By Peloquin (ka.vanadis@karlskrona.mail.telia.com)
In the early years of the hippy era, a new bloodline popped up in the Anarch states, like a bad tooth. They always showed up where people were happiest, and only left when at least two or three people had committed suicide with a blunt spoon or the like. Due to their identical way of dressing, and the way the weather seemed to grow bleak by their very presence, they were dubbed the Gray Men. As time passed, and the society of both kine and kindred alike became darker and grittier, the Gray Men were accepted, unwillingly.
Once, apparently, or so they claim, a manic depressive Sabbat Malkavian and a likewise nutso Toreador decided to combine a few rituals they had stolen from a local Tremere chantry and use them on some hapless mortal they had found. The strange combination of Presence, Dementation and a Thaumaturgic ritual resulted in The Gray Men.
These strange vampires have calmed down recently though, and when asked, they only say: "He's coming." When asked who, they stare at you until you go away. And it is impossible to drag it out of their brains; one elder vampire who attempted this said that it was as if they didn't know it themselves.
Ventrue: Why bother...
Toreador: Art. So what?
Tremere: Ooo, magic. Who cares?
Brujah: I wish I could care less.
Nosferatu: Ugly, yeah. Too happy for me, though.
Malkavians: They say we're the same. Bull.
Gangrel: I hate animals. But I don't care enough to do anything about it.
Tzimisce: Mhm. And?
Lasombra: Yeah, yeah, as if I would care...
Setites: Corruption is so depressing...