TEXT: The Man Himself: Count Fucking Dracula
  The Count is educated, sophisticated, a man of letters.  
  If you make this man beat you down, it’ll piss him right the fuck off.
  You do not fuck with Count Dracula’s bike.  
   It does not matter whether the Count is  
  riding a fine custom chopper or some Japanese 
  machine with a pretentious viking name.  
  It does not matter whether you have heard 
  of me or not. The bike is mine and the bike 
  does not get fucked with.
  I am sad that I am going to have to make 
  an example of these men, because they are 
  holding blunt instruments in a fashion that 
  suggests they do not fear the Count. That 
  suggests that they are stupid, but also brave. 
  The Count feels a little sorry as he separates 
  the first one’s arm from its socket.
  I’ve cracked the second one’s skull with it 
  before somebody shouts “Quién es usted?”
  Motherfucker, ain’t you ever heard  
  of Count Dracula?
  Dracula 
  If the sucker had, he might have realized 
  that (swift dismemberment aside) the Count 
  is not a brute. He approaches me from behind, 
  cursing loudly, assuming perhaps that I will turn to 
  face him, that I will lead with my head and my 
  arms, that I will lunge. His assumption is incorrect, 
  as it does not consider that my leg can kick 
  backwards and smash his most important assets.
  In the end four men have died in a waste of 
  bravado and good blood. I am perturbed by this, 
  and perturbed by the fact that the indirect cause 
  of this altercation, the young woman is not being 
  spirited away by Felix for immoral purposes. The 
  Count may be a thinking man, but Felix is a pervert.
  I help her to her knees, then her feet. The 
  blood glazing the side of her face flatters her. 
  The Count considers the merits of perversion.
  And then I see her tattoo.
  DIARY ENTRY: Felix
  So I step out of the bar to get some air, figuring I’ll leave 
  D inside to enjoy his crowd of admirers. I don’t know why any-
  body gets excited when a guy that big wins at arm wrestling. 
  Probably they just like it when a guy that big does anything. 
  I take my drink with me, and she only complains a little.
  While I’m sipping, I notice a car driving low-speed about a 
  quarter mile down from where the gravel parking lot starts. You 
  can see a long way out here in the desert, especially when you’re 
  like me and your eyes are good for picking up trouble. My hands 
  are good with trouble, too, but the girl in my arms isn’t fighting 
  it, so I hide out a little and watch the car over her neck.
  Doesn’t take me long to figure out why the rustbucket’s going 
  slow. It’s only keeping pace with a woman, if one far better 
  looking than the jailbait I’m draining. She’s got dark skin, 
  dark curly hair down to about her shoulders. She’s not wear-
  ing much, but it’s obvious she picked out what she’s wearing. Her look makes me think 
  Mexican, and I even start to wonder how hungry I am. But gradually she gets close enough 
  I can see her tattoos, and I realize I’m not touching this one. D might kill me.
  About thirty yards out she makes a sprint for the bar. Bad idea; she’s already to the gravel 
  and the guy in the car just floors it. Bumper hits girl, girl goes flying, and car comes spin-
  ning across the gravel. I gulp down the rest of my drink and get ready to fade back inside. 
  Guys are getting out of the car and a scene like this watches just as well from a window.
  But then I see where the car skids, see where it stops, see what it hits.
  The alleged “Count Dracula”  
   comes hand-in-hand with 
  vulgarity. Attempts have been 
  made to keep this document 
  readable. 
  – C. Hardiaken.
  By Russell Bailey and Ben Baugh
  Aliases: The Count, Big D.
  
  DIARY ENTRY: Felix
  The Count is not a man to waste time!  He drags his eyes 
  all over her exposed skin, and then tells her to get her 
  kit off right there in the parking lot.  I’d have had her 
  shivering and goosebumped, watching the delicious things 
  that happen when blood rushes to exposed skin, the blush 
  of shame becoming a flush of wantonness...  what was I 
  saying?  But the Count doesn’t believe in mind-tricks, 
  but then he’s got a magic all his own – something about 
  being a seven foot beefbus with eyes that could stare 
  down his own reflection (if, of course, he had one). 
  And so she did.
  The Count would call me an ignorant philistine, unable 
  to appreciate art, but there’s art enough in lines of 
  a woman by moonlight and fizzing neon to fill my withered 
  soul.  The Count turned her around and around slowly 
  with hands he’d just murdered four men with, and she let 
  him do it with hardly a shiver.  By the third turn, I 
  was sure she’d been in hands as cold as his before.  He 
  squatted down, bringing his head level with her back, 
  and nodded once at what he saw there, two complicated 
  intertwined patterns I couldn’t quite make out. 
  Then he stood, grabbed her with one arm and leaped 
  over to his fallen bike.  To me he roared, “Felix!”
  As these things must, we broke the bar’s windows 
  peeling out in the gravel.    
