TEXT: 1 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  
  8 
  INTRODUCTION
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  Masquerade and Storyteller System are registered trademarks of CCP hf. All rights reserved. This book uses the supernatural for 
  settings, characters and themes. All mystical and supernatural elements are fictional and intended for entertainment purposes only. This 
  book contains mature content. Reader discretion is advised.
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  Credits
  Authors: Justin Achilli, C.A. Suleiman, Eddy Webb, 
  Joseph Carriker, and Christopher Kobar
  Additional Material: Jeremy Miller and Ben H.
  Editor and Indexer: Genevieve Podleski
  Creative and Art Director: Rich Thomas
  Layout and Typesetting: Ron Thompson
  Cover Art: Tim Bradstreet
  Interior Art: Tim Bradstreet, Dan Brereton, Michael 
  Gaydos, Adrian Majkrzak, Marco Mazzoni, Efrem 
  Palacios, Steven Stahlberg, Andrew Trabbold, Drew 
  Tucker 
  Special Thanks
  Justin “BenVereen” Achilli for locking himself out 
  of the chateau with 32 coffee spoons as his adamantium 
  claws.
  Rich “Improvesario” Thomas for rolling out a 
  schedule fueled by faith in freelance.
  Eddy “Scramble Flight Decks” Webb for scheduling 
  around rebuilding the combat system. Again.
  Matthew “Silvio Dante” McFarland for being 
  dragged back in and taking on a new WoD project. 
  Meredith “Slashfic” Gerber for provoking the worst 
  kind of Twitter conversation.
  Matt “The Alastor” McElroy for tending the Red 
  List.
  Alessandro “This Is Glamorous?” Kelis for seeing 
  how the sausage is made.
  Ryan “Many Hats” Merritt for fulfilling the 
  responsibilities of Title A with the practices of Title B 
  in prep for Title C.
  Sabine “Ooops” Heidenreich for being left out of 
  the backers list in V20 Companion.
  
  9 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Contents
  Introduction 
   
   
   
   
   
  10
  Lados 
   
   
   
   
   
   
  18
  Lizette Cordoba  
   
   
   
   
  22
  The Nabataean  
   
   
   
   
  27
  Svein “Azrael” Fortinbras 
   
   
   
  34
  Lady Willoughby  
   
   
   
   
  39
  Meixiu 
   
   
   
   
   
   
  46
  Edgardo Robbia  
   
   
   
   
  53
  Dastur Anosh 
   
   
   
   
   
  58
  Laurette Morel 
   
   
   
   
   
  66
  The Hangman’s Bride  
   
   
   
  73
  Nasch the Circassian  
   
   
   
  78
  Marc de Brabant  
   
   
   
   
  85
  Roderigo al-Dakhil 
   
   
   
   
  90
  Andrew Seneca  
   
   
   
   
  98
  Jaromir Cerny 
   
   
   
   
   
  104
  Colm Olliver 
   
   
   
   
   
  111
  Esperanza Lucifer 
   
   
   
   
  116
  Apacia 
   
   
   
   
   
   
  122
  
  10 
  INTRODUCTION
  Introduction  
  10 
  INTRODUCTION
  Introduction
  The Kindred are no strangers to strife. Indeed, most 
  Kindred thrive on the sorrow and discord of the mortal 
  world. Where better to feed than in a domain racked 
  by rebellion? Where better to make a mortal vessel 
  disappear after a chance overfeeding — or an intentional 
  indulgence — than in a location known to be suffering a 
  period of chaos, war, or sedition?
  Revolution is more than a convenient setting in which 
  to find sustenance for the Kindred, however. Certain 
  Kindred Embraced in times of tumult, whether in the 
  mortal world or the secret world of the Kindred, find 
  themselves almost predestined to have an impact on the 
  society of the Damned. In the past, Kindred led armies, 
  slew kings, begat heresies, and laid the foundations 
  for what would eventually become the sects and even 
  Traditions. Tonight, though Cainite society may already 
  exist in a global context, Kindred who arose during 
  times of dissidence or rebellion may find themselves 
  the authors of equally significant acts. The times may 
  be gone for an undead warlord to fearlessly spur his 
  mount into a column of Charlemagne’s paladins, but 
  the impact of his actions is surely no less felt, especially 
  in times of instant, global communication and the 
  urgency of the modern nights.
  Themes
  With that in mind, the core theme of Children of the 
  Revolution is that Kindred Embraced in “interesting 
  times” often find themselves as catalysts or casualties of 
  other “interesting times.”
  Practically, each of the Kindred detailed in 
  Children of the Revolution embodies her own theme. 
  Collectively, though, some trends do emerge among 
  the assembled undead. For instance, a great many of 
  these vampires, many of whom associated themselves at 
  one point with open rebellions, have ended up making 
  a very comfortable place for themselves. More than 
  their Disciplines or Attributes, many of the undead 
  depicted herein have amassed significant collections of 
  Backgrounds — and Resources in particular. Rebellion 
  is a profitable business when played with the cynical 
  realism of the practical Cainite, especially in the World 
  of Darkness, where the downtrodden — Kindred and 
  kine — want a savior. Once the idealism of a Kindred’s 
  passion of choice wanes under the weight of years, he 
  can often still commoditize it, trading on a reputation 
  Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.
  — Georg Büchner
  
  11 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  of opposition to a corrupt institution such as the 
  Sabbat or Camarilla while enjoying the benefits that 
  the institution offers. Look at the Sabbat: a fire-and-
  brimstone doomsday cult sword worshipping the 
  destruction of the Antediluvians and elder tyranny… 
  yet guided by a clashing confederation of those 
  selfsame elders and even Methuselahs, many of whom 
  possess a material comfort notably lacking among the 
  shovelheads and field agents who fight and burn and 
  die under the banner of the Sword of Caine. At least 
  the Camarilla is (somewhat) honest in its “Fuck you, I 
  was here first” rhetoric. Not that anyone inclined to an 
  attitude of revolution would accept that sort of logic. 
  But once the revolution in question equilibrates, often 
  becoming much like the event or situation it replaced, 
  the ideas of the revolution almost certainly still 
  resonate. That’s when they become a byword, a brand, 
  or even a pillar of the new regime’s stability. And that’s 
  where the revolution becomes a tradeable identity. Now 
  that we’ve chased the corrupt Ventrue conspiracy out of 
  town, well, it certainly couldn’t hurt to confiscate some 
  of their assets or lure their contacts, could it? Otherwise 
  they’re just going to waste….
  That corruptive influence frequently proves too 
  tempting for most Kindred to resist, especially when 
  urged by the Beast or indulged by a crumbling Morality. 
  After all, how does denying yourself help others who 
  might be suffering? If a Kindred finds an advantage, 
  even if it’s at odds with the party line of his rebellion 
  or outlook, who does it help for him not to take it? 
  Wouldn’t the opposition, whoever that is, seize it 
  for themselves if they found it? When your players’ 
  characters meet the characters in this book, will they 
  buy into the ideology? And if their personal revolution 
  succeeds, will the pendulum swing the other way? Will 
  the old revolution prove to be the corrupt enemy of the 
  next revolution brewing among the next generation of 
  the undead? History suggests it’s so.
  Assamites
  The Assamites play both sides of revolution. Some 
  of their most lucrative contracts for assassination come 
  in domains in the midst of rebellion, power struggles, 
  or other dangerous détentes among powerful but 
  vicious Kindred. At the same time, in domains where 
  Assamites hold sway, the Path of Blood and the codes of 
  Haqim make for an orderly society, at least to outsiders’ 
  view. Internally, the Clan of Assassins is as rife with 
  schism as any other, but the clan practices a philosophy 
  that places common external enemies before enemies 
  within the Assamite order itself.
  The result is that most Assamites are drawn more 
  from revolutions in the mortal world than they 
  are in the midst of turbulent Kindred events. The 
  Assamite Embrace is rarely one given in haste or 
  without consideration, and many Assassin sires watch 
  their potential childer for years if not decades before 
  performing the act. Even when great events shake the 
  foundation of Kindred society, the response of the 
  Assamites is more often to vanish into the shadows and 
  formulate a plan than to throw cannon fodder in front 
  of the problem. This pragmatism surprises few who 
  know the ways of the Assassins.
  One notable exception colors the history of Assamite 
  stoicism in the face of upheaval. After the Convention 
  of Thorns, when the Assamites deliberately placed 
  themselves outside the Camarilla, a period of open 
  war between the Assassins’ Clan and the Ivory Tower 
  began, and lasted for almost a decade. During this 
  period, the Assamites performed the Embrace with 
  uncharacteristic profligacy. To hear them tell it, they 
  had no choice: The combined might of seven clans had 
  been turned against them, and the only thing saving 
  them from extinction was the ability to induct new 
  members into Haqim’s brood. Comparatively few of 
  the Assamites Embraced between 1493 and the early 
  16th century still exist, having succumbed to torpor or 
  met Final Death during this wartime, but those who do 
  survive have been tempered in the flames of the single 
  most defining conflict in the clan’s history — which, 
  when discussing the Assassins, speaks greatly to these 
  vampires’ acumen, guile, and tenacity.
  Brujah
  Unsurprisingly, Clan Brujah has no few of its 
  members brought into the night during periods of 
  mortal or Kindred conflict. Given the passion with 
  which the Rabble hurl themselves into the closest 
  available violence, it might even be argued that most 
  Brujah Embraces occur in times of revolution, with 
  the only question being the scope of the revolution 
  that spawns them. “Revolution,” to a Brujah, can be 
  a tremendously personal thing, and a one-Kindred 
  vendetta against a hated Prince, entrenched Elder, or 
  ambitious movement among a domain’s fledglings 
  might constitute a small-scale sedition that demands 
  the punitive or proactive Embrace of a new Brujah. The 
  other clans may see such Embraces as ill-considered or 
  even quixotic, but few are the Rabble who give a flaming 
  fuck what those other clans think.
  
  12 
  INTRODUCTION
  Hypocrisy characterizes many Brujah Embraces as 
  well. While the Rabble are quick to align themselves 
  as agents of change and fighters of the privileged status 
  quo in calcified domains, they rarely extended such 
  progressive outlooks to include the kine. Oppression 
  works just fine for many Brujah when it’s a question 
  of mortal influence versus vampiric dominance. It’s 
  one thing to strike out against a hated Elder, but, 
  hey, a Kindred needs blood.  Rejuvenating an area of 
  urban blight might be the way to counter The Man’s 
  influence, but it sure makes it a pain in the ass to feed. 
  In light of this, many Brujah Embraces come from a 
  misguided attempt at correcting the mistake of killing a 
  mortal vessel while engaging in some personal crusade 
  against a foe. Indeed, some Brujah even Embrace in 
  the hopes of preserving a rapidly dwindling Humanity, 
  reasoning that it’s better to “save” an individual via the 
  bleak doom of the Embrace rather than letting her die. 
  During times when the Rabble consume a great deal of 
  blood — such as when using their Disciplines frequently 
  to fight, well, whomever — such backhanded salvation 
  occurs frequently.
  Followers of Set
  The Setites are no stranger to times of upheaval, 
  and, especially among Kindred society, are responsible 
  for creating no small share of their own. To a certain 
  segment of the clan, the ultimate Setite goal is arguably 
  a revolution: the resurrection of their dead god-
  progenitor that may presage (or prevent) the rising of 
  the rest of the Antediluvians. To the opposite-aligned 
  faction of the clan, the dark secrets of the world, 
  including the inscrutable movements of their deathless 
  founder are mysteries to be protected. Whether for or 
  against, the Setite oeuvre deals with changes on a scale 
  so great that the world shudders when the Snake Clan’s 
  shadow falls across it.
  When the Followers of Set Embrace, they do so with 
  a purpose often absent from the less cultic lineages of 
  vampires. However, like the other independent clans, 
  their isolation from mainstream Kindred society gives 
  them a narrow focus into which to Embrace and 
  inculcate their childer. In many cases, Setite Embraces 
  end up a victim of the corruptions they peddle, but in 
  many more, the outsider status of the clan meshes well 
  with dramatic world events. The Setites are masters 
  of taking these opportunities wherever they may find 
  potential new clanmates. What better way to ensure 
  devotion and even fanaticism from their childer than 
  to expose them to the dark powers and pleasure of the 
  Kindred condition at the same time they’re heady with 
  the potential of changing the way the world thinks? 
  What better time to become a vampire that at the apex 
  of one’s revolutionary career?
  Of late, the unrest in the ancestral home of the Setites 
  on the African continent has provided no shortage of 
  rebellions, coups, upheavals, and dictatorships against 
  which to cast their neonates’ Embraces. On the one 
  hand, this is a boon to those fledglings, who are often 
  emboldened by the spirit of independence that tonight 
  sweeps across northern Africa and who feel a lesser 
  sense of oppression than Kindred Embraced into the 
  clan during less democratic periods. To the detriment 
  of the other clans and the greater world, however, this 
  bold mindset comes draped in one of the most secretive, 
  sinister, and immoral clan cultures among the whole of 
  the Damned. These young Kindred have seen firsthand 
  that revolution works and that striking out against a 
  corrupt order can yield results — and those results are 
  the chilling ideology of the Setites.
  Gangrel
  In many cases, the Outlanders’ concept of revolution 
  comes as a result of outside forces. As Clan Gangrel 
  rarely undertakes any course of action as a unified entity, 
  even on a local level, the Clan of the Beast experiences 
  upheaval only when events conspire to drag them 
  into it. Too few of them care for Kindred politics or 
  even mortal events enough to bother with such things 
  when more pressing, primal needs consume them 
  nightly. Rare exceptions do occur, but the most notable 
  revolution-born Kindred of the clan found themselves 
  Embraced during mortal or territorial struggles more 
  so than in the shadow-games that consume the more 
  cerebral clans.
  This means that when overlap between Kindred 
  and mortal interests occur, though, that the Gangrel 
  may find themselves siring progeny in an effort at 
  self-preservation. Those Gangrel who have given it 
  much consideration often feel that such “protective 
  Embraces” are the height of irony, however, for the 
  truth of the matter is that while there may be safety in 
  numbers, those numbers mean that a greater number 
  of Kindred are sharing the same, finite amount of vitae. 
  More wolves in the pack may make it easier to bring 
  down the prey, but it means a lesser share for each of the 
  predators. The ugly truth of this is that, just as certain 
  members of the animal kingdom kill their own young, 
  an Outlander may well find it prudent to destroy his 
  own progeny after she’s served her purpose in the wake 
  of revolution. Such is the way of the War of Ages.
  
