The life of Deborah St.James - in as short a form as I can get it.
Basics: Born June 1972. 5' 5" tall, 115lbs, slender build (closer to skinny, but let's be nice). Short blonde hair, green eyes. Small (half inch or so high) tattoo of an ankh on her neck, usually hidden by her hair. Quarter sized birthmark on hip.
The first twenty one years: Debbie grew up in Stonorway on the island of Lewis, part of the Hebrides off the northern coast of Scotland. She was raised by her father, Alex. Her mother left when she was five. Alex owned a fishing boat (of course), and Debbie earned her pocket money gutting fish (Never ask her out for sushi).
About two thousand people lived on the island, the largest settlement in the Hebrides. Debbie went through the inadequate state school system until she was sixteen and then decided to tutor herself for her GCSE's (six, English, Gaelic, Math, History, Biology, and Physics) and 'A' levels (one, English).
Life in the Hebrides was a bit removed from the rest of the world. Debbie and Alex got around to buying a tv four years ago, and decided it was a waste of money. They both preferred the radio and their cd player (thank god for mail order catalogues!). People tended to make their own entertainment, usually involving a fair amount of alcohol. Debbie would usually participate in whatever drinking bout was going on ("C'mon, man, we're celebrating Mao's birthday!" or "C'mon, we're celebrating the anniversary of the invention of the cotton gin!") until she awakened. Then she figured getting drunk too often would be bad.
Debbie was the closest thing to a nihilist that the island had, but all that meant was that she tended to listen to Depeche Mode and wear a lot of black. Big whoop.
Life, obviously was pretty damn quiet. Except for the magic thing. Debbie stumbled across it trying to fix her boom box. She was pretty frustrated and just don't ask what happened. When her father got home, she told him the chip pan had caught fire, hence the soot on the walls (and the ceiling, and the floor...).
The only person she trusted enough to tell about her abilities was her best friend, Sean Roberts, who took it quite well. He listened, nodded and proceeded to tell her that he was a werewolf. They were even closer friends after that. Nothing like a shared secret...
Life on the island was starting to go a little sour. A case of wanderlust combined with the unwanted attention of the island's sole police constable (who was starting to make some very unsporting threats) got Debbie very interested in the idea of getting the fuck off the island. Fortunately, Alex understood.
Thank god for family. A few weeks later, Debbie was in New Orleans, living with her aunt, who was making a good living as a corporate lawyer. Debbie spent her time working in a tragically hip used bookstore and coping with massive culture shock. As far as she knew, she was the only mage on the planet.
Debbie had a run in with a vampire at a party thrown by her aunt, but was saved by her from harm. This made Debbie rather nervous, but hopeful about the possiblity of finding other supernatural beings (hopefully ones that won't want to drink her blood).
Through circumstances too boring too explain (plus, I've forgotten) Debbie fell in with a rather odd group, consisting of two other mages (Akashic and Dreamspeaker), a Bonegnawer, a Khan, and a Gangrel. Weird stuff commenced. Culture shock continued. Debbie encountered a Settite (that really sucked. And then some), befriended a mummy (thank god for a love of Egyptology) and generally got into the kind of trouble that mages get into.
Debbie also decided that she really didn't like the police during her six month stay in New Orleans. It boiled down to: "Sorry, lady, we ain't going to help you or your dying friend because people who don't like you own our butts. Have a nice day."
And then she fell in with the current bunch. She's feeling like she's in free fall, hence the hostility. C'mon, she's only been in the country for a year. She's now living in a chantry bigger than the island where she grew up. This takes adjustment. But she knows she's a lot happier than she would be back home.
Stuff in her possession (I believe the GM wanted to know)
Beat up black Mini, which probably violates a whole bunch of CA emissions standards. Runs fairly well. Contains a stereo capable of causing hearing damage.
Photographic equipment (hobby from her Scottish days). Old Canon 35mm camera, Super 8mm camera. Darkroom equipment. Projector and editing junk.
Glock 17 and regular ammo. When in America, buy a gun, right?
Some knife that was a gift from a Euthanatos in New Orleans (GM never explained, I suspect it was someone's focus, but that someone didn't really need it anymore) Obsidian blade. Debbie keeps it because it's rather pretty.
Books, lots o' books. Mostly horror, thrillers, history books and biographies. Plus a couple of fantasy titles stuffed down the side of her bed.
Tapes and CD's. Wide variety of music, she'll listen to anything once.
Beat up PC, w/modem.
Another stereo in her apartment.
Lots of black clothes (surprise, surprise) and one nice dress.
Spray can of black paint...