  The Count in the World of Darkness
  The Count – if you even believe he exists – attracts rumor like flies 
  to spilled blood. It’s almost impossible to believe a modern vampire 
  hip to the new age would even dare carry that name. Big D... there’s 
  no more iconic name associated with the vampire than that one. But 
  one thing that’s important to remember when dealing with the Count 
  is that he has no sense of irony at all. He says he is Count Dracula, and 
  fuck you if you have a problem with that. 
  In a weird way, he’s guileless and honest. Look at the guy – he’s a meat-
  grinder, a tattooed cycle viking nearly seven feet tall, and if you piss him 
  off he’ll punch in your teeth, grab your tongue and eat it. 
  How could the Man’s true nature be writ any larger? But 
  there’s the flip-side, because anybody big and willing to 
  do horrible horrible things to people can be a thug, yet 
  there’s actual poetry in the Count’s soul. Yeah, alright, it’s 
  mostly poetry about the beauty of atrocity, but it’s lyrical. 
  So if there’s a big secret to the Count, it’s that everything 
  the Man says about himself is true, but he doesn’t say 
  everything. He’s got no problem lying for expediency’s 
  sake, but there’s absolutely nothing about himself he’d 
  conceal with deception. He really is the rightful holder 
  of the title. He really is a Man of Education. He really 
  is a man one does not mess with. 
  Dracula 
  The Count is a man who pays attention to 
  details.  It is a point of pride.  Also, recognizing little 
  things like how a man holds a knife can tell one a 
  lot about how willing he is to stab with it, and how 
  good his chances might be.  Licentiousness aside, 
  I am struck by the girl’s tattoos, and realize her 
  clothing was deliberately chosen to reveal them. 
  The Count appreciates many fine things, and good 
  ink is one of them, but this ink wasn’t art. It was a 
  writ, a contract.  Of course the Count could read it.  
  Educated, remember? These tattoos owed something 
  to the Los Hermanos del Cadáver and something more 
  to Huitzilopochtli in his war-garb, feathers and gore-
  spattered cape, and about her throat hummingbirds 
  flew, circling to her left, almost rockabilly. 
  She was a peace treaty - murderous old 
  Huitzilopochtli on her belly, his left-handed 
  hummingbirds.  Somewhere on her would be 
  the names of princes worked into the ink like 
  picture puzzles, a little of their blood in the 
  ink to give the treaty a measure of their 
  immortality.  The girl would be a little more 
  than mortal – not a thrall, but she wouldn’t 
  get sick, and she’d age gracefully.  Treaties 
  live a hundred years easy, unless a car full of 
  legbreakers beat their brains out. 
  I say to the girl, “Take off your clothes.”    
  Multitasking is not talking on the telephone while 
  sending email.  Multitasking is riding a custom cruiser 
  with drilled out pistons and more torque on the low 
  end than a drag racer on a half-gravel road with a 
  screaming naked woman clinging to your back while men 
  in a half a ton of Detroit steel try and drill you with 
  9mm and .45 bullets.  The Count will kill a motherfucker 
  who complains about the workday to him.  
  Felix was following on his embarrassing recent 
  acquisition – a shiny black sci-fi thing.  One of 
  those big Japanese scooters with 450cc engines.  
  Possibly the worst thing about it was that it 
  could keep up with the Count’s machine.  As 
  the Count said, Felix is a pervert.
  But the pervert could see to his own wellbeing.
  The Count does not usually run from a fight, 
  but unlike me, the treaty’s delicate skin would 
  be cut and her 
  bones would be 
  broken – the 
  fragile magic in 
  the ink destroyed.  
  The treaty was 
  supposed to be 
  fragile, to symbolize 
  the fragile peace, 
  which is the only 
  kind possible for 
  Princes of our 
  kingdoms.   
  The names on her back were powerful in the South 
  of the Americas, and the political algebra added 
  up to an ugly war.  A whisper of lust from the 
  Beast suggested perhaps war would in the end be 
  better – one Prince toppled, and the survivor more 
  secure, but the Count did not become the man he 
  is today by letting cock or fang do the thinking for 
  him.  Leave that to Felix.  Preserve the treaty now, 
  and in calmer moments determine whether war or 
  the continued peace serves best.  If it’s to be war, 
  well... I’d save a little for Felix. 
  The Count is a generous man.    