  13 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  From the perspective of such progeny, however, fuck 
  that. Just because some gnarly old creep wanted to 
  sacrifice a fledgling to the torches of a mob or the fangs 
  of the Archons doesn’t mean they have to shut up and 
  take it. Given their ferocity and their unholy resilience, 
  even a Gangrel neonate is tough to kill, and not at all 
  likely to bare her throat to a selfish sire just because he 
  thinks she’s outlasted her usefulness. As such, times of 
  revolution see the Embrace of many Outlanders, and 
  also see hostilities flare within the clan, rather than the 
  usual survival apathy that characterizes the Outlanders’ 
  bestowal of the Curse of Caine.
  Giovanni
  What have the Giovanni accomplished that they 
  haven’t actually stolen from someone else? They steal 
  power by compelling the dead, steal influence by 
  blackmail and threat of violence, steal wealth from 
  legitimate producers, and even stole vampirism from 
  the dead heart of their patron progenitor. They are the 
  carpetbaggers of Kindred society, the whores traveling 
  in the wake of the marching army, the lice on a wretched 
  beggar.
  The Giovanni play to their strengths, of course. 
  They’re not the most numerous clan, but they possess 
  vast resources for a faction so comparatively small. 
  Culturally, the Italian Necromancers are used to seeing 
  change and taking advantage of it. In a positive context, 
  the Renaissance that spawned the initial wealth of the 
  Giovanni family represented a massive humanitarian 
  revolution, to which the Giovanni attached themselves 
  and by which they became rich in lucre and influence. 
  Numerous mortal political shifts over the intervening 
  centuries have also given the Giovanni not only 
  ample opportunity to capitalize on changes in power 
  structures, but also to observe what happens before 
  those shifts. Forewarned is forearmed, and the 
  Giovanni have witnessed enough mortal revolution 
  of all scales to know when to cease relationships with 
  allies who are about to be exposed as cronies or cut off 
  commerce with agencies that are about to be exposed as 
  corrupt. For some Giovanni, turning over interests in 
  these compromised contacts to younger Necromancers 
  is a test of a low-status vampire’s mettle. If the Kindred 
  can eke out some last burst of utility from the disgraced 
  flunky or, better, restore a ruined moneymaker to 
  profitability, that’s a fast-track to esteem in the clan. 
  The weakness of this facet of the Giovanni lies in their 
  limited numbers. Their experience is deep but not 
  broad: They know how to watch for signs of change on 
  the wind in their immediate environs, but they’re less 
  capable of predicting such disruption in domains not 
  their own, and thus remain somewhat parochial.
  As a general rule, the Giovanni Embrace their 
  childer from a different pool than the other clans do, 
  given their familial structure, so the timing of those 
  Embraces corresponds less to times of revolution. Still, 
  when duress demands undead “boots on the ground,” 
  the Giovanni have little trouble managing to conscript 
  enough grunts from the more brutish branches of the 
  family tree, and if one survives the tumult and matures 
  into a promising neonate, more’s the better.
  Tangentially, the supernatural power of the Giovanni 
  often waxes during times of revolution, especially 
  revolutions that yield violence. The passionate dead 
  are a unique currency for the Necromancers, and a 
  battlefield or riot site where lives suddenly ended is a 
  well of power that the Giovanni, via their unwholesome 
  Disciplines, are uniquely suited to tap. Supernatural 
  power garnered in these tragic revolutions usually yields 
  results suited to the physical world rather than any deep 
  connection to the Underworld because of the “fresh” 
  nature of the souls harvested, but no advantage is so 
  narrow that the Necromancers can’t exploit it.
  Lasombra
  As is ever the way, those who wield power are loath 
  to share it, and this adage is certainly true when the 
  Lasombra are involved. The Keepers have a long and 
  aristocratic history, and very few mortal movements 
  culminate in the restoration of aristocracies to power, 
  especially in these preposterously democratic modern 
  nights. Thus, when a Lasombra aligns himself with a 
  rebellious movement, he does so with much to gain. 
  When a Lasombra Embraces a childe during a time of 
  tumult, she does so in order to fortify her own position. 
  Case in point: The Sabbat. Who would have guessed 
  that the Keepers would be one of two nominal leaders 
  of such a movement? But when the fire in the Kindred 
  blood rose, the Lasombra saw their opportunity and, 
  striking down their own leader, placed themselves at 
  the forefront of revolutionary thought and action…
  …into which they promptly installed themselves as an 
  aristocracy.
  The Lasombra character is one of individuality 
  and sufficiency, however, and the revolutions that 
  call to them are much less of the bomb-tossing and 
  beheading ilk, and much more of the kind that subtly 
  but significantly change behavior. During the Age of 
  Exploration, much Lasombra money and influence, 
  and many Lasombra childer poured into the New 
  
  14 
  INTRODUCTION
  World. (Even tonight, the “privateer spirit” still holds 
  sway among certain Keepers — see Esperanza Lucifer 
  on p. 116.) When the Sabbat was on the ropes in the 
  New World, Lasombra interests found a home for it in 
  Mexico. Lasombra clergymen leveraged the weight of 
  their prayers in numerous wars and schisms during the 
  Dark Ages, and among certain Kindred historians, no 
  small activity during the Burning Times did so as a result 
  of Lasombra “suggestion.” Although the Keepers have 
  no great facility with Eastern culture or philosophy, the 
  Chinese principle of weiji has its adherents among many 
  Lasombra seeking to sire: that crisis or instability often 
  carries opportunity in its wake. In a clan that reveres 
  lineage and accomplishment as much as the Lasombra 
  do, a Cainite’s legacy may be greatly augmented by an 
  equally meritorious childe.
  And if that childe must spill blood to realize her 
  potential, well, the Lasombra see no reason to apologize 
  for being vampires.
  Malkavian
  While many think of revolution in its own terms, 
  the fractured wisdom of the Malkavians posits that 
  revolution is not a single act or moment, but rather a 
  Möbius band, traveling forward and ultimately turning 
  in on itself before returning to the exact point at 
  which it began. When the Clan of the Moon imagines 
  revolution, it does so in the horrific context of the 
  French Revolution, which radicalized ever more greatly 
  until it ultimately installed the imperial monarchy of 
  Napoleon, or the workers’ Bolshevik Revolution that 
  resulted in the foundation of the USSR, in which 
  crucible the depravities of Stalin became the norm. The 
  Malkavians know very well that revolution all too often 
  consumes its adherents, as the titan Cronus devoured 
  his own children.
  It is with these understandings that Malkavians 
  sometimes Embrace in their greatest moments of clarity 
  during times of mortal or Cainite upheaval. Surely no 
  one would expect that the same revolutionary fervor 
  motivates them all, but no few ulterior motives have 
  driven the Lunatics to choose the height of rebellion to 
  sire new progeny. Some do so hoping to realize Cronus’ 
  fears, that their childer might one night grow so bold as 
  to strike them down and thus earn redemption for their 
  sins. Others do so out of the challenge to boundaries 
  that exists during times of tumult. If a lonely Lunatic 
  creates a childe when the whole domain is going to hell 
  in a handbasket, well, that’s the least likely of personal 
  transgressions to be prosecuted when the inevitable 
  Thermidorian reaction clubs the revolt into docility. 
  Still others see the opportunity in overthrow to seize 
  the power that they have long craved — much like any 
  opportunistic Kindred would — but do so looking 
  two steps ahead, anticipating the return swing of the 
  pendulum into the revolution’s subsequent radical or 
  reactionary phase.
  Malkavian childer Embraced in times of paradigm shift 
  are often icons of the zeitgeist. The arch morality of the 
  Victorian era, the psychedelic boundary-pushing of the 
  late 1960s, the angry nihilism of the punk movement, 
  and the distant humanism of the Renaissance — all 
  of these times and their periods of recalibration all 
  represent the broad spectrums in which Malkavian 
  minds oscillate. Their highs and lows echo the manic 
  movements of the Lunatics’ influences, and when the 
  dust of the revolution has settled, the Malkavians often 
  find that they’ve gravitated toward the dark sides of the 
  events into which they were Embraced.
  Nosferatu
  For the Sewer Rats, revolution is often a moot point, 
  because no revolution ever turns out in their favor. Even 
  if, in the short term, something happens to benefit the 
  Nosferatu, eventually things will correct themselves and 
  they’ll end up on the bottom of the Kindred’s collective 
  boots again. Whether it’s a mortal uprising that 
  deposes a hated tyrant or a coup among the Damned 
  that declares a new one, the Nosferatu know to take 
  advantage while they can, because before long, they’ll 
  be sneered at, spat upon, and abused again. From the 
  Sewer Rat perspective, though, that actually works out 
  okay. When a chaotic interlude occurs, it’s every Sewer 
  Rat for himself in a race to do whatever the fuck he 
  wants while everyone else is distracted with whatever 
  overwrought upheaval demands their attention at the 
  moment.
  For these reasons, times of rebellion and revolution 
  provide the backdrop to many Nosferatu Embraces. 
  In times of open Jyhad, the Nosferatu bolster their 
  ranks, for even the Book of Nod suggests that the “first 
  to die in any conflict are the Nosferatu.” In times of 
  underground subversion, the Nosferatu spawning pits 
  teem with blasphemous unlife, calling forth the sorts 
  of hellish, fractured monstrosities best able to weather 
  the coming storms. Tumult among mortals often draws 
  the kine’s attention away from the more immediate 
  horrors of the Nosferatu warrens that yawn beneath 
  them, and the Sewer Rats often find unrest in kine 
  circles to be a boon — for no one expects anything 
  
