Eleanor/Hooks
Formal Duels: Trained in the fine art of swords, sabers and rapiers. Would you like to spar?
Are you a Good Witch or a Bad Witch?
Eleanor Hart was born to be looked at. She never wanted to be.
From childhood, people watched her with that quiet, startled reverence reserved for swans in the wrong part of town; tall, delicate, and too lovely for her surroundings. Even before she understood what beauty meant, she noticed how people paused mid-sentence when she walked into a room. Strangers asked about modeling. Classmates wrote her notes they couldn’t bring themselves to say aloud. But Ellie? Ellie wanted books. She wanted obscurity, silence, the company of dust and parchment and something older than longing.
She buried herself in it. Studied theology, folklore, and ancient languages like they were incantations to keep the world at bay. Her college professors adored her precise and well-mannered demeanor. But there was always that flicker of something else in their eyes. Awe. Want. Discomfort. And she hated it.
So when Dr. Leontine Marchand offered her a position assisting with arcane translations (rare texts from “private European libraries”) Ellie accepted without hesitation. She saw it as a sanctuary: a cloister of ritual and logic, of deep work and deeper quiet. And for a while, it was. She lived in dusty archives, copying symbols by hand, cataloguing ancient invocations that prickled against her skin. Then came the dream she didn’t wake up from. The embrace she didn’t agree to. The new life written in blood and sealed in silence.
Ellie’s beauty, it seemed, had followed her beyond the grave. Her Embrace didn’t change her so much as sharpen her—porcelain-pale, bone-fragile, with luminous grey eyes like a cathedral window at dusk. A vision of unearthly grace… and still, somehow, overlooked in the Pyramid. Because the Tremere don't value beauty, they value utility.
So Ellie became useful. Obedient. Inward. Always impeccably dressed in her own subdued, vintage style of floor-length skirts, Victorian blouses, high collars and gloves. Always graceful, always polite. Always watchful.
In early 1995, she was assigned to Houston—young blood to aid the Chantry’s archival efforts. She knew better than to protest. She packed her books and journals, her ritual tools, her mirrorless compact, and traveled quietly to the Gulf.
Now she tends to the sacred detritus of the clan’s occult traditions. She transcribes rituals in fine calligraphy. She brews components by candlelight. She’s rarely noticed, she speaks softly. She does what she’s told. But she is always listening.