A salty Nosferatu haunting the docks and seaside slums of Rosscove


Perpetually wrinkled and gnarled, as if being left to soak too long in the briny deep, Nikolai would be the first to tell you he was no looker in life. If you could understand him, that is. Nikolai speaks an ecclectic accent that is a combination of rum-runner slang, sailor jargon, and russian immigrant english. Those few who have managed to establish a rapport with the miserly ex-captain have decyphered most of his phrases, but newcomers are often baffled. As devious and sneaky as any Nosferatu, Nikolai treats the clan like a crew upon a ship. He may not agree with all of them, or even like some of them, but he is viciously loyal to them, going to great lengths to help from the shadows, even if he passes it off as coincidence later. With the increasing turmoil in Rosscove, Nikolai’s abilities seem to be in higher and higher demand. Much to Nikolai’s continued disappointment, he has shown great skill in matters politic, clandestine, and brutal.


Nikolai was a russian smuggler working for a local speak-easy during the prhibition. One night, a particularly bad storm caught his boat by surprise and he was thrown overboard. A lesser man would have been swallowed by the raging sea, but by chance or skill, Nikolai found himself washed upon a rocky crag by the pounding surf. A monster stood before him as he lay broken on the rocks, standing over him i the torrential rain. Like Davey Jones of old, he offered to save his life, but doing so would damn his soul. That dark and stormy night Nikolai joined the ranks of monsters whom only the superstitious speak of.


Hail to the Chief ModernDayMinstrel