  15 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  other than political intrigue when agents of sedition 
  disappear. The clan is often drawn to these idealists, as 
  they represent childer with the ability to think critically 
  and withstand adversity. They don’t always make for 
  the best Nosferatu, who must eventually, as thousands 
  of years of Kindred history have shown, knuckle under 
  to the primacy of almost any other clan, but little by 
  little, they may well be able to improve the clan’s lot.
  Ravnos
  It’s not that the Ravnos Embrace in patterns counter 
  to this of other clans, it’s more of a question of the 
  Deceivers not really caring one way or the other about 
  an Embrace outside the sire and childe. Greater 
  concerns for the potential Ravnos sire are whether the 
  childe is being removed from her cycle of samsara. If the 
  Ravnos childe is an auspicious Embrace, that’s far more 
  of a motivating factor for Ravnos siring ideal than if the 
  Peshawar Lancers lay dying on the palace steps or if the 
  Sepoys refuse to load their rifles.
  For many Ravnos, the entirety of unlife is an 
  insurgency, and dire times may call for dire action 
  when it comes to the question of progeny. What Prince 
  would grant a Deceiver the right to sire another? What 
  Bishop? Even domains of arguably greater personal 
  liberty, such as Anarch territories, see an increasing 
  number of Kindred as a threat rather than a cause 
  for celebration, and itinerants often tax the already-
  strained resources of such domains when they visit. 
  Indeed, for many Ravnos, the act of Embracing itself 
  is a form of rebellion. Those few great and terrible 
  Ravnos who establish themselves as the demon kings of 
  the eastern domains are rarely better disposed toward 
  the lesser Kindred of their ancestral lands, whether of 
  the same lineage or not. So it goes that many Ravnos 
  Embraces are performed while moving from territory 
  to territory, without heed of the Traditions of any one 
  domain. Their nomadic nature is somewhat of a boon 
  to Ravnos sires and their get in this regard, for who 
  knows exactly where a Deceiver was when she sired her 
  brood’s latest member? Who’s to say that the Prince 
  — assuming the Ravnos was in a claimed domain — 
  denied her the petition? The fact that she sired without 
  anyone’s permission merely shows her commitment to 
  her own purpose.
  This certainly isn’t to say that the Deceivers are 
  hapless victims in the ugly Jyhad. They’re vampires, 
  as much as any other clan of Kindred, and despite 
  (or perhaps because of) their diminished status in the 
  Kindred’s more formal courts, Ravnos Embraces may 
  well be performed as an ultimate act of defiance or 
  even a declaration of war, and to hell with whatever 
  inflated Lick thinks the domain belongs to him. More 
  than one Prince or Priest has been ruined by one of 
  the “low” kshatriyas over whom he would presume to 
  act as authority, and more than one hunter has stood 
  over the bloody corpse of his companion, having 
  incontrovertibly believed that she looked like the very 
  creature they hunted.
  Tremere
  The Tremere have had quite enough of revolution, 
  thank you, since the last two revolutions in which they 
  participated yielded such favorable results for them. 
  History is written by the victors, as the saying goes, and 
  the Tremere managed to somehow vilify the Salubri for 
  having the temerity to be hunted and diablerized in 
  the Tremere pogrom of their fallen clan, and have also 
  quietly assumed a guiding role in the Camarilla. Why 
  tempt fate now?
  The pragmatism of the Tremere sometimes wins 
  out over their comfort, though, and no one would 
  ever accuse the Warlocks of being complacent. If the 
  indications in interesting times show that a prospective 
  new childe might be in the offing, or, worse, the 
  Tremere detect another clan’s interest in a potential 
  fledgling, they may well seize the opportunity to create 
  progeny that will disappear into the hierarchy of the 
  Pyramid rather than proving to be a paragon of another 
  clan’s ideals. Some accuse the Warlocks of “playing 
  dirty” in this regard, but has anyone ever heard of a 
  Tremere with hurt feelings? It’s far better to write the 
  rules than to follow someone else’s, in the outlook of 
  most Tremere.
  From a completely different perspective, many 
  modern Tremere (and forward-looking Tremere of 
  previous eras’ Embrace) cite the disruptive nature 
  of Thaumaturgy as a revolution in the function of 
  Disciplines, or at least a breakthrough. According to 
  blood magic’s practitioners, given enough time for 
  study and development, Thaumaturgy can emulate 
  or even improve upon any of the other existing 
  Disciplines. “There’s a Path for that,” as some of the 
  more modern and technically savvy Usurpers joke. 
  If the assertion is true, if Thaumaturgy can replicate 
  or supersede the function of other Disciplines, and 
  if the Tremere are willing to abandon some of their 
  lingering medieval practices of hoarding their arcane 
  research to themselves, the Information Age may see 
  a rapid increase in Tremere power and prominence. 
  
  16 
  INTRODUCTION
  With enough “revolutionaries” of a modern outlook 
  and research techniques, Thaumaturgy may increase 
  in potency and versatility at an exponential rate. And 
  at some point the Tremere will question whether they 
  need the Camarilla at all. Some among the pyramid 
  have already looked at the realities of secession and the 
  associated benefits of becoming an independent house, 
  clan, and sect. Who wants to be fettered by lesser 
  vampires who are little more than remnants of the past? 
  And if even the limitations of the undead state can be 
  set aside, a revolution in what it means to be Kindred 
  may loom on the horizon. Again, all of this takes effort, 
  and a new generation of Tremere acolytes may help 
  develop these God-challenging advancements.
  Toreador
  In general, the Toreador respect the traditions of the 
  domain when it comes to siring progeny, for what is the 
  Camarilla that they have so graciously helped to build if 
  anyone can simply flout its order? That said, Toreador 
  also likely lead the other clans — perhaps cumulatively — 
  in claiming mitigating circumstances that surrounded 
  an Embrace during the horrors or heights of a revolt. 
  For a Toreador, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than 
  permission, and with a deft enough tongue, asking 
  forgiveness itself can be performed with such grace that 
  the authority may be embarrassed to receive the redress.
  Unsurprisingly, passion plays a great role in the 
  Toreador Embrace, and it’s undeniable that revolution 
  signifies a time of great passion for its participants. 
  Perhaps more than any other clan, the Clan of the 
  Rose sees its ranks swell with new issue during times 
  of tumult. It has been lamented at the Degenerates’ 
  expense that the Toreador Embrace during “interesting 
  times” like mortals conceive in winter; it’s what they do 
  to express the moment.
  Consider the Toreador state of mind during a 
  revolution: Passions run high, times are uncertain, 
  and the next night might be the world’s last. The 
  revolution may well have come paired with an artistic 
  movement or philosophical shift that the Toreador 
  themselves sponsored. Quick-witted philosophes trade 
  insightful epigrams with salt-of-the-earth proletariat 
  as the Degenerate herself luxuriates on a velvet chaise 
  in the salon where this particularly brilliant flame of 
  cultural wonder first flared into genesis, the world 
  outside burning with the flames of inspiration, shining 
  redeeming light upon he superstitious shadows of a 
  barbaric age. Under such heady influence, who wouldn’t 
  take a lover and Embrace him in the moment’s throes? 
  What if tomorrow never came?
  Tzimisce
  To the eldest Fiends, revolution is nonsense. What 
  does it matter which mortal pretends to hold the reins? 
  The only power that matters is the Master of the Dom, 
  the lord in the castle on the craggy mount. The lives 
  and governments of mortal pass in such ephemeral 
  periods as to merit little attention, and the things that 
  motivate them — where they commit their repulsive acts 
  replete with their most noxious fluids and excretions — 
  are of no interest to one seeking transcendence from 
  such base muck.
  Should a Tzimisce lord want a tool particularly 
  suited to a time of rebellion, he may stir himself from 
  his eldritch lair to foist the Curse of Caine upon some 
  unfortunate, then shove the fledgling back among his 
  former fellows with an indelicate purpose to perform. 
  (See Jaromir Cerny, p. 104.) Alternatively, should 
  the Fiend find himself irked by the cattle’s outsized 
  ambitions at shaping their fates, he may simply send a 
  brood or a vicious ghoul to hammer down the ragged 
  lot of them.
  Among younger Tzimisce, the distance of the Cainite 
  mind from that of mortals becomes most evident during 
  a period of revolution. The politics and philosophies of 
  the Damned take on a gravity to which, in comparison, 
  the ambitions of mortals are the dreams of swine. The 
  realization of what they have become often manifests 
  itself at an accelerated rate during mortal rebellions or 
  Kindred upheaval. For a clan already so far removed 
  from its once-living origins, the separation grows 
  more quickly when the clan’s critical priorities are so 
  evidently on display. A Tzimisce who once suffered 
  the physical cruelties of a totalitarian regime as a man 
  would find those times foolish and squalid, even as he 
  hurls himself through a wall of fire in order to sink his 
  fangs into the bleeding throat of a faltering Kindred 
  elder. Times change — until they no longer do.
  Ventrue
  Few observers of Kindred society are surprised to 
  find that Ventrue Embraces during times of dissidence 
  often take on a distinctly counter-revolutionary cast. 
  Given the Ventrue penchant for holding power, what 
  possible cause could a Blue Blood have for rebellion? 
  The Ventrue rule because they have always been the clan 
  of rulership, which is as close to a syllogistic mandate 
  as the Kindred care to observe. And as such, Ventrue 
  don’t Embrace to foment revolution, they Embrace to 
  crush revolution. The emperor must have his guards and 
  chamberlains, after all.
  
  17 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  That stereotype rings true in a surprising percentage 
  of Ventrue domains, but it doesn’t tell the whole truth. 
  As often as not, the power behind the throne is greater 
  than that which sits the throne, and the kingmaker faces 
  fewer foes than the king. The Kindred historian Critias 
  even cites this phenomenon as Clan Ventrue’s “colonial 
  revolution.” The Ventrue are kings, Critias reasons, but 
  the modern world has little use for kings. Instead of 
  letting themselves fade into impotent anachronism, the 
  Ventrue have simply redefined the world’s perception of 
  kings, making them mere “colonies” of the true power. 
  From boardrooms to presidential mansions, Ventrue 
  still rule. A mortal prime minister or CEO may be the 
  face of a government or organization, but every mortal 
  institution, the Ventrue claim, may feel the influence of 
  a scepter from the shadows. And when revolution does 
  occur, the scepter remains as powerful as it always has 
  been (if not more so, because the perception of power 
  has changed), despite the unaltered presence of the true 
  monarch calling the shots. In this, the Ventrue cleave 
  disturbingly close to the Tzimisce outlook (though they 
  would certainly hate the comparison).
  Those Ventrue tied less traditionally to long-
  institutionalized power structures don’t have these 
  luxuries, of course. It’s one thing to talk about presidents, 
  prime ministers, and CEOs, but for those Blue Bloods 
  without access to the highest echelons of mortal power, 
  revolution has other colonial characteristics. When a 
  mortal or Kindred upheaval removes a tenured power, 
  the Ventrue often know about it first and have the most 
  capital or chattel to take advantage. The quick-witted 
  Ventrue, then, promotes a childe or Embraces a new 
  one to install into the new vacuum, reporting to her 
  sire or mentor, naturally. With their directorial history 
  and array of supernatural gifts, the Blue Bloods are 
  well suited to installing a stabilizing “imperial colony” 
  in the form of a childe or protégé in the gap left by 
  the erstwhile rival’s death. Whether the “empire” 
  is governmental, corporate, criminal, military, or 
  technological is immaterial to the Ventrue.
  Furthermore, young Kindred are quickly coming to 
  understand the power inherent to social constructs, 
  and to stage their own revolutionary coups. Influence 
  exists in various Internet communities and services, 
  and the Kindred who can turn it to his advantage 
  wields a tremendous advantage over those that 
  are geographically bound to the physical world. A 
  centuries-old Ventrue lord may count a multinational 
  corporation as his domain, but when the Internet 
  finds out that the multinational corporation provides 
  weapons to a totalitarian regime in the Middle East, it 
  becomes a tarnished asset. And what is this other than 
  the Jyhad played out in a digital arena? Thus, younger 
  Ventrue are poised to turn the Information Age against 
  the time-honored traditions of the clan… unless the 
  cagey elders of the Kingship Clan can bring them to 
  heel before their own internal revolution occurs.
  
