Russian, melancholy, vodka, Brujah, owner of The Petrograd. Real name is Kiril, but no one knows that! It's a secret dammit!


Clan: Brujah
Age: Ancilla
Status: Clan: ?, Camarilla: ?, City(Seattle): ?

Things True

  • Intellectual, Political Brujah
  • Not afraid to get his hands dirty if it is a means to an end
  • Ambitious and Outspoken


William Ward That dog needs to be taught to heel 1
Dante Potentially Useful Politically charged 1
Billy Beard Useless Twat. I will do better! 1
Capitol Hill Bottom’s Up 1
James Blakely Cocky little shit, but plays a mean piano. Regular customer. 1
Gregoriy My Sire, My mentor, my Friend 2
Dominic Cross I can use his influence to better my position 2

Kiril is Russian and everything that entails. Melancholy, somber and a love for vodka. A student during the Red uprising, Kiril was caught up into the rebellion’s seemingly perfect ideals. Soon, he found out that communism wasn’t as perfect as advertised and began to protest it with his fellow students. During a peaceful protest, Kiril and his compatriots were rounded up by the Soviets and sent to Siberia. The Gulags.

There, Kiril encountered most every hardship a man could endure. Beatings, starvation, humiliation. It was all he could do just to stay alive. Another prisoner, an Orthodox priest named Arkadi, befriended Kiril and helped him stay sane. Through the clarity this friendship brought, Kiril became a patron of the other prisoners, teaching them to read and write, and trying to keep up their spirits with stories from Tolstoy and other famous authors he had discovered in university. These actions were not unnoticed, however, and the commander of the prison camp took Kiril as a manservant. He was a harsh man, not tolerating mistakes of any kind, and punishing any faults mercilessly.

Five years passed, and Kiril had managed to stay alive while the servant of the Komandir, as he had access to more food than the regular prisoners. With this extra food, Kiril was able to smuggle food to his friend, the priest. He also had access to the Komandir’s personal library, which was filled with books Kiril had never seen or even heard of before He had a grudging respect for the man, who could be calm one second and brutally violent moments later. He had become nocturnal, as the Komandir was a night owl, who supervised his camp in the evening and always slept during the day. One evening, the Komandir called Kiril into his office.

“You have been my servant for many years, Kiril”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am impressed with your drive to stay alive, and to serve faitfully. I have been grooming you for something greater, something bigger than you can possibly imagine.”
“Sir?”, said Kiril, confused by the man’s uncharacteristic candor.
“There are things which you cannot imagine, things beyond your comprehension. You have been blind, and I will open your eyes”

The Komandir grabbed Kiril with a strength that seemed impossible. Kiril tried to struggle, but the futility of his attempt soon became obvious. That night, the Komandir took Kiril and made him into a cursed upir, a vampire!

Upon awakening, Kiril was consumed by hunger. Knowing this would happen, his master had prepared a meal for him. Kneeling on the floor, hands bound, was Arkadi, Kiril’s friend!

“Kiril, I have given you a gift.”, said the Komandir,“You will never know death. You have become death. We are the hunters, humans but the prey. Now, you are my child, and this man but food. Take his essence, and feed.”

Kiril, horrified, fell to his knees in front of Arkadi.
“I cannot”, he said,“this is madness!”

His maker laughed, a dry chortle that filled Kiril with dread every time he heard it.
“You will if you wish to live”, he said,“I made you, and it is nothing to me to destroy you.”

Slowly, Arkadi raised his head.
“My friend”, he said,“you have been faithful to me for so long. Now it is my turn to return the favor. Do not throw your life away for an old priest, who would have died in this hell years ago but for you. If you are gone, I will be dead nonetheless. Please, if I must pass, let it be by your hand.”
“My friend”, replied Kiril in a tormented tone,“I shall never forget this, and I will never forgive myself. I will not let your memory fade from me.”

With that, Kiril took the life of his best friend as quickly as he knew how, feeding and feeling the man’s life ebb away as he drank. The blood was intoxicating, and he could feel power coursing through him, his senses heightened and rage welling up for what he had been forced to do. And then, everything went black.

Awaking again, Kiril found himself covered in blood, in the courtyard of the gulag. Making his way to his feet, he began to have flashes of screams, blood, awful pictures flooding his mind. As he wandered, Kiril found bodies. Everywhere, frozen to the ground, were guards and prisoners alike. The silence of the camp was eerie, broken only by the sound of his feet crunching through the snow as he walked. Making his way to the office of the Komandir, he found no living person. everyone was dead. Deeply entrenched in his own thoughts, he was startled by the voice of his master.
“I suppose it was time to leave this place. Although I do wish you’d left some for me.”
“I did all this”, said Kiril.
“Oh yes. You were quite insatiable once you got going. Killed all the guards first, then went for the prisoners.”

This left a pit in Kiril’s chest. He was filled with anguish at the pain and suffering he had caused. His master spoke again.
“Come Kiril, it is time to leave. For me to teach you the ways of the Brujah. Together, we will bring our clan back to its former glory. And you shall be its saviour.”
“As you wish, my master. But one thing?”, said Kiril.
“What is that, youngling?”, replied the Komandir.
“Call me Arkady. Kiril is dead.”


Seattle Nights PaulWood