  
  But where the Count is elemental, he’s surrounded by the spectral – if 
  he’s a Count, where are his lands?  He’s highly mobile, seems independent 
  of factionalism, and yet seems to pop up in places where secret Kindred 
  cold wars turn hot. On nights of long knives, his is often the longest, 
  making some think he’s some kind of freelance enforcer, but that’s not 
  the case at all. The Count has an agenda, and he’s got an insight into 
  Kindred politics few can guess at. The elder Dracula fought monsters, 
  within himself and without, but what he really fought was chaos. In his 
  life and his Requiem, he sought to impose order and stability through the 
  judicious application of extreme brutality. His namesake does the same 
  astride a massive custom motorcycle, engine thundering subsonic like 
  summer storm-call. He arrives and to all appearances throws a situation 
  into frenzied pandemonium, with limbs and blood and innards thrown 
  about the place with an almost festive profligacy. Yet when he roars off 
  racing the dawn, and the survivors pick up the pieces and get their Requi-
  ems back on track, they find that things generally work smoother, like the 
  machinery of Kindred society had been tuned up, been well greased. This 
  leads some to reconsider the intrusion of the Count into their lives, until 
  they remember that the machinery has been greased mostly with blood.
  The Count’s agenda is simple: the Kindred will survive... though 
  he makes no guarantees about whether you will. 
  Rumors 
  “Yeah, okay, so he’s scary and all, but what you really gotta worry 
  about is his mom.”
  Nomadic Kindred may be numerous, but to the settled kind, 
  they’re still scary and exotic. City vampires get all superstitious and 
  look for connections where there might not be any. The number 
  one speculation surrounding the Count, and one he has never 
  been known to confirm or deny, is his specific lineage: that he’s 
  the grandchilde of Dracula, by way of the Unholy. 
  Story goes like this: Dracula Senior had this prim and proper bride, 
  right? And somewhere along the way, she snapped or she got snapped 
  and went crazy on the back roads of America, and maybe there were 
  Indians and now she’s got claws and blackbird powers or something. 
  That’s the Unholy, and you best get out of her way. 
  So one time some guy doesn’t get out of her way and she claws his guts 
  out and he bites her ear off and she’s impressed. So she brings him back to 
  life, but there’s more to it. He’s smart. She makes him smarter. She takes 
  him to some crazy monastery and teaches him discipline and control and 
  self-knowledge and all of the things the original Dracula taught her. 
  And then she tries to snap him, like she snapped. And she fails. 
  He stays cool and collected and practically zen, and she flies off in 
  a cloud of black-winged birds. And the Count just dusts himself 
  off and finds himself a dive bar and a good book. 
  “He’s a biker, right, so he’s got girls. Only he’s Dracula, so they ain’t 
  girls; they’re Brides.” 
  Old Dracula started a revolution. He was methodical, eventually 
  even enlightened. In many ways, the man for his time and place in 
  the Fog of Ages. Some Kindred say that this Count is also the man 
  for his time, and that he, too, leads a revolution. They say that the 
  Count is taking the beautiful and the bestial and the badass and 
  making them into something more, that he is teaching them not 
  to hide behind mortals but to take what they need and never look 
  back. These Kindred have become his Brides. 
  The Brides, supposedly, are a group of roving Kindred structured like 
  an outlaw motorcycle gang. None of them were turned by the Count – 
  there’s still just one Dracula – but they follow his way of life, his philoso-
  phy. Whether or not he actually leads them is a subject of debate, mostly 
  because nobody wants to imagine the Count at the head of an army. 
  Brides of Dracula can be boys or girls, and they don’t heed the 
  Traditions as such. Instead, they make their own way, help each 
  other out, and have a good time every night of their Requiems. Like 
  the Count, they leave big messes behind. But somehow, mortals 
  still haven’t twigged yet that they’re out there.
  In the Southwest, folks say the Brides have been repatching Bruja. 
  Folks say there’s a war coming. 
  “Eight feet tall, pierced and tattooed, completely indestructible... come 
  on, does that sound like a vampire to you?” 
  Yes, there are those who doubt the Count, who do not believe that he 
  could really be Count Dracula. Those who doubt, however, still fear, and 
  still talk. They say that he is not Dracula’s grandchilde, but his creation. 
  In his quest to understand the Kindred condition, the story goes, 
  the original Dracula sought to understand life and death directly. If 
  fire was the bane of vampires, then it must be the basis of humanity 
  in some way. So Dracula spent years seeking the fire within humanity, 
  and ways to transform and refine it. He sought to transcend vampirism 
  by creating a creature like a vampire, yet with the fire of a man. 
  His creation was a hideous failure. Indeed, the massive corpse he 
  raised could face the sun, and did not suffer a hunger for blood. 
  It even burned within. Yet where the Kindred were cursed within, 
  this creature carried a curse without, blighting any land it slept 
  upon, forever ruining everything it touched. 
  
  Copyright CCP hf.
  All rights reserved
  Dracula abandoned the monster in disgust. Yet, in its crude 
  way, it aped him and took on his identity, eventually becoming 
  the Count of modern legend.