  18 
  LADOS
  
  19 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Lados surveyed the battlefield. Hundreds — thousands 
  — of his brothers and countrymen lay broken and 
  bloody, brought low by the ambitions of his fellow 
  generals. After the death of Alexander, the outlying 
  empire had plunged into kinslaying anarchy, with 
  each of the diadochi trying to claim for himself a place 
  where he might best reap the rewards of Alexander’s 
  ambition. The roll of the vying competitors read like a 
  veritable who’s who of the empire: Antipater, Perdiccas, 
  Ptolemy, Leonnatus. Among them stood an ambitious 
  but lowborn peltast who had a mind for fighting and 
  a tongue for praise. With both these charms, Lados 
  climbed the ranks of the Greek military and seized a 
  position among the jackal-princes surrounding the 
  carcass of Alexander.
  Kindred society at this time was as factionalized as 
  the world of mortal cultures. Greece belonged very 
  much to the Brujah at their zenith, with the backing 
  of a few enlightened Ventrue. Persia was the domain 
  of the Toreador, interspersed with both Ravnos ghûls 
  (noble and common) and the indigenous Tzimisce of 
  the paynim domains. The shattered remains of Samiel’s 
  brood held their territories against the barbarians 
  further east and the fierce Gangrel of the northeastern 
  steppes. Amid these clashing bloodlines and warring 
  cultures, the landless and unwelcome Clan of the Moon 
  had to make what it could of a world united under 
  the banner of a fair-faced mortal son of a conquering 
  Macedonian horse-king.
  Thus, under a moonless sky, a philosopher crept into 
  the fortress of Lamia and brought the soldier Lados into 
  a world of eternal night. This philosopher, a Malkavian 
  of unremembered name, sought to make the Regent 
  of Athens a catspaw by Embracing his trusted advisors. 
  Lados, he whispered into the fear-blanched face of his 
  progeny, belonged to the night. It was then that Lados 
  first knew fear. His was a fearful death away from the 
  known violence of the battlefield, and a vile rebirth 
  amid the blood and shit of his mortal corpse. The 
  depth of his isolation gripped him in that long, terrible 
  first night of being a vampire, and his sire probed this 
  wound with malice and Dementation. Over a year 
  passed, in which the mad prophet tormented his childe 
  with extended bouts of abandonment that resulted in 
  Lados being paralyzed by fear when left on his own.
  So it was that Lados returned to Lamia by way of 
  Athens, there finding the remains of his army out of shape 
  and dwindling in ability and number. His lieutenants 
  had all but exhausted the once-considerable war chest, 
  preferring idle pleasures over the peril of the battlefield. 
  What choice did Lados have? If he admonished his 
  soldiers, they would leave. Reconnecting himself with 
  Antipater’s court, the Malkavian set himself up as a 
  dependable but uninspired shadow of himself, the 
  better that the Regent might overlook him while still 
  giving him access to the wealth and influence of the 
  Empire.
  Politics can be ugly, however, and the Hellenistic 
  Brujah resented the intrusion of “outsiders” into their 
  domains. A league of Brujah nobles and generals took 
  notice of Lados and planned to make an example of 
  him. And though Lados had been fractured by the 
  Malkavian Embrace, he was certainly no fool. The new 
  retinue with which he had surrounded himself included 
  not only Brujah spies, but also included a number of 
  loyal thralls and lovers. When word of the planned 
  action against him reached his ears, Lados turned the 
  intrigues of the Greek Kindred against their architects.
  Pledging a boon to one of the Kali-venerating Tzimisce 
  of Bactria, Lados had one of his slaves fleshcrafted into 
  an icon of himself. Through an extended regimen of 
  both Dominate personality subjugation and the sensory 
  sensitivity of Auspex, Lados convinced his slave that 
  he was the body and true Lados the mind, a dualistic 
  creature destined for divinity. Where Lados the Kindred 
  traveled in thought, Lados the thrall followed in body. 
  Hiding himself beneath a cenotaph to Alexander, the 
  Malkavian used his slave to expose his rival Kindred 
  The Lion of Bactria
  LADOS  
  
  20 
  LADOS
  as demon-worshippers and Persian spies, orchestrators 
  of a blood-cult bent on the subjugation of the empire 
  and the regicide of Antipater. The Regent himself, no 
  stranger to the subtle treacheries of the wars of the 
  diadochi believed his “faithful general” — especially when 
  the slumbering forms of the betrayers were dragged into 
  the sunlight and burst into flame — and made a place 
  for Lados in the vacuum left by the sudden paucity of 
  the Brujah and their agents at court.
  The Kindred Lados far outlasted Antipater, and 
  reinvented his ghoul in the image of a descendant of the 
  great family of Lados every several decades, to keep the 
  suspicions of the courts allayed. Under the Seleucids, 
  Lados and his slave brought a number of satraps under 
  their sway, both through pledges of military support 
  and through the damning power of the Blood. Indeed, 
  Bactria was almost more Greek than Persian under 
  Seleucid rule, which suited Lados admirably. For over 
  two centuries the family of Lados — just himself and his 
  identical ghoul with the occasional mortal lover who 
  served as wife and later matron to the family before 
  the Malkavian began the cycle anew — enjoyed power 
  and prestige in the presence of kings. Cainite Princes 
  rose and fell, and other Kindred looked to Lados as a 
  model of how to dwell in the shadows, taking what one 
  wanted without risking one’s unlife. 
  With so much time and comfort, Lados lost interest 
  in the arts of war, and his armies transitioned from elites 
  of the philosopher-kings to mercenary phalangites who 
  raised their pikes only for pay to foul-tempered Yavanas 
  who lived only to bully their pay from petty lords and 
  drink their wages in wine.
  Every general eventually faces his downfall, and 
  Lados’ came in the form of invasion. The armies of 
  Rajuvula marauded into what was by then the Punjab. 
  Lados had grown lazy and complacent, embracing the 
  decadence of the Indo-Greek Kingdom, unwilling to 
  concern himself with the discipline of his soldiers or 
  the tactics of the menacing Scythians. As the armies 
  of Stratos took the field against those of Rajuvula, 
  Lados found his forces in the unenviable tactical 
  position of the fore. Scythian arrows perforated his 
  lines and panic set in among his slovenly troops. He 
  bellowed a desperate and wrathful advance — but found 
  himself spitted on a spear wielded by Jaxartes, a river-
  folk hoplite from the times of Alexander and one of 
  the scheming Brujah Lados thought he had ruined 
  in his purge of Antipater’s courts. Indeed, Lados had 
  ruined Jaxartes, who fled eastward and hid among the 
  debased Toreador of Persia. With Rose Clan patronage, 
  Jaxartes was one of the instruments of vengeance of 
  the Parthian Kindred, who resented the legacy of 
  Alexander and the fall of the Achaemenids, and who 
  spared no opportunity to strike back at the crumbling 
  Greek domains. Staked on his slayer’s assegai, the world 
  went dark for Lados, who was stomped, torpid, into the 
  bloody mud outside Sagala. There, he spent almost two 
  thousand years in a dreamless sleep, stirring beneath 
  the earth only when the madness in his blood forced a 
  defiant twitch.
  A titan’s roar awakened the slumbering Malkavian, 
  who had by then spent centuries tumbling through the 
  nightmares of starvation made all the more harrowing 
  by the curse of his clan. The titan — a smoke-belching 
  metal monstrosity birthed from the loins of the gorgon 
  herself — gouged Lados from the ground and spat 
  him down, where her foul minions prodded him and 
  gibbered in some corrupt form of an enemy tongue. 
  The savagery of the fire in his deathless Blood ignited 
  and, freshly torn from torpor, Lados entered a frenzy as 
  much from fear as from rage. When the low men who 
  had woken him lay in tatters and the titan slumped 
  lifelessly in the shadow cast by the moon, Lados calmed, 
  gathered his wits, and walked back into the city once 
  held by his patron-king.
  No stranger to the depredations of the Malkavian 
  mind, Lados thought himself in the throes of a fit, but 
  the insanity refused to relent. The stone castles and 
  metal spires surrounding him, and the million-plus 
  desperate, filthy, beating mortal hearts surrounding 
  him would not disperse. This was no dream. The titan 
  had woken Lados from his troubled torpor only to 
  throw him into the jaws of the Ancients. The madness 
  of the earth and sky assailed him. These must be the 
  End Times.
  And yet… they weren’t. This madness that surrounded 
  him, that must have leached from his mind into the 
  domains of untold years before, teetered on the brink 
  of world-ruin without plunging over. Bit by bit, in the 
  two decades since his emergence from torpor, Lados has 
  gathered and synthesized what fragments he can of this 
  reality. Its veneration of metal and speed, its hypocrisies, 
  its wealth and licentiousness, and its thinking machines 
  — these all elude Lados just enough to keep him forever 
  on edge and occasionally beyond it. Oddly, he finds 
  himself most comfortable with other Kindred, even 
  when he knows they may oppose or betray him. At least, 
  in his mind, their evil and frailties are understandable. 
  The world-machine of the hateful demiurges, however, 
  truly vexes him. Only in the unchanging culture of 
  these Damned, whether they call it a “Camarilla” or 
  “Sabbat,” does Lados find consistency.
  
  21 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  How long can the world balance on the scales of 
  Themis before it collapses into Typhon’s gorge? How 
  long until the blood-gods erupt from Haidou and drag 
  their progeny, burning, into Tartarus? And how much 
  of his own private empire can Lados rebuild before 
  then? Enough to make the scorched husk of the world 
  his final, solitudinous tomb?
  Sire: Lykia (unconfirmed)
  Clan: Malkavian
  Nature: Conniver
  Demeanor: Conformist
  Generation: 8th
  Embrace: 322 BC
  Apparent Age: late 30s
  Physical: Strength 3, Dexterity 3, Stamina 4
  Social: Charisma 4, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2
  Mental: Perception 2, Intelligence 3, Wits 3
  Talents: Alertness 2, Athletics 2, Brawl 2, Leadership 4, 
  Subterfuge 3
  Skills: Etiquette 2, Melee 4, Survival 3
  Knowledges: Academics 3, Finance 2, Investigation 3
  Disciplines: Auspex 3, Dementation 4, Dominate 4
  Background: Allies (mortal family) 2, Resources 3 
  (non-renewing remains of the war chest)
  Virtues: Conscience 2, Self-Control 4, Courage 4
  Morality: Humanity 5
  Willpower: 6
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 15/3
  Image: Lados has the classical build and striking features 
  of antiquity. He is short by modern standards, with 
  remarkably bronzed skin that looks almost stony with the 
  pallor of the Embrace. Lados still doesn’t have a solid grasp 
  of modern style, and his clothing seems anachronistic if not 
  outright bizarre as he finds the pulse of the modern world.
  Roleplaying Hints: Lados moves with the efficiency 
  and authority of a military leader. He is accustomed 
  to being heeded,  and doesn’t understand how so 
  many of the common folk seem to be so willful, so 
  his interactions with modern people tend to be terse 
  or even hostile. With Kindred society having forgotten 
  him, Lados often oversteps himself, not realizing that 
  the Status he enjoyed in the courts of the Indo-Greek 
  kings has left him. He is used to being granted an 
  audience with Princes upon demand… which, with no 
  current Status to speak of, isn’t how it works anymore.
  Haven: The types of havens Lados seeks lie close to 
  the territories where esteemed Kindred of power reside. 
  Although he has fallen from favor, he seeks to introduce 
  himself back into the society of the august undead, in 
  whichever domain he may currently reside. Wherever 
  he finds himself, he establishes a haven with a collection 
  of artifacts from antiquity that will soon be a darling of 
  the Harpies in any domain that considers itself refined.
  Influence: Over the millennia, Lados’ influence 
  has waned and vanished, leaving him almost wholly 
  alone, with the exception of a handful of his mortal 
  descendants, whose connection to him is tenuous but 
  reinforced by Dominate and frequent exposure to vitae. 
  It has not always been thus, however, and Lados seeks 
  to make powerful contacts in any domain where he 
  settles, starting at the low end of the Status ladder, if 
  need be, and clawing his way to the top. Despite his 
  shattered mind, Lados recognizes that he is a stranger 
  in a strange time, and unlike many modern Kindred, 
  he doesn’t cast aside those who aid him as soon as they 
  have no immediate use to him. He greatly fears once 
  again succumbing to the cold nightmare of torpor, 
  so he tries to stay on good terms with as many of the 
  Kindred who have shown him favor as possible, in the 
  interests of making as few enemies as possible.
  Derangement: With his recent emergence from 
  torpor, Lados is obsessed with the unknown number of 
  Kindred he worries may have met a fate similar to his. In 
  his mind, every stretch of land is the tomb of a ravenous 
  Kindred, and on the fast-approaching night of Gehenna, 
  the earth-sea will roil with the Damned, boiling up 
  bloodthirsty vampires who will consume the world before 
  being consumed by their hellish progenitors. Indeed, the 
  (comparatively) trusting nature Lados displays toward 
  other Kindred he meets is justified by the fact that they’re 
  lucid and at least a known quantity, unlike the monsters 
  who will pry themselves up from their unmarked tombs 
  and devour the land and everything upon it. In most 
  cases, Lados is actually remarkably calm for a Malkavian, 
  displaying only a mild paranoia that isn’t actually out of 
  place in the world of the undead. When the true gravity of 
  his fear grasps him, however, he is inconsolable — racked 
  by fear and the agony of knowing that he walks upon a 
  landscape made of millions of fallen men and vampires 
  who await only the End Times to become the pave-stones 
  on the road to Hell itself. Lados is nearly fearless in the 
  face of threats he can understand, a soldier tempered 
  by war and savagery, but the horrors of his imagination 
  reduce him to little more than a quivering invalid when 
  confronted with the terrifying loneliness of the final night.
  
