusal to give in, to face the sun as he was urged earned him grudging respect. And he learnt, because there was little choice.

The turning of the century would mark his own change, his break away from England and it's shores. He would travel, at least at first. No longer caring for sects (or perhaps he never did, it was hard to tell), he journeyed to speak with other Gangrel, to feel the earth beneath his feet. And to escape the cities, where the constant pressures drove his senses mad. He journeyed, until one night the tinderball that was Europe was struck and the Great War started.

Not surprisingly, he left in a hurry. America, the furthest place from such a massacre, from Hell itself on earth was his destination. He hit Charleston then, a beautiful port city (at least it didn't stink as bad as London) and he travelled outwards. Slowly at first, aftergetting used to the cities, to the accents. To the movements. Hooked up with the Anarchs for a short while then later alone, he travelled.

Perhaps it was his dsiregard for sect, for alliances beyond his clan that would slowly gain him fame. Perhaps it was his own self-apointed role as Lorekeeper, as one who travelled among his clan searching for and gaining knowledge of what transpired among them. And perhaps, it was because he survived under the worst possible odds. Blind, without a Sire for so many years, without a Sect, comparably young. And he survived. His fame grew, and if there were few who were Autakris like him, he was perhaps the youngest. A shadowy figure unknown of outside his own clan, a blind Gangrel who passed Lore between the sects.

80 years, alone and uncomprimising. Autakris, without sect, without care he travelled the borders of North America. And always, always he returned to Charleston in the end, to the place he bought during that little noise about Cuba. An underground bunker, one opened to his clan.

And all he asked, was a small momento of their visit and a story. Auatkris, hearts blood of his clan, lorekeeper and blind. Now he's back, having gone to the Dallas gathering. To listen to the rest of his clan remove themselve from the Camarilla, to watch others join the Sabbat. And to journey himself, back home.