  Name: Count Dracula
  Clan: Gangrel
  Covenant: Unaligned
  Apparent Age: Mid-30s, difficult to tell with tattoos and piercings
  Mental Attributes: Intelligence 3, Wits 4, Resolve 3
  Physical Attributes: Strength 4, Dexterity 3, Stamina 4
  Social Attributes: Presence 3, Manipulate 2, Composure 3
  Mental Skills: Academics 3, Investigation 3, Occult 3, Politics 1,  
  Science 1
  Physical Skills: Athletics 3, Brawl 5 (Dirty), Drive 2 (Motorcycle), 
  Firearms 2, Larceny 1, Stealth 1, Survival 2, Weaponry 2
  Social Skills: Intimidation 3 (Staredown), Persuasion 1, Socialize 1,  
  Streetwise 2, Subterfuge 1
  Merits: Brawling Dodge 1, Dirty Fighting 5, Fame 1, Giant 4
  Willpower: 6
  Humanity: 4
  Virtue: Fortitude
  Vice: Wrath
  Health: 10
  Initiative: 6
  Defense: 3
  Speed: 12
  Blood Potency: 3
  Disciplines: Animalism 1, Protean 2, Resilience 3
  Devotions: Serpent in the Belly
  Vitae/per Turn: 12/1
  Legacy 
  Fighting Style: Dirty Fighting (• to ••••• ) 
  Prerequisites: Strength (•••), Brawl (•••) 
  Effect: Your character has learned a brutal, artless form of fighting 
  intended to inflict the most punishment on the most people as quickly 
  as possible – no elegance, no style, no forms, katas, training regimes 
  or coaches. This is a way of kicking ass learned by doing it, by kicking 
  ass until it’s as natural as breathing. Fighting dirty also teaches your 
  character about getting his ass kicked, because there’s no safe way to 
  learn. You learn it by fighting in gutters and poolrooms, alleys, trenches, 
  prison yards and biker bars. Hit first, hit hardest, hit last, and then 
  kick his teeth in when he falls down. The best opponent is the one 
  who’s choking on his own puke and rolling on around on the ground 
  clutching his smashed testicles. It says a lot about your character that 
  she’s fought often enough and hard enough to get this good at it.  
  Low Blow (•)
  Effect: This suggests a male target, but there’s places on the female 
  body just as sensitive and just as dishonorable to stick your boot in. Nail 
  your opponent with a really nasty blow to a really sensitive area, and 
  leave them swaying on their feet, trying not to vomit from the sick vision-
  twisting pain. A successful Brawl attack that generates more successes 
  than your target’s Composure causes them to lose their next action. 
  Shank (••)
  Effect: You can fight with knives, small blades, shanks and other small 
  improvised weapons using your Brawl skill rather than Weaponry. 
  Suck it Up (•••)
  Effect: As much as you know about dishing out the pain, you’ve 
  also learned something about taking it. Quit whining and suck it 
  up. Spend a point of Willpower, and ignore all wound penalties 
  for the remainder of the scene. 
  One or a Dozen, It Don’t Matter (••••) 
  Effect: You know all the tricks for fighting more than one guy at 
  the same time – how to get them in each other’s way, hurt one bad 
  to scare another, and psyche them out. Each opponent beyond the 
  first you’re facing in close combat adds 1 to your Defense and you can 
  spend a point of Willpower each to make simultaneous additional 
  brawl attacks on two or more of these opponents.  
  I Said Stay Down! (•••••)
  Effect: After making a successful Low Blow, your victim has to make a 
  Stamina roll. If successful, they only lose their next action like normal. If 
  they fail, they go down in a mewing pathetic heap and clutch their rup-
  tured vitals, turtling up in hopes that you won’t keeping hurting them. 
  New Devotion: Serpent in the Belly  
  (Fortitude••, Animalism•••, Protean••) 
  Learn this devotion and a serpent wakes in your belly, rising up in 
  coils around your spine and whispering in your ear when your allies 
  call. There’s some mystical hoodoo involved – you mark them at their 
  temples and lips with your blood when you teach them how to whisper 
  the magic words, and they sacrifice a little of their blood to the serpent 
  when they do – but once invoked you can sense their presence, their 
  general condition, and you can find them wherever they are. Marking 
  a friend costs 1 Vitae, and they remain marked until you decide to 
  withdraw your protection of them. When they call the serpent, they 
  spent a point of Vitae (or if mortal, take a point of bashing damage) 
  and you can immediately sense them and know which direction they 
  are in. You can’t read their thoughts, but you know if they’re in pain 
  and their general emotional state. If they are in trouble, you know it. If 
  they move while the serpent is awake, you know how far and how fast 
  based on how their proximity to you changed. Each call lasts a whole 
  night, and then your ally must re-invoke it after sleeping. 
  Serpent in the Belly costs 21 XP to purchase.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Storyteller [multi]/World of Darkness (WoD) [multi]/CofD/Vampire - The Requiem/Vampire the Requiem - Night Horrors - Count Dracula.pdf