  22 
  LIZETTE CORDOBA
  
  23 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Everyone warned her, of course. “What are you going 
  to do with a degree in poetry?” they’d asked, as though 
  they were the first to try and break the news to her that 
  her dreams weren’t worth shit. Her answer had always 
  been a smug “Teach, of course,” followed with a change 
  of topic.
  She did go into teaching: high school English 
  Literature, while she worked on the graduate degree 
  that would let her teach at the local university as 
  she continued her own education. Poetry was her 
  passion, and it showed in everything she did at that 
  overpopulated inner-city New York school.
  Her dreams of living out a real-life version of 
  Dangerous Minds never quite manifested, of course. 
  No one showed up to any of the Poetry Club events 
  she sponsored, and the administration had to ask her 
  several times to please stick to the lesson plans given by 
  the school district.
  It wasn’t the lack of interest that really did it in for 
  her, though. It was the violence. Students from across 
  the borough attended the school she taught, students 
  who were often part of rival gangs. The administration 
  worked full-time to keep those enmities from exploding 
  into open violence, but fights still happened. Conflict 
  was inevitable in environments that couldn’t really be 
  controlled: the front of the school after the last bell of 
  the day, or in the middle of a busy hall between classes.
  After a year, Lizette developed trouble sleeping, and 
  used up her sick time and vacation days hiding in her 
  bed, traumatized by the thought of walking those halls 
  again. But she went back nonetheless. She took a year 
  off from her night schooling, just to allow her to focus 
  on rising to meet the challenge of teaching.
  Much good it did her. A half-year after she began 
  to think of herself as capable of handling the rigors 
  of teaching in the school long-term, her contract was 
  terminated. Budget cuts, they said, the recession. 
  They apologized because other, tenured teachers were 
  going to be kept on, you see, whose class sizes had just 
  increased by half again, but everyone had to make 
  sacrifices, right?
  For a week, Lizette raged, writing angry letters to 
  the district, the teacher’s union, local newspapers, the 
  mayor’s office, and the governor. Ultimately, none of it 
  did any good. Her anger collapsed in on itself, became 
  grief, and then numb depression. She meekly collected 
  unemployment and had trouble getting out of bed on 
  many days.
  It was during this time that she turned to the one 
  thing that had helped her through such episodes 
  in the past: writing. She filled one black-and-white 
  composition book after another with her couplets, 
  stanzas, and whole poems. The first week was catharsis. 
  The second week was expression. On the third, she had 
  her muse available on command. The words flowed 
  from her the way they never did when she was happy, 
  and she lost whole days to the scratching of ballpoint 
  on cheap lined paper.
  In time, she transferred her writing — edited, polished, 
  and sharpened — to her laptop, and from there to a 
  blog. She worked day and night on it, transferring her 
  innermost feelings to something freely available on the 
  web. It was a litany of her anger, her frustration, her 
  helplessness, her grief. She railed against individuals, 
  against the school district and useless unions, against 
  the recession itself.
  Two months later, she realized that she had come 
  out the other side of all of that. She was still writing, 
  but wasn’t doing so as a lifeline, no longer producing 
  just desperate scribblings beneath a musty duvet that 
  hid her from the world. Her blog had a small but loyal 
  following, with a whole pantheon of commentors 
  and friends who were nothing more than usernames 
  and clever little icons. Eventually, Lizette realized she 
  wanted a bit more from the world. She took walks and 
  visited friends she’d neglected.
  LIZETTE CORDOBA
  The Poet of the People’s Occupation
  
  24 
  LIZETTE CORDOBA
  On one of those walks, she saw them, a small body 
  of protestors, gathered out in front of Wall Street’s 
  tall churches to money. She stopped, listening to one 
  of them who was standing and shouting something to 
  them. Shouting something that sounded very familiar.
  With a start, she realized that it was Burden of Scars. 
  One of her poems.
  She walked over to listen, and to speak with him after 
  he was done. His name was Elliot Kemp and they spent 
  the rest of the day together, talking. The next morning 
  she showed up bright and early to join the Occupy 
  movement.
  Lizette’s life changed, dramatically and quickly. She 
  found that her passion suddenly had an outlet. Not 
  for apathetic adolescents or cynical administrators, 
  but for people who shared what she had experienced:  
  the stained gift-wrapping of the American Dream, as 
  she said in one of her poems. The people roared their 
  empathy.
  The nature of her blog changed. There was still 
  poetry, but it became fiery, inspiring poetry intended 
  to goad her readers into action, and it worked in many 
  cases. She volunteered for group-action committees and 
  organized media responses, collected bail money for 
  protestors thrown in jail and even got arrested a time 
  or three herself. She self-published her poetry as an 
  ebook that never made much money, but did earn the 
  attention of both the publishing and academic world.
  Lizette routinely performed spoken word renditions 
  of her work at the Occupy gatherings, when she wasn’t 
  working the food table, organizing the medical tent 
  or writing furious e-mails to the alternative news sites. 
  These events began to attract interested individuals, 
  among them the handsome redhead she couldn’t 
  help but notice. He showed up for a week to her 
  performances before he introduced himself as Avery — 
  just Avery — and told her how much he loved her work.
  He was wealthy, it seemed, and he spoke not of 
  her convictions and goals, but of the fire behind 
  them. They discussed poetry while seated on the Wall 
  Street sidewalk at midnight, and he made substantial 
  contributions to the movement’s food, clothing, 
  shelter and legal needs. When she was arrested after 
  one particularly ugly confrontation with the NYPD, 
  he showed up first thing that evening with a lawyer in 
  tow who bore an order from the DA to not only release 
  Lizette, but everyone else taken that evening.
  She thought she was falling in love, and hoped that 
  he was, too. He asked her one evening to come and 
  perform a reading of her work to some of his friends. 
  He was sure hearing her passion firsthand would 
  convince them to support the work she was doing. 
  Dressing in a new evening gown she bought for the 
  occasion, she showed up to a salon that was all dark 
  hardwoods, leather, and brass finishing. She shrank 
  when she met them, though. They all seemed so cold 
  and aloof, slightly amused at her expense. Even hostile. 
  And one didn’t even feel like a person.
  Lizette started by reading to them, and when the 
  sable-headed beauty with the long neck that made her 
  look like European nobility snickered at her, something 
  snapped in her.
  Fuck them. These were the people who were 
  responsible for everything she’d been railing against 
  for months. She stopped reading to them, and read at 
  them. Something shifted in the room, a presence like 
  incipient violence and sexual tension consuming one 
  another.
  As she stood there, on their rich carpet, she blamed 
  them for the ills she’d faced, for what was wrong in the 
  world. She called them villains to their faces, in perfect 
  flowing meter and cadence. They sat awestruck, faces 
  indignant and horrified — but wholly unmoving. When 
  she finished, Avery was beaming, his hands clasped in 
  front of his mouth as though he were trying to contain 
  his joy. The black-haired, swan-necked woman dabbed 
  a rich lace kerchief to her left eye, and then simply said: 
  “Out.”
  The others practically leapt to their feet, already 
  snarling excitedly among themselves. She turned to 
  Avery, who remained, and simply nodded. She stood 
  then and crossed to Lizette, resting a single elegant 
  finger on her chin and smiled. “Welcome,” she said, 
  and left the room.
  Avery and Lizette made love on the rich leather divan 
  that night. After her orgasm, he chuckled and said 
  “One for the road.” Then her world was sharp white 
  fangs, sudden pain, dark blood and hunger.
  Avery taught her about what it meant to be a vampire, 
  what it meant to be a Toreador and what it meant to 
  belong to the Camarilla. As she expected, his ardor 
  for her cooled once she was his childe, but that didn’t 
  really matter to her by then. She pursued her old goals 
  with a new fervor, happy to use her newfound power to 
  the benefit of the Occupy movement.
  At least, until she ran afoul of the Ventrue. In short 
  order, she found out who her enemies were, or at least 
  who the hidden masters of the forces the movement 
  
  25 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  railed against were. The short conflict nearly resulted 
  in her Final Death. Worse, it nearly broke the ever-
  important Masquerade, which resulted in herself and 
  the dangerous Caitiff named Xavier Gonne being 
  dragged in front of the Prince by the Sheriff. Both 
  were warned against such recklessness in the future, 
  and forced to drink of the Prince’s vitae. Gonne had 
  secretly warded himself against the foundation of the 
  blood bond with a ritual, but Lizette had no such 
  sorcerous aid.
  Gonne was ordered to leave the Occupy movement 
  alone entirely, no matter the trouble it caused him 
  or his interests. In contrast, Lizette was given the 
  Occupy movement as her domain in the city, with one 
  condition: She must ensure that its efforts did not 
  negatively impact the private domains of any of New 
  York’s Kindred.
  In the time since, Lizette has carried on her work. 
  Sometimes, she fears that she’s stuck herself in a place 
  of perpetual discontent, working openly to throw down 
  the fat cats and make better lives for everyone, while 
  working from behind the scenes to sabotage their 
  efforts. The passion of the Occupiers is addictive, and 
  continues to fuel her writing. To that end, the strength 
  and significance of the Occupy movement as her domain 
  has grown, giving her a degree of influence that the 
  Prince likely hadn’t anticipated. Making things worse, 
  her anger sometimes yields to the will of the horror 
  inside her, the Beast, resulting in depravities that make 
  plundering the public treasure pale by comparison. 
  Lizette has lied, stolen, taken blood by force, killed… 
  and at the “coming out” party Avery threw for her, 
  worse, at the behest of a truly awful Malkavian. Despite 
  her passion, or perhaps because of it, she can feel her 
  Humanity becoming brittle as she keeps the Beast on a 
  taut leash.
  Lizette continues to act as an unofficial leader for 
  the Occupy movement, inspiring those around her 
  to greater efforts and organizing its resources and 
  recruitment. She frequently travels to other cities to 
  help organize Occupy movements there, as well. During 
  such travels, she is very careful to approach the Prince 
  of that city and explain her purpose there. She does 
  nothing involving the Kindred in such situations, if it 
  can be helped, and even tries to avoid the use of her 
  vampiric powers while she is there. Her focus is the 
  movement, and nothing else.
  But somewhere inside, she knows that there is a 
  clock ticking. Fiery rebellions do not enter stasis. They 
  overflow and succeed in their efforts, or they eventually 
  stagnate and boil away to nothingness in their failure. 
  Furthermore, she asks herself, given her vampiric 
  condition, how much does she truly want to see a more 
  equitable balance of power? When she, or any Kindred, 
  needs to feed, isn’t it better to have a movement or 
  an untouchable second class available, so that the 
  search for sustenance isn’t an ordeal? Does Kindred 
  convenience trump the dignity of the human spirit? 
  Or are the mortals, as some of the Damned contend, 
  nothing more than kine for the consummate predators? 
  Lizette plays a delicate game, keeping the movement 
  boiling away steadily, neither succeeding nor failing, 
  and asking herself questions that make her sleepless 
  once again… but for how long?
  Sire: Avery
  Clan: Toreador
  Nature: Dabbler
  Demeanor: Architect
  Generation: 10th
  Embrace: 2011
  Apparent Age: mid-30s
  Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 2, Stamina 2
  Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2
  Mental: Perception 4, Intelligence 2, Wits 4
  Talents: Alertness 2, Awareness 1, Empathy 2, 
  Expression 3, Leadership 1, Streetwise 1
  Skills: Drive 2, Etiquette 2, Performance 3, Survival 1
  Knowledges: Academics 3, Computer 1, Investigation 1, 
  Law 1, Politics 3
  Disciplines: Auspex 2, Celerity 1, Fortitude 1, 
  Presence 2
  Backgrounds: Allies 3, Contacts 4, Fame 1, Herd 2, 
  Influence 3, Resources 2, Retainers 2, Status 1
  Virtues: Conscience 3, Self-Control 3, Courage 3
  Morality: Humanity 5
  Willpower: 6
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 13/1
  Image: Lizette presents the camera-perfect image of 
  the modern Occupier. She wears slogan-emblazoned 
  t-shirts over jeans or track pants, sometimes with a 
  hoodie over that. She wears her fair brown hair choppy, 
  and often in a ponytail as though she hadn’t had 
  time to see to it properly or because she’s been out in 
  the elements. She alternates between an over-stuffed 
  messenger bag and a backpack, always with a laptop 
  and an HD palm camera in them.
  
