Leggett Lavalle

Leggett Lavalle never shouted. He didn’t need to. His voice was the slow, velvet fall of a guillotine’s blade: inevitable and precise, beautiful in its cold certainty, terrifying in the finality it promised.

Over the course of a millennium, Leggett had meticulously shaped his dynasty—an intricate force that prowled the delicate edges of Camarilla salons and Anarch strongholds alike. His brood was too refined to be dismissed as mere beasts, too cunning and poised to be ignored as mere courtiers.

He sought out the overlooked, the wild dreamers with sharpened teeth and fierce ambition, the kind of souls who refused to be broken or tamed. To them, he taught one immutable law: loyalty is the only currency worth trading in.

His childer were no accident of fate. Each was selected as one might select a finely tempered blade, for purpose, for balance, for the perfection of craft.

There was Thomas Broadbent-Lavalle, the eldest—a man plucked from the turmoil of the Inquisition. Thomas lay sleeping beneath the vigilant guard of steadfast allies and retainers who would have died before letting the fire claim him. Thomas was steel wrapped in silk and one of the most refined Kindred one could ever meet, a swordsman whose blade flickered with deadly speed beyond mortal perception. Leggett often remarked that to cross Thomas was to wager one’s life against a victor who had already claimed the prize.

Rebecca Beauchêne-Lavalle had been claimed amidst the brutal upheavals of the French Wars of Religion—a woman whose fierce spirit rallied armies and inspired legends. “Joan of Arc has nothing on my Rebecca,” Leggett would say with a rare, genuine pride, even to those who opposed her. Now, she rules the City-State of Andorra, wielding power with equal mastery both in the marble halls of governance and on the bloodied fields of battle.

Then there was Julien, the beautiful, eclectic black sheep of the family. Leggett had not come to Haiti to hunt, nor to conquer; he had been seduced instead by the fire of revolution burning with desperate hope. Amid the chaos, he found Julien: nameless, illiterate, yet defiantly standing against forces that should have crushed him. A blank slate, a flight of fancy. These were Leggett’s words. Yet Julien was one he never relinquished. He shaped every curve of Julien’s speech, every deliberate gesture, every glint of charm and latent danger, crafting him into the singular force he is.

There was Liam, born of famine during the Great Hunger, waiting in the shadows to be forged when the moment arrived. And Eugenia Davenport-Lavalle, taken during England’s battle for women’s suffrage—a living emblem of grace and defiance, her spirit woven tightly into the fabric of change.

Each one a jewel in Leggett’s crown, polished over centuries by his unyielding hand, each carrying a legacy forged in darkness and ambition.