THE VETERAN
Every Face has a NameâŠ. Name: Cameron âCamâ Kiskadden Faceclaim: Ewan McGregor Age: 51 Gender: cis male Sexuality: homosexual Circle: Mortalis Occupation: None - just arrived back in Vegas after fourteen years. Former hunter, specializing in specters and demonic entities; this extended to the making of talismans and wards, and providing death rites to ease passage and/or protect from hauntings. For more on that see below!
All Questions Need AnswersâŠ. Why did you leave your position as Orator?
His fingers drummed against the tabletop, sudden, then slow. With one last, solid knock, Cam sunk back into his seat, dragging his glass with him; his eyes lingered on the half-circle and streak of condensation left behind on the pitted wood of the bar, catching the red-yellow lights of tonightâs dive. A harsh glare, that bounce of neon. Still easier to stare down than the question. Right for the throat, huh? He half-laughed, and drank - just a coke, like always, or like the-last-few-years, at least - without looking up. Away, heâd look away, into the cackling, swaying crowd of a bar heâd hoped was human enough to help him avoid all the history Las Vegas had for him. So much for that.Â
âI -'' The start was sudden, and over with, just as fast. Heâd like to say it didnât matter. Or didnât matter anymore, at least. Could he, though? Really? Christ. It mattered to him. More than anybody knew. Just, not in the way theyâd think.Â
And, of course - no-one had done him the kindness of forgetting. There were too many long memories, and long lives, in the Circles. âI just, I realized⊠I couldnât be who Iâd hoped. The candidate whoâd won those votes.â An Orator who was just, and empathetic, and impartial. Who wouldnât use all the resources abruptly at his disposal to track down the truth of what had been done to them, his family, the one heâd chosen. Regardless of what the search dragged to light, the alliances it upset, the bonds thatâd be destroyed. And the excuse itâd give, to all those whoâd looked askance at his hopes for a fairer future. No matter what he said. If he said anything at all. If he lifted a fucking finger to stop them tearing each other apart. With a crack of his scarred knuckles, Cam shrugged, abruptly. There was a flash of that smile thatâd earned him at least a little of the trust heâd failed, fourteen years ago. Just a flash, though. Went out quick. âIt was the right call. Believe me. Or donât.â As if anyone around here, asking things like that, had any reason to believe him.Â
As a former Hunter, what sort of creatures did you hunt in the Midnight Underground?
Former. Heâd raised a finger to underline that, nodding, earnestly, through another unsatisfying sip. His throat was working, too hard, really - like it was looking for the rum in every mouthful. But this city, it wouldnât drive him to drink. Cam refused. Itâd been a condition, for coming home. A bargain he struck with himself. And, yeah. Yeah, he might be regretting it. Already. How much of a home was this hellhole, after everything? Enough that he couldnât turn around, now. Unfortunately. Not with the rites undone, still⊠âMost things, at some point. The whole Kiskadden, ah, clan, weâve, we were at this long enough to know plenty about a few, and a little about a lot. Enough to be dangerous, right.â Looping a thumb under the tarnished chain slung around his neck, Cam toyed with his jingling collection of talismans, amulets, saintâs medals, and so on. All showing their age. Less cared for than they mightâve been, once. He flicked them over each other like a ring of keys, the familiar sigils and symbols gleaming, if dully. âMy folks, they made a specialty of vampires. Cut my teeth on that, you could say.â His smirk was bone-dry, wrung out by the irony. Of course itâd been a vampire who made the most of his so-called escape. Moira Devlin. Goddamn. âTo their, ah, profound disappointment, I took an interest in what they liked to call immaterials. Anything that could be exorcized. Possessions, hauntings. And I stuck with it, because it felt like - there was more healing to be had, I thought. Thatâs why I tried for the seat. Really. Because of how it felt, to be part of healing people, or a placeâŠâ Rowan. Red thread. Ash wood. Saints Bride, Columba, Dunstan⊠and Daniel. Daniella, Danny girl. He pinched that one between his fingers, and let it all fall, heavier than it seemed, against his chest.Â
What have you been up to ever since you left behind the politics of the Midnight Underground?
âNothing.â An easy answer. Finally. Cam flicked his hands aside, open, empty. âI - we left.â We. Had to keep spinning the story, right. As if he hadnât been red-eyed and gutted and alone, clenched-tight in an airplane row next to strangers in seats that had, supposedly, been booked for the four of them, knowing heâd be hauling their luggage out with his. Heâd be hauling it everywhere. Up to Canada, across the country. Into a storage locker in Santa Fe, when heâd got too low and shitfaced to trust himself to take care of it. And back. All the way back here. To a corner in the dusty den of the house heâd grown up in. Still unopened.
Yeah, heâd done nothing at all, about that. Or anything. âDrank, mostly,â he muttered, into the dark, flattening bubbles of his coke. âIf you really wanna know.âÂ
Which candidate do you support?
If heâd taken his coat off, heâd have been reaching for it. As things were, as heâd been afraid they were, here, in Vegas, again, Cam hadnât got that comfortable. Convenient, now that he wanted to leave. âI donât. Iâm not - thatâs none of my business, or my problem, or anything, to me. None of it.â His cheap tab and then some got tucked under the not-empty glass, in cash, as he stood. And swayed, caught at the end of an anchor-line. Or a few, maybe. Pulling in different directions, felt like.Â
Cam pushed off the bar, physically. âI just⊠I hope the Underground gets what it deserves. You know? I really - I do.â His heart was in that, and his mouth, heavy on his tongue. He swallowed it, and drifted away.Â
All Debts Need To Be Collected...