  26 
  LIZETTE CORDOBA
  pot dealer or two and even a couple of street teens from 
  the homeless population that flocks to these sites.
  Influence: Although her kingdom is a tiny one, 
  Lizette is definitely a queen of the Occupy movement 
  in her city. Protesters look to her frequently for her 
  input and approval, and though minute, she has access 
  to the various resources the movement tends to gather 
  for itself, such as donated food, clothing, and money, 
  as well as volunteers from all walks of life, including 
  lawyers and journalists.
  Retainers: Lizette has a pair of ghouls, who serve 
  her in different ways. Elliot Kemp is a fellow Occupier 
  with solid people skills and a head for organization 
  whom everyone recognizes as Lizette’s right hand. 
  He frequently tends to the Occupy movement during 
  the day while Lizette is in slumber. Her other ghoul is 
  Amanda Cortez, a beat cop who specializes in “crowd 
  control” tactics, and so is at the forefront of any police 
  presence at the Occupy sites.
  Roleplaying Hints: Lizette is somewhat awkward 
  in social situations that don’t involve the topic she’s 
  most passionate about. In these cases, her speech comes 
  haltingly, giving the impression that she’s afraid to say 
  something stupid, and perfectly content to remain 
  beneath everyone else’s notice. If she can, she’ll turn 
  conversations back to the things with which she’s most 
  comfortable: socio-economic reform and early 20th 
  century poetry.
  Allies & Contacts: Lizette’s Allies are the people she’s 
  met working the Occupy protests. These include a very 
  influential local political blogger, a police precinct captain 
  who was a bit of a protesting firebrand in his youth, and 
  a mid-level functionary in the city government. Her 
  Contacts are primarily among the Occupiers, academia, 
  the publishing world, and the local police.
  Herd: Lizette’s Herd consists of a small handful of 
  people who tend to congregate around the Occupy 
  protest sites. They’re mostly other protestors, but also a 
  
  27 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  
  28 
  THE NABATAEAN
  In the 363rd year of the Common Era, the hidden 
  city of Petra (the biblical “Sela,” in what is now the 
  nation of Jordan) was in the midst of its second bloom. 
  The first came centuries before, when it blossomed into 
  the premier stop along the trade routes between the 
  East and Gaza, the most important port in the Levant, 
  and the gateway to the markets of Greece, Egypt, Rome, 
  and Syria. This important trade route was the family 
  business and life’s blood of Petra’s inhabitants and civil 
  overseers: the Nabataeans.
  The intervening winter that allowed for this second 
  spring came with the winds of change, blown from the 
  west when Rome, which had been receiving tribute 
  from Petra since the 1st century BC, invaded and 
  claimed much of the surrounding territory, including 
  several precious trade routes. Petra’s decline was swift 
  and sharp in the wake of Rome’s avarice, but though 
  drained of vitality, the mountain city remained. 
  When Emperor Trajan annexed and established it as 
  the capitol of what he called the Arabia Petraea, Petra 
  slowly began to see a new revival — one that would, in 
  part, erase its cultural identity, but an architectural and 
  economic revival all the same.
  By the year 363, Petra was the center of a diocese 
  under the auspices of Constantine’s dream, the eastern 
  Roman Empire. It had lost some of its luster from the 
  glory days of the Nabataean kings, but the addition 
  of Byzantine colonnades, finely carved chancels, and 
  arrays of opus sectile mosaics certainly beautified the 
  aging city....
  …until the earthquake.
  Records of the time indicate that the quake was felt 
  as far away as Aqaba, and the devastation it leveled 
  on Petra certainly reflected such magnitude. Like 
  most earthquakes, it began at a tumultuous locus and 
  concluded with an aftershock some hours later. It 
  toppled temples, sent broken columns into the walls 
  of the Royal Palace, and utterly demolished the city’s 
  only theater. Over half the residents took the quake, 
  which killed hundreds, as a sign from above and chose 
  to abandon Petra, bringing her short-lived Renaissance 
  to an end, forever.
  Shaking Heaven and Earth
  The quake that rocked Palestine remains an oft-
  discussed event. So great was its power that diviners 
  and oracles, including some from as far back as the 
  reign of Emperor Trajan, claimed to have foreseen the 
  event. None of these prognosticators spoke in specifics, 
  naturally, but the timing is certainly curious.
  Just before the earthquake, in late 362, the Emperor 
  Julian the Apostate had outlawed the teaching of 
  Christianity (which had been the state religion for 
  almost 30 years by then) throughout the breadth of the 
  empire. Then, a month after the earthquake, Julian 
  died at the Battle of Ctesiphon. Shortly after that, 
  Julian’s successor Valentinian made his brother Valens 
  the ruler in the east, and in so doing, created at last 
  a permanent separation of the Roman and Byzantine 
  Empires — an act that would ultimately precipitate the 
  fall of both empires, according to some scholars.
  Not every inhabitant of Petra felt so defeated. One 
  man lived through the quake just the same as the 
  others, but where they saw only ill-omen, he saw a need 
  to pick up the pieces and soldier on. Like his father, and 
  his father before him, the man worked the hydraulic 
  engineering innovations that were the wonder of their 
  place and time: conservation systems and dams to 
  control the rush of winter waters that caused dangerous 
  flash floods. He was a Nabataean, and his ties to the 
  land and to Petra ran deeper than any Roman fear or 
  One by one, we fall from Heaven into the depths of the 
  past. This, our world, is ever upturned, so that yet some time 
  we’ll last. Who are we?
  — Riddle of the Sheik
  THE NABATAEAN
  Pawn of Ancients
  
  29 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Byzantine superstition. Knowing what a mass exodus 
  would mean for Petra’s fortunes, he spoke out against 
  her abandonment.
  By that time, though, the word “Nabataean” had 
  taken on pejorative connotations, such as “peasant,” 
  “boor,” or even “bastard” in the very lands that had once 
  comprised the Nabataean kingdom, a sad degradation 
  of a people who had once been among the most 
  tolerant and gifted of the ancient world. Although the 
  man had done everything he could do to fit in and to 
  be of use, including even converting to Christianity (as 
  some Nabataeans had done, once Roman-occupied), to 
  the ruling elite his word, was that of his people. And his 
  people were “peasants.”
  One powerful individual did take note of the man’s 
  ardor and loyalty, however naïve it was; he just didn’t 
  do anything about it. This individual, one of the long-
  dead begotten of Cain, watched as the caravans filed 
  along the city’s Colonnade Street, past her nymphaeum 
  and her fallen Temple of the Winged Lions, down her 
  famous siq, and out her front gates. The city’s structure 
  never lent itself to prolonged Kindred habitation, but 
  it was as perfect a way station for them as it was for the 
  kine, and it was in this capacity that the vampire was in 
  Petra at the time.
  This dead visitor, a scion of the King of Shadows, 
  did not bring the Nabataean into the endless night. He 
  merely took note of the mortal’s name, family line, and 
  behavior before vanishing once more into darkness. In 
  fact, one might say that his presence in Petra had been 
  rooted in the same darkness.
  The Nabataean’s sorrow ignored, his city’s star would 
  fade slowly over the next 300 years, as trade routes shifted 
  away from Petra and support from the eastern empire 
  waned. By the year 747, it was a backwater municipality 
  in the growing Islamic Caliphate, its population having 
  dwindled from almost 40,000 during its heyday to 
  fewer than 2,000 residents. But among those who yet 
  remained was the last descendant of the Nabataean, 
  who insured his line would keep faith with their land. 
  This descendant, a humble laborer, eked out a living as 
  best he could in Petra’s decline.
  And then it happened again.
  If the events of the year 363 were the beginning of 
  the end for Petra, the earthquake of 747 was the final 
  nail in her coffin. The city had been reusing materials 
  for centuries by then, and what little foundation they 
  provided was sorely outmatched by the power of the 
  quake’s fury. It tore through not only what remained 
  of Petra, but all the cities of the once-Nabataean Negev, 
  leveling temples, collapsing homes, and swallowing 
  tomb and soul alike.
  And this time, the Nabataean was caught in the 
  middle of it. When the quake started, he was working 
  on the temple of Qasr el-Bint (“the daughter’s castle”), 
  amending some of its masonry. Before he could even 
  take a breath, the world was falling in all around him. 
  In a last-ditch effort to find safety, he ran to the nearest 
  aperture, and in a daze he thought brought on by the 
  stress of the moment, he saw through the opening a 
  beautiful white camel, smiling serenely beyond. Upon 
  hearing a section of sandstone break loose overhead, he 
  closed his eyes in preparation for death… but it took an 
  unexpected aspect.
  His eyes fluttered open and beheld a figure of 
  nightmare, surely a djinn or one of the ghûl. Yet it stood 
  with arms outstretched, an inscrutable look upon 
  its weathered face, as if welcoming him back home. 
  Looking up, the Nabataean saw the block of sandstone, 
  suspended in mid-air… by shadows. At this, the mortal’s 
  fragile consciousness gave out and he collapsed in a 
  heap on the temple floor. When he awoke, he was no 
  longer among the living, but the Damned.
  Like his ancestors before him, the Nabataean had 
  adopted the religion of his place and time; in this 
  case, Islam. The Nabataean people, like other tribal 
  Arabs, started out as fully polytheistic, offering their 
  prayers to the likes of Al-Uzza and Al-Qaum, Dushares 
  and Manawet. When the Israelites conquered them, 
  Alexander of Judea forced mass conversions to Judaism, 
  and so Nabataeans born in that place and time 
  accepted that faith. Under the Romans, the Nabataeans 
  converted first to the Hellenized incarnation of their 
  former pantheon, with Venus and Mars in place of 
  Al-Uzza and Al-Qaum, and later, under the Eastern 
  Empire, to Christianity — until, of course, the coming 
  of Islam. Indeed, adapting to survive in peace seemed 
  to be the Nabataean way.
  When the Nabataean discovered that his undying 
  savior had not adapted as his ancestors did — had 
  adopted neither the faith of his place and time, nor those 
  faiths that had come before it — he was dumbfounded 
  at his sire’s deed. He hadn’t been especially religious in 
  life, but on finding out that beings such as this existed, 
  his mind couldn’t help but frame the discussion in 
  religious terms. After many nights, he mustered the 
  courage to finally ask his sire why he had come to Petra 
  in her decline, why he had saved a humble Muslim 
  Nabataean only to damn him immediately thereafter.
  
  30 
  THE NABATAEAN
  “I have not slain you,” came the response. “I have 
  preserved you.”
  “But why? Why me?” said the Nabataean.
  “Because one night, you might be the last of your 
  kind.”
  Two Worlds
  On his subsequent travels around the Levant, the 
  Holy Land, and the Fertile Crescent, the Nabataean 
  learned a great deal about not just one world, but two: 
  the world of the living, and the secret world of the 
  accursed dead who walked in its shadow. As sire and 
  childe, the pair toured the courts of the Ashirra, the 
  Islamic brotherhood of undead, and conversed with 
  caliphs, supped with sultans, and interviewed with 
  imams. The known world took them in, and they in 
  turn took in the world. And through it all, the bond 
  between the two Kindred grew.
  As is often the case with the Damned, this very 
  engagement was the very thing that spelled the end of 
  their time together. In the early 11th Century, following 
  the emergence of the so-called Taifa kingdoms in Al-
  Andalus, the pair ended up the honored guests of a 
  fellow Lasombra named Bakr ibn Safwan al-Qushari, 
  the self-proclaimed Sultan of Málaga. When the sultan 
  asked them to pray with him, the Nabataean’s sire 
  politely refused. The sultan, thinking him a fellow 
  “person of the book” (i.e., a Christian or a Jew), offered 
  him access to a local church or synagogue, instead. 
  When he was again refused, the sultan realized that his 
  guest was neither Muslim nor dhimmi (a non-Muslim 
  freeman), but true infidel, and thus in need of some 
  counsel.
  So it was that the Cainite Sultan of Málaga challenged 
  his clanmate and guest to a contest. Should the sultan 
  lose, he would give up half his sultanate to form a new 
  domain for his guest (who had, to that point, established 
  no earthly domain of his own). If he won, his guest 
  would agree to convert, if not to Islam than at least to 
  another religion of the book. Thinking the contest a 
  jest at worst and an evening’s entertainment at best, 
  the sire agreed. The Nabataean no longer recalls the 
  manner of the contest, only that his sire lost and that 
  they both suspected deception. Both Kindred foolishly 
  believed their aged host to be above cheating on such a 
  trivial dalliance.
  When called to make good on his loss, the 
  Nabataean’s sire again politely declined, but made no 
  mention of his host’s own bad faith in the process. 
  When a Cainite guest breaks faith with a Cainite host, 
  the results can be explosive, and this instance was no 
  exception. Incensed, and feeling the honor of both clan 
  and tradition slighted, the sultan brought the matter 
  before the Amici Noctis, the quasi-secret internal 
  tribunal of the Lasombra clan. Al-Qushari had been 
  careful to cultivate alliances with both Muslim and 
  Christian clanmates over the years, and his influence 
  was heard and felt among those who sat in judgment of 
  their nomadic clanmate. As such, their verdict was as 
  clear as it was swiftly delivered. If the Nabataean’s sire 
  would not make good and convert, then he would face 
  the Final Death.
  Knowing his sire would never convert to a faith he did 
  not love, the Nabataean, who had stayed silent through 
  the matter, made a bold and decisive move. He offered 
  his own unlife in exchange. To his surprise, neither 
  his sire nor the sultan objected, nor even reacted with 
  especial dismay. The sultan accepted at once, and sent 
  word to the tribunal that the sire’s verdict was to be 
  voided, provided his Nabataean childe remained true 
  to his word. After almost three centuries years together, 
  sire and childe parted ways with nothing more than a 
  lone knowing nod and a somber valediction.
  Again the Nabataean prepared himself to meet 
  death, as he had the night of his Embrace, and again 
  was Death denied. The sultan, moved by the guileless 
  integrity of his Muslim clanmate, though not moved 
  enough to forgive the sire’s trespass entirely, opted to 
  spare him the Final Death… in exchange for an eternity 
  of nothingness. Al-Qushari drove a wooden stake 
  through the Nabataean’s heart, boxed up his corpse, 
  and kept it as the prize of his collection of treasures.
  Before long, the sultan’s penchant for contest again 
  had the better of him, and he was forced to forfeit 
  the Nabataean as the culmination of a very heated 
  exchange with a rival Christian Lasombra. Word of the 
  “Nabataean trophy” spread like wildfire thereafter, and 
  his body found itself passed from one undead curator 
  to another, ever at the whim of vampires more seasoned 
  and cruel than he. For a time, he was bound to the crypt 
  of a qlipothic sage, who unboxed him every few years to 
  ask the same question: “What is your name?” When the 
  Nabataean could no longer answer with certainty, his 
  host sold him to yet another Kindred eager to possess 
  the undying curio. The only constant in his indentured 
  unlife was the ruling that bound him to coffin and clan, 
  but it was that same ruling that prevented his soul from 
  falling prey to the Amaranth or to the Final Death. 
  After a few centuries, the Nabataean no longer knew 
  whether he felt this to be a blessing or a curse.
  
