Veronica Larusso :: (Read-Only)

Name	Concept	Chronicle
Age	Virtue	Faction
Player	Vice	Group
Mental	Physical	Social
Intelligence	Strength	Presence
Wits	Dexterity	Manipulation
Resolve	Stamina	Composure
Weapons	Dice Mod



Equipment	Dice Mod
Statistic Block

Condition and Effects	Additional Information
Name: Veronica Larusso
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Ethnicity: Predominately Italian (mixed with traces of other ethnicities)
Height: 5' 6" (1.67 meters)
Weight: 121 lbs (54.88 kilos)
Eye Color: Hazel with blue flecks
Hair Color: Ash with strips of black highlights. 
Skin Tone: Medium with pink flush
Occupation: Religious Sister (Informal, Has not made vows)
Current Monetary Status: Impoverished
Goals: Eternal Beauty

My name is Veronica Larusso. At least that is the name I was told I was given upon birth. I was born into a predominately Italian family in a not so predominately Italian neighborhood. I was raised amongst every criminal, rogue, and scoundrel to grace the streets of Los Angeles. Growing up without a father it surprises me that I ever survived my childhood. What surprises me even more is the rising and falling in and out of darkness that defines my life.

As a child, I was always very pretty. From an early age I had already become a bit of a tease to some of the more perverted locals who would have no trouble tackling the thought of bedding a child. My mother took a great deal of pride in my appearance. Quite the looker herself, beauty was something held with a reverence beyond all other things. I was constantly reminded that my looks would take me far in life once I learned how to properly use them. I gave little thought to the lessons I was taught as a child. I simply enjoyed being a girl, doing the things girls do. I did gymnastics and dance like most girls my age, but unlike most girls who tire from the exercise I devoted myself into becoming quite good. It was the attention. I simply loved when others watched me and whatever I could do to increase the number of eyes upon me I would do it. I became obsessed with looking my very best at all times and with my mother's encouragement it shaped me into the woman I am today.

I think I only partially understood my position in life as a child. As I said before we lived in a very poverty stricken area of the city, but somehow I did not seem to suffer nearly as much as the other boys and girls who had both a mommy and a daddy. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I was never without want or need. I was always protected and cannot remember ever fearing for my safety as a child despite living in such an awful sector of the city. My mother made sure that I was always dressed in impeccable clothing and that we always had a roof over our head. What I did find odd at a young age was that while I did not have a daddy I did have a Charles. Mother and I sometimes shared our apartment with Charles. When he was around he acted like a daddy to my mother. They would sometimes kiss, and they shared a bedroom just like the other children�s mommies and daddies, but Charles was different to me. It�s not that he ever hit me. In fact there were times during my childhood that such attention would have been viewed as a blessing. No, I went through much of my early life completely ignored by Charles which was something I learned very quickly to dislike. I was use to both children and adults alike fawning over my childhood beauty and boy did I get a thrill when another person called me cute. It became a drug. A drug that Charles denied me of and I simultaneously loved and hated him for it.

My whole disillusioned world would soon slowly come caving in on me after I reached puberty. My beauty increased even through the normally awkward years for many young teens. I attributed the phenomenon to the way I treated my body. I ate just enough to remain healthy with little indulgence into pleasure foods. I also continued my gymnastics at the rec center each day after school. I began to accrue quite a crowd of onlookers (mostly horny young boys and lecherous older men) as I pranced about the gymnasium floor performing aerial somersaults and full splits. It was during these times that I was able to grab hold of a few moments of happiness as much everything else in my life began to degrade. I began to realize that as you grow older, not all people were as receptive to my exceptional beauty. I learned that girls I previously thought of as friends were quickly becoming jealous of my curves and that boys, even the uninteresting ones, were becoming harder and harder to talk to in any meaningful way. On top of these problems rumors began to circle back in on my ears about my mother. Talk spread about her being easy, which soon developed into gossip of her being a whore. Several guys in my school claimed that they had slept with her, a notion that I gave little regard towards. Still the gossip seeded doubt in my mind and others viewed me differently as I began to view my mother differently. However I never brought my concerns directly to my mother.

As I grew older so did my mother. I found her, like most women, beginning to resent me. She envied me for the beauty she once held so proudly. She would constantly call me out as a whore, accusing me of being pregnant whenever I complained about a headache or a stomach cramp. Her suspicions held merit as I had long since lost my virginity, but I was cautious and knew what getting pregnant would entail. In hind-sight I think she was not so worried about me as she was suspicious that I was having an affair with Charles. It�s not that I didn�t notice that my pseudo-daddy was taking more notice of me. I did. I simply just did not care. I loved every second of his parting looks. How he would stare at me from across the dinner table. How he would stumble in on me as I was stepping out of the shower or getting dressed in my bedroom. I liked it even more when he pretended it was an accident. I enjoyed the attention. I enjoyed knowing that he found me attractive. I was not naive to the thoughts and desires of men. By this point I had already been experimenting with several boys, and girls, from my school. I think when everyone thinks your mother is a whore they assume you are as well. Boys pinched my ass, groped my chest, hollered and catcalled when they saw me walking down the halls. It made paying attention to my studies all but impossible, but I did not care. I basked in the power I possessed, knowing that at any moment I could turn any one of them into a sniveling lap dog, putty between my fingers. 