He owes the Mortalis a debt for letting him leave behind the Midnight Underground.
He owes the Night a debt for making promises he could not keep.
Heâs owed by the Wolf for keeping him out of trouble, back when.
If you would like to talk debts, Cam owes (and even might be owed, still) a few! Find me on Discord to plot!
Every Story Gets Told...
As Camâs been away from Vegas and the Midnight Underground for a good while, Iâm not going to post a full bio - most of his personal life is only known to those who were part of it, so if thatâs you, let me know and Iâll fill in as needed! But thereâs always gossip...
In a nutshell, this is what the Midnight Underground might know or easily find out about Cam and the Kiskaddens. Not that all of the talk is necessarily true...
The Kiskaddens were armourers and ass-kickers. They were a family of hunters, mostly of vampires and the Wild, who were well-known in Vegas as suppliers of specialized hunting gear. They were active, noticeably, from 1962 to technically the present, though their heyday was clearly over a decade ago, and none, save Cam, remain.
Heâs a grey sheep, at least. Cam was known, by his late teens, to have a somewhat testy tie to the Kiskadden clan; he distanced himself from their activities, including their workshop, which made him no friends among hunters.Â
Not following in the family footsteps, exactly. Cam specialized away from slaying vampires in his early twenties, becoming better known as an expert in the demonic side of the Wild and the ghostly end of the Night. Camâs personal area of expertise lay in apotropaic tokens and signs. He was especially skilled in the Scottish tradition of faigheamaid snĂ ithnean thuige, or âtaking a thread to it,â which relies most heavily on the use of red thread, dyed with alum, tied and woven into particular patterns. The rites of death, to ease the passage and protect the living from specters, were also an important part of his practice.*
*None of this is magic. Such things have a kind of âforce,â but donât precisely belong to the Power. Talismans are created with and serve an intention, but canât change reality, just respond to it - revealing evil intent, or unseen dangers - or ward against it, offering protection when the bearerâs threatened by certain entities, or empower moves made against those threats. They hold up surprisingly well, for what theyâre made of. But theyâre not flashy, not decisive in a fight without the will and muscle to back them up.Â
He ran with the wolves. He went and fell in love with a real dark horse, for a hunter: Ken Talbot, brother to Connor Talbotâs father, the pack alpha. They were serious, too - the pair of them, and Kenâs kids, set up house together. Closer to the pack than the Kiskaddens, as if that werenât obvious...
He was the first Mortalis candidate to successfully campaign for Orator - then ran away before he started. Buoyed by the Talbots, their pack, and, somewhat begrudgingly, his estranged family and colleagues in hunting, Cam was elected Orator in 2008. His platform opened the door to reform, to changing the structure of the Oratorship to create something fairer, ensuring the wellbeing and teamwork of the Undergroundâs many at-odds residents. But none of it came to pass. He disappeared without explanation before actually taking the chair, and so far as the Underground knows, Ken and their children went with. And were never heard from again...
His other family crumbled. The Kiskaddens left in Las Vegas were on every shitlist after Cam vanished, and resented it, which didnât help. Those who didnât get themselves killed hunting gradually moved away to greener pastures, all save his stubborn-ass parents, Tom and Clara. Tom passed some years ago, and now, Claraâs gone to her reward as well, the both of them simply, unsuspiciously succumbing to old age. Itâs her death thatâs brought Cam back to Vegas at last.Â
And this is whatâs still generally unknown. If youâd like your character to be in on one of these story beats, please donât hesitate to contact me on Discord and we can scheme!
The murders of Ken Talbot and his children, Davey and Danny. Only the Kiskaddens (scattered or departed, save Cam) and a couple of their old hunter colleagues know Ken and the kids were killed, gruesomely, in a manner suggestive of supernatural involvement, just before Cam was meant to start his term as Orator. Their bodies were âdealt withâ by those hunters, the scene - their home, together - cleaned, and lies told, with the goal of preventing bloody fallout. The werewolf family of the first Mortalis Orator was slaughtered. There was no way in hell that could get out and not set off an absolute shitshow of accusations, offense, and violence, between the Circles. So it didnât. Maybe it never will...
Connections Are As Likely as Corruption...
All discussed connections that could be common knowledge in the Underground are listed below! If you would like to flesh out skeleton connections, or any other ties that come to mind, just let me know on Discord! Canât wait!Â
The Talbots While he (broadly, at least) earned the friendship of the local pack, Cam was family to the Talbots. Which, as might be expected, made things a bit testy in the Kiskadden house. Sure, they could tolerate werewolves more than most of the Undergroundâs eerier residents. But this, this was a little much. Whatever hell he got handed was worth it, though - see, Cam had found himself the love of his life. Ken Talbot. Kenneth and his half-orphaned children, David and Daniella, took ahold of his heart and still, still havenât let go. Cam was another father to the twins, an uncle, truly, to Connor, and the candidate the Talbots backed, with their pack in tow, last time the Orator's chair came up for election. He knows he wasnât the only one to lose Ken and the kids, that it was past wrong, beyond betrayal, to leave the rest of the family wondering whatâd become of their own. But a few days became weeks, then, somehow, itâd been fourteen years - and now heâs back, and the truth, what he knows of it, seems to have stayed lost. Cam knows heâs not ready to face whatâs left of that family he fucked over, in so many ways. He also knows heâs probably not going to have much of a choice... and worse yet, to this day, he doesnât have all the answers. Who - or what - killed Ken and the kids?Â