  31 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  When the Reconquista returned much of Al-Andalus 
  to Christian (and more importantly, non-Lasombra) 
  hands, the Nabataean returned once more to the 
  Middle East, where he found himself the idle plaything 
  of one Sheik al-Khali, called the Empty Prince. A man 
  of infinite tales and riddles, the sheik’s favored form 
  of interaction with his prize was to remove the stake 
  and play tribal host, pretending that the Nabataean 
  was an honored guest from afar. At the end of a long 
  evening of heady drink and discussion, the Empty 
  Prince set a riddle before his captive audience. Should 
  the Nabataean guess correctly in time, he would win his 
  freedom. If not, back to the box. Knowing his guest’s 
  worldly experience had stopped abruptly at the turn 
  of the millennium, the sheik’s riddles could be chosen 
  accordingly, and thus, their outcome was never really 
  in doubt.
  By the end of World War II, the Nabataean had 
  fallen into the possession of one Mirri al-Lam’a, childe 
  of King Sharif and blood sister to the monarch of the 
  Lasombra in North Africa. The Nabataean still doesn’t 
  know how or why he ended up in her care, for she never 
  unboxed and interacted with him the way the others 
  had, but simply kept him stored in her cool cellar. 
  None of that mattered, anyway, since she was the last 
  vampire to ever play host to his body.
  Mirri al-Lam’a was the sole Lasombra resident (and 
  de facto Prince) of the town of Sirte, Libya. Yet even 
  as Sirte grew under the auspices of its prodigal son, 
  Colonel Mu’ammar al-Qaddafi, the city’s Kindred 
  activity remained constrained, as though its most 
  tenured resident sought actively to avoid others of her 
  kind. When the Arab Spring finally arrived at Qaddafi’s 
  doorstep in October of 2011, the resulting hostilities 
  made a wet, smoking ruin of Sirte, as well as Qaddafi.
  What no one knows is that the Arab Spring 
  accomplished an important Cainite event at the same 
  time: the release of the Nabataean, after 1,000 long 
  years of nightmares both real and imagined.
  He awoke to find himself submerged. The siege of 
  Sirte was accompanied by not only shelling and gun 
  battles in the streets, but also flooding. And while 
  the sub-basement that was his resting place had been 
  secured against intrusion and sunlight, it hadn’t been 
  entirely waterproof. With his stake dislodged and his 
  host nowhere to be found, the Nabataean was on his 
  own for the first time in a millennium. Were it not 
  for the water everywhere and his ability to take his rest 
  where he may, he almost certainly would have either 
  met the sun or lost himself to frenzy.
  
  32 
  THE NABATAEAN
  Since his rude awakening, the Nabataean finds the 
  world a stark and disorientating place. His unspeakably 
  long torpor didn’t drive him mad, but it did strip him 
  of many of his memories, much compassion, and even 
  his identity, including his own mortal name. His first 
  act of volition was to leave Sirte, which was still a ruin 
  by the time he escaped the tomb that had been his most 
  recent home. As if by instinct, he followed his memory 
  east, heading back to the ruins of Petra.
  Along the way, he stopped in Egypt and watched 
  the fallout of the Arab Spring take hold there. He’d 
  been to Egypt before, with his sire, but the place was of 
  course unrecognizable to him now. After a run-in with 
  a nomadic Sabbat pack (of whom he made dizzyingly 
  short work), he followed the political ghibli once 
  more, crossing the border first into Sinai and thence 
  into Palestine, where he gazed in grim understanding 
  at the familiar face of oppression and the loss of self-
  determination. When he arrived in Petra, his fear that 
  it would be nothing more than historical curio was 
  confirmed.
  As of tonight, only one purpose drives the Nabataean. 
  He seeks to reconnect with his lost sire. Centuries 
  of fitful sleep have robbed him of his certitude, but 
  something tells him that his sire is yet undead, and if he 
  can find him, maybe he can assemble the pieces of his 
  past and move forward. With no contacts and nowhere 
  concrete to start, he is reduced to wandering lands he 
  once knew, now unfamiliar to him, alone and bereft of 
  the guidance of even his own god. He wanders now, as 
  in nights of old — wanders and wonders if he is indeed 
  the last of his kind.
  Sire: Antipater of the Hoof
  Clan: Lasombra
  Nature: Idealist
  Demeanor: Martyr
  Generation: 7th
  Embrace: 747 CE
  Apparent Age: late teens/early 20s
  Physical: Strength 5, Dexterity 4, Stamina 5
  Social: Charisma 2, Manipulation 3, Appearance 3
  Mental: Perception 3, Intelligence 3, Wits 5
  Talents: Alertness 4, Athletics 3, Awareness 3, Brawl 4, 
  Subterfuge 2
  Skills: Etiquette 4, Melee 3, Stealth 2, Survival 5
  Knowledges: Academics 1, Craft 4, Investigation 3, 
  Occult 3
  Disciplines: Auspex 2, Fortitude 3, Obtenebration 4, 
  Potence 4, Protean 3
  Backgrounds: Mentor 4 (though the Nabataean 
  cannot call upon this mentorship, yet), Status 1 
  (Lasombra)
  Merits/Flaws: Code of Honor, Iron Will, Language 
  (Arabic, Aramaic) / Amnesia
  Virtues: Conscience 1, Self-Control 5, Courage 5
  Morality: Humanity 7 (treat as Humanity 5 until the 
  Nabataean has an epiphany that returns his forgotten 
  Humanity to him)
  Willpower: 8
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 20/4
  Image: The Nabataean is handsome but unremarkable 
  at first glance, an Arab of indeterminable extraction, 
  standing just under 5’10” and possessed of a mason’s 
  hands and upper body build. He does claim one physical 
  curiosity among his kind, however. Like a mortal who 
  went for decades without exposing his body to very 
  much weather, pressure, or sun, the Nabataean’s skin 
  is incredibly life-like for a vampire of his advanced age. 
  This absence of the Cainite’s trademark pallid cast has 
  already proven fatal to younger, cocksure vampires who 
  thought him an easy mark. While he’s acquired enough 
  contemporary clothing to get by without drawing 
  undue attention, it’s clear to any discerning eye that 
  the Nabataean is quite literally a man out of time.
  Roleplaying Hints: The Nabataean can’t quite relate 
  to the people around him, yet, and he’s still in the 
  process of rediscovering the state of modern humanity, 
  so that he can rediscover his own humanity. It’s all 
  coming back — slowly — but until he gets his bearings, 
  the Nabataean will have to walk a fine line between 
  the poles of his own being, between way too little and 
  way too much. And when one is an ancient nocturnal 
  predator, those kinds of growing pains can be quite 
  painful, especially to those who would think to prey 
  upon him.
  Haven: The Nabataean learned from his sire the 
  Gangrel trick of taking one’s rest in the cold ground, 
  
  33 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  and like a feral animal, he retreats into this mindset 
  with the dawn of each new day. While he’s certainly 
  capable of finding and establishing a true haven of his 
  own, the concept simply isn’t on his mind for the time 
  being. All he wants is to move, as he did in the old 
  nights, and until he finds either his sire or a suitable 
  source of answers, that’s unlikely to change.
  Influence: If his sire is indeed still undead, he would 
  be quite an influential figure in his own right come 
  the modern nights, but the Nabataean can’t access any 
  such influence, of course. Given his age and physical 
  capabilities, he could easily become an influential 
  member of either the Camarilla or the Sabbat, but thus 
  far his understanding of both sects is greatly limited, 
  and such aspirations aren’t even a concern to him for 
  the time being. Once he acclimates, he’ll be a force to 
  be reckoned with, but until that time his main concern 
  is finding his sire — and his place.
  
  34 
  SVEIN FORTINBRAS
  
  35 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  The easy definition of “black metal” is a genre of 
  heavy metal popularized by a fast tempo, screaming 
  vocals, distorted guitar, and a strong DIY aesthetic. But 
  the roots of the movement are much more ideological 
  — sincere Satanism, neo-Nazi ideology, and outright 
  aggression against organized Christianity. Black metal 
  is angry at anything and everything, and Norway in the 
  early 1990s was the center of this passionate revolution 
  against the trappings of “morality.” And Azrael was 
  right in the middle of it all.
  He was born in 1970 as Svein Fortinbras, to poor 
  Norwegian parents in Bergen. An exceptionally 
  intelligent child, Svein grew up watching his family 
  work hard to earn whatever money they could to get by. 
  Day after day his mother and father would come home, 
  bone-weary after another day of back-breaking work, 
  only to have a small dinner of cheap, easily prepared 
  food. Every night they prayed to God, thanking them 
  for what little they had. It was a subsistence life, Svein 
  realized as an early teenager — an unexamined state 
  little more than animal instinct.
  Svein’s disgust with the situation he and his family 
  were endured grew year after year. He hated the 
  government that allowed poverty, hated the world 
  that created such a situation, and hated the God who 
  got all the credit for the things his parents labored to 
  earn. School offered him only more of the same, so he 
  became quiet and insular, losing himself in his love of 
  heavy metal and reading book after book on paganism, 
  particularly those about the old Norse pantheon. He 
  taught himself how to play the guitar, frequently trying 
  new sounds and structures that better reflected the fury 
  trapped within him, a fury so intense he couldn’t even 
  articulate it.
  When he was 20 he left Bergen for Oslo, hoping to 
  find others who understood and shared his anger. For 
  a year he ended up holding the same kinds of shit jobs 
  his parents meekly performed, and he was barely able to 
  make do. A co-worker and fellow metalhead introduced 
  him to black metal bands like Mayhem and Burzum, and 
  the music’s aggressive individuality, anti-authoritarian 
  stance, and burning hatred for Christianity spoke to 
  him. He bought every album, demo, and single he 
  could with what little money he could scrape together, 
  and made copies of whatever tapes he couldn’t afford.
  Then he heard about a new record shop called 
  Helvete, which was backed by the guitarist of Mayhem, 
  Euronymous. He started hanging out there, calling 
  himself “Azrael,” and quickly earned the attention of 
  the other black metal musicians who hung out there. He 
  became part of the “Black Circle” that met in Helvete’s 
  basement, surrounded by black walls, medieval 
  weapons, cheaply produced posters, and plastic 
  tombstones. They screamed, fought, drank, laughed, 
  intensely worshipped Satan (not like those LaVeyan 
  pussies), and plotted the destruction of everything and 
  everyone, while Azrael listened and learned.
  His sincere passion, sharp wit, and strangely quiet 
  nature drew the attention of Brynjar, a Setite of the Old 
  Norse strain and a bitter enemy of the Oslo Camarilla. 
  Brynjar was part of a defunct Norwegian punk band in 
  the 70s before his Embrace, and he had been slumming 
  in the black metal scene because it reminded him a 
  little of his mortal days. He paid attention to Azrael, 
  surprised and attracted to his honest and intelligent 
  charisma. Brynjar gave Azrael the Embrace after one 
  of the Black Circle meetings, and Azrael became an 
  enthusiastic member of the Cult of Jormungand temple 
  of Setites.
  As the neonate was learning about his transition 
  into the ranks of the Damned, things in Helvete were 
  getting out of control. One member of the Black Circle 
  committed suicide, and a second took pictures of the 
  corpse and used it for an album cover. A third had been 
  bragging about murdering a gay man for propositioning 
  him in a forest just outside Lillehammer. Unlike the 
  Azrael
  SVEIN FORTINBRAS
  
  36 
  SVEIN FORTINBRAS
  rest of the community, who tried to act like it was 
  cool but were secretly shocked by it all, Azrael found 
  himself unfazed by it all, and he was more moved by 
  his apathy than by the grisliness of the scene. He was a 
  vampire now, and suicide and murder were pedestrian 
  compared to the unholy thing he had become.
  What really got his attention were the plans that 
  some of the more extreme musicians made to burn 
  down various churches in Norway as a statement. He 
  quickly got involved, excited at the prospect of doing 
  something tangible against a God he hated so much. 
  It wasn’t until the arsons were national news before 
  Brynjar even realized Azrael was involved, but word 
  quickly spread to the rest of Kindred society. Before 
  Brynjar could even get a chance to talk to Azrael, the 
  Malkavian Primogen demanded that Azrael be brought 
  before a Camarilla Conclave to answer for the arsons. 
  Brynjar, unwilling to suffer a staking for his reckless 
  childe’s zeal, tricked Azrael into heeding the Prince’s 
  demand for satisfaction, claiming that he was to receive 
  the Cult of Jormungand’s foulest rites of initiation. 
  Azrael arrived painted in his stage makeup and 
  dressed like a Satanic Viking right off of an album 
  cover, and it was that look that was etched into the 
  minds of the assembled Kindred of the Ivory Tower 
  as the Malkavian Primogen congratulated him for his 
  good work. It turned out that one of the old churches 
  that was torched was the safe house for the Oslo Society 
  of Leopold, ridding the local Camarilla of a number 
  of nascent hunters in their midst. Azrael was quick to 
  accept credit for the deed, and despite being a fledgling 
  and a Setite, he was given a position of minor power 
  as a Hound of the Sheriff. Brynjar tried to convince 
  Azrael that this was a trap, that he was just working 
  for another authoritarian figure like the ones he always 
  rebelled against, but the fledgling was wickedly giddy 
  with power. He felt like he had a mandate to take the 
  war against Christianity in the name of the Camarilla 
  and the Setite temple, that he had achieved what others 
  of his clan had failed to accomplish, and that he was 
  naturally superior to the lowly sire who had made him. 
  Azrael scoffed at Brynjar’s advice, and Brynjar told his 
  childe to go fuck himself before leaving Oslo to its war 
  with the hunters.
  However, the “war” was short-lived. The Society 
  of Leopold was not destroyed by the arson, merely 
  wounded — and now convinced of its righteousness. 
  They rallied their hallowed slayers and struck back 
  against the Damned. A week of strategic strikes rocked 
  the Camarilla as Kindred after Kindred was staked and 
  put to the torch, including the Prince. The surviving 
  Kindred blamed their newly promoted fledgling, 
  cursing him for the very thing they rewarded him 
  for weeks earlier. He was banished from Oslo. Azrael 
  finally saw the Malkavian Primogen’s Jyhad ruse that 
  Brynjar tried to warn him about, and with his middle 
  finger firmly in the air, he left Norway under exile and 
  threat of Lextalionis.
  His brief career in Kindred politics in shambles, 
  Azrael decided to return to his first love and form a 
  band. Abandoning the Satanic trappings of the Black 
  Circle, he focused on Norway’s pagan past. His band 
  Ynglinga kept the black metal sound and stage theatrics 
  of his former inspirations as well as an indelible enmity 
  toward organized Christianity, but as he moved further 
  and further away from Scandinavia, his style became 
  more and more distinct. After a couple of years, he 
  eventually ended up on the outs with his former 
  idols, who regularly threatened his life in letters and 
  interviews over his perceived abandonment of the Dark 
  Lord Satan. A spate of murders and suicides among 
  their ranks has never been officially tied to Azrael, 
  but he has gleefully claimed credit and threatened 
  more of the same. As the millennium drew to a close, 
  Ynglinga earned the attention of a record label in New 
  York looking for a band that could provide the black 
  metal sound without all the negative publicity of being 
  Satanists. Realizing that Scandinavia was becoming too 
  tense for him, Azrael agreed, and Ynglinga made the 
  trans-Atlantic trip to North America.
  Since then, Azrael has supplemented his music 
  career with the occasional bit of mercenary work and 
  vice procurement among Kindred society, though 
  he refuses to knuckle under to any sect. The Setites 
  of New York find him alienating and disgusting, far 
  from the more traditional Serpent backgrounds and 
  Egyptian-influenced temples of the main branch of the 
  clan. Azrael has been known to work for the Camarilla 
  and the Anarchs, and even a short term of prestation 
  with the New York Giovanni, though the two ended 
  up on hostile terms. All the while wearing his stylized 
  makeup and “gothic Viking” outfit, he has rapidly 
  gained a name among the Damned and the black metal 
  subculture. The only sect he won’t work for is the Sword 
  of Caine, but he refuses to explain why. Some Kindred 
  gadflies speculate that the Sabbat’s Caine-revering 
  form of Christianity is too repulsive to him. Further, 
  Azrael’s role in the murder of members of the Society 
  of Leopold has made him an enemy to the rest of the 
  Inquisition, and more than once, he’s used his band’s 
  touring schedule as an excuse to skip town before the 
  hunters catch up to him.
  
  37 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  In recent nights, Azrael has disappeared. Rumors run 
  rampant as to what happened to him. Some theorize 
  that the Inquisition finally got back at him, while others 
  claim the Sabbat have hunted him for some crime 
  against them. Still others believe that he has returned 
  to Norway and subverted the Cult of Jormungand. 
  A few suggest that he’s just tired of all of the bullshit 
  within the Jyhad and he’s lying low to work on his next 
  album. Whatever the reason, Azrael has captured the 
  imagination (and paranoia) of the Kindred populace, 
  and the most curious won’t be comfortable until know 
  for certain what he’s planning.
  Sire: Brynjar
  Clan: Followers of Set
  Nature: Visionary
  Demeanor: Monster
  Generation: 12th
  Embrace: 1991
  Apparent Age: Early 20s
  Physical: Strength 3, Dexterity 4, Stamina 3
  Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2
  Mental: Perception 2, Intelligence 3, Wits 2
  Talents: Brawl 1, Expression 3, Intimidation 3, 
  Streetwise 2
  Skills: Drive 2, Firearms 3, Melee 3, Performance 
  (Black Metal) 4, Stealth 2, Survival 1
  Knowledges: Occult 4, Investigation 1
  Disciplines: Presence 3, Serpentis 1
  Background: Allies (band and groupies) 3, Fame 
  (black metal guitarist) 2, Resources 2, Retainers (road 
  crew, record label) 2
  Virtues: Conscience 1, Self-Control 4, Courage 3
  Morality: Humanity 5
  Willpower: 6
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 11/1
  Image: Azrael is larger than life in just about every 
  way. He is close to seven feet tall and he wears thick, 
  bulky boots that make him even taller. His vibrant red 
  hair is regularly died raven black, and hangs over his 
  face like a death-shroud. 
  Whether on stage or mingling in Kindred society, 
  Azrael looks like an unholy cross between a goth 
  biker and a modern Viking: long, black leather coats, 
  black and silver furs around his shoulders, white shoe-
  polished logos on the back and sleeves, and lots of 
  morbid silver jewelry. He has polished stainless steel 
  studs through his ears, eyebrows, nose, and lip. Even his 
  gloves have pointed silver spikes on the knuckles, and 
  his guitars are often solid black with white and silver 
  accents. Every inch of remaining visible skin is painted 
  to make him look (even more) like a walking corpse, 
  but as time goes on, he finds he needs the makeup less 
  and less.
  Outside of “the uniform,” Azrael looks much less 
  intimidating. He generally keeps to T-shirts and jeans 
  over heavy-duty work boots, and the amount of silver 
  jewelry dwindles to a handful of rings and a necklace, 
  all displaying some element of his Norse faith. Those 
  familiar with his ostentatious appearance are often 
  surprised as how quickly and carefully he moves. He 
  is a big man in a world just a little too small for him, 
  and he has the studied movements of someone who has 
  spent decades making sure he doesn’t accidentally run 
  into or break things.
  Roleplaying Hints: Azrael is bizarre, opinionated, 
  and divisive. He treats his band and his fans like 
  worshippers, all praying to the altar of Fuck Authority. 
  While he is still very young for a Kindred, his 
  fanaticism and lack of fear of Final Death propel him 
  into actions that other Kindred find incomprehensible. 
  His actions make perfect sense to him, but between his 
  self-constructed belief system and his Embrace in an 
  extremely violent and chaotic subculture (as well as a 
  dose of paranoia), it’s not surprising that his actions 
  seem manic to the more stolid vampires around him. 
  Those who know of Azrael only by reputation or 
  through his stage persona are often caught off-guard by 
  how soft-spoken he is in person. Far from the stereotype 
  of the loud, profanity-spewing, renegade fledgling, he is 
  quiet and thoughtful, often pausing as if considering 
  each thought. On the other hand, he doesn’t see the 
  point in saying anything but what’s on his mind, and 
  the opinions he shares are often just a hostile as any 
  vitriol-laden rant.
  Despite (or perhaps because of) his revolutionary 
  and borderline sociopathic opinions, he is surprisingly 
  humble. He doesn’t think of himself as the leader 
  of Ynglinga but rather the first among peers. In his 
  mind, everyone in the longboat is pulling at the oars 
  — he’s just the one counting out the strokes. His 
  natural inclination toward pure democracy makes him 
  particularly attractive to the Anarchs (and dangerous 
  to the other sects), but Azrael doesn’t consider it to be 
  any sort of radical governmental structure. It’s just how 
  he does things, and he’s often disappointed and angry 
  when others don’t see it that way.
  
  38 
  SVEIN FORTINBRAS
  Influence: As his fame continues to become more 
  and more cultic, various elders are forced to decide 
  if Azrael is a pawn to court or an enemy to crush. 
  They would find either option difficult: So far, Azrael 
  hasn’t found much need for sects, and whether due to 
  beginner’s luck or divine providence, he’s managed to 
  come out unscarred by much of the Jyhad. With the 
  adoration of the Anarchs, the concern of the more 
  orderly sects, and the pragmatic manipulations of the 
  independent clans, though, someone is going to take a 
  swing at Azrael, and soon.
  Assuming the Society of Leopold doesn’t get to him 
  first, of course.
  Haven: Due to his constant touring and escapes, 
  Azrael has a number of small, improvised bolt-holes 
  throughout North America. Many motel rooms and 
  truck stops that end up “destroyed” by the band are 
  actually hastily secured havens used to keep sunlight 
  and hunters at bay. Azrael does have a few safe houses 
  scattered across the country that he uses for storage or 
  a more secure place to hide when necessary. Overall, 
  though, he tries to stay as mobile as possible. He has 
  a contact on the American West Coast, a fellow Setite 
  named Liliane Chastain, who occasionally provides 
  him with information and a temporary haven, but 
  only when he visits the Century City domain. She has 
  offered to put him in contact with other Setites in the 
  Anarch Free State, an offer he would be wise to accept.
  
  39 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  
  40 
  LADY MARGARET WILLOUGHBY
  On a wicked night in Scotland, five self-styled 
  witches gathered in a guestroom in the eastern wing of 
  Balmoral Castle. Their coven had convened to ensorcel 
  their hostess, the Queen Victoria, who had become 
  morose after the death of her husband the Prince 
  Consort Albert. Led by the traitor Lady Lise Paulmann, 
  the witches convened in the library, drawing forbidden 
  sigils on the floor and lighting candles so that they 
  might call forth the ghost of Albert and compel him to 
  beg her to join him, driving the queen to despair. Even 
  if the queen didn’t try to cross the Veil into the ghostly 
  prince’s arms, the moment she spoke in public about 
  a visitation from her lover’s ghost, she’d no longer be 
  suitable to lead the empire in the eyes of her subjects, 
  despite the Romantic mysticism of the time.
  For her part, Lady Paulmann sought to place the 
  queen in thrall so that the newly unified Germany, 
  growing in power, might keep its European neighbor 
  in check. For the rest of the witches, such treachery was 
  unimaginable, but they were seduced by the idea of 
  having the queen in their debt. Paulmann herself lived 
  in Victoria’s United Kingdom and had no desire to 
  invite the bellicose Germans to sack her adopted home, 
  as she