My mother�s jealousy grew stronger with each passing day. One day I woke up to the sound of her bashing down my door. I quickly scrambled to let her inside fearing something may be wrong. She stumbled into the room reeking of alcohol. I had never before seen her like that. That night I was beaten senselessly. My mother worked on me in an angered rage and by the end of the night I was reduced to a sulking husk, barely conscious as I heard the door close behind her. I never saw her again and I never learned why she left. The next day there was only Charles, although he no longer seemed quite the same person. I stopped going to school. Charles seemed okay with it so I no longer saw the point. For the next two weeks I did not leave the apartment. I feared going outside and exposing a me that was not beautiful to the world. I noticed Charles was no longer giving me the same looks that he had before my mother left. It was as if I was five again. At first I thought he was just revolted by my battered and bruised face, but I abandoned that thought as my bruises faded and my injuries healed restoring a beauty momentarily lost. During our dinners alone he paid attention solely to his food. I no longer sensed him spying on me when I showered or got dressed in the morning. Much of the next few months progressed in silence. We never really chatted before, but with mother gone our situation seemed odd. I began to worry that he no longer cared. I began to worry that I may no longer be beautiful. I toyed with thoughts of suicide until one night he entered my room. He did not say anything. He merely undressed himself and then undressed me. It was not my first sexual encounter, but it is the only one I know I will always remember. I was 15.

The next day Charles spoke of my mother. He divulged the role she played in their relationship. Turns out the rumors of my mother were all true. Charles was pimping my mother out in order to pay for the life I had grown accustomed to. The thought made me feel dirty. In the back of my mind I knew my mother was all the things that the kids teased me about her being, but hearing it confirmed brought me to tears. Charles was very tender with me in that moment and I felt safe in his arms, but in that embrace I think I realized that the passion I felt for him was never going to be reciprocated. By the following Saturday I had become another one of Charles� whores pimped out to any who would pay for me. I cannot say I did not enjoy it. I continued to live with Charles and he was generous with the money he allowed me to have. My years practicing gymnastics became my greatest asset in bed. A nimble and flexible body allowed me to work wonders on men that could not be experienced with any other girl in the city, because of that I was not cheap. My clients consisted mostly of the wealthy elite from the other side of town. Sometimes I would travel to them and they would treat me like royalty and in return I offered them what they could never get on their own, a beautiful girl to ****. 

Charles would have been stupid not to insure I was protected. I was by far his biggest asset and being such an attractive woman living in a rough neighborhood was not something that I was as quick to overlook as when I was younger. Charles bought me a small derringer than I kept concealed to my inner thigh while traveling home after a night with a client. The tiny 2-shot pistol saved me from a terrible fate on more than one occasion. Even against those who I knew to be rapists and murderers I never shot to kill, merely to maim in order to buy me the time I needed to make my escape. I trained with the pistol whenever I could and it soon became an inseparable part of me during my days traveling through the streets. I became more alert to my surroundings, learning how to act so as not to be bothered by the local gangs and miscreants. 

As time went on I found myself thinking about my mother and reasons for leaving. Charles assured me it was jealousy and for a long time I believed that, but after I passed the age of 22 I began to wonder what my own future held. Surely I could not maintain this lifestyle forever. By this time my mother was already pregnant with me and I shuttered to think that I may be trapping my own child into a similar cycle of despair. The money, the parties, the control, it is all fun while I have it, but there will come a day when I may end up alone, washed up and worthless. With my beauty no longer capable of carrying me through life what will I have to fall back on. I knew I had to escape. Leaving Charles was the hardest thing I ever did. I left no note. Nothing he could use to track me down. In my final moments I took what money I could and traveled far away, to the other side of the country, leaving my previous life behind. 

After my first week in Boston I still had no place to stay. I took to bars, seducing young men into taking me home where I would ravish them senselessly in exchange for a hot meal and a warm bed. I began to despair. I left my life of comfort only to be left relying on the behavior I was running from in order to survive. I spent my days crying in the park, wondering what I would tell Charles when I returned. A congregation of religious sisters strolled passed my sulking form. One seemed moved by my tears and without speaking grabbed me by the hand and led me back to their convent. I followed along without protest assuming that at the very least I would be offered a place to stay for the night that did not end in my being filled with a strange man�s seed.

I quickly warmed to the saintly nuns, moved by their compassion for those less fortunate. I was offered a humble bed of my very own in exchange for a labor I was unfamiliar with. I complied with the menial tasks set before me. Each night I scrubbed dishes and each morning I scrubbed floors. Day in and day out I worked for the clothes on my back and the food in my belly. There was little choice in the matter. I was unsure of how Charles would react if I ever returned to him. It was a trite existence and even with the security that the convent offered me I envied my previous life. Several of the nuns attempted to resume my education where I left off, but I had little interest in the pursuit of higher learning. Despite their efforts I learned little more than the skills I needed for basic reading and writing. Other nuns on a hunch that my mind may be primed for other endeavors attempted to teach me the art of medicine. I began following some of the elder sisters to trips to the homeless shelter where I would aid unfortunates with their various wounds and ailments. My stomach churned at some of the wounds I saw on the men knowing exactly how many of them were caused. Scratches to the face, bite marks along the inner thigh. I had found myself helping the very men I had once mauled and it disgusted me. I never leaked my reservations to my sisters as I was meant to hold compassion for my fellow being above all other virtues and I made active strides into realizing that virtue.

I found myself slipping away from my old life and maturing into a person of respect and honor. My beliefs in God were never strong, but I remained an active member of the convent for the next two years. But it was not until only recently that I stumbled upon some texts in the library. I so rarely frequented the place that it was not a surprise that I was unaware of the treasures it contained. While searching for some ancient medicinal recipes I stumbled upon the answers I was seeking. Amongst the shelves were tombs bound with the secrets and myths of vampires. I read my first as a sort of joke, something to pass the time of an otherwise lifeless day. However, I became fascinated with the stories of the occult with each passing page, mesmerized by the tales of eternal youth and beauty. I envied the characters in the stories and wished with every fiber of my being that they were real. Unfortunately such figments could not possibly exist in the real world. Could they?
Advantages
Pool	Value	Type	current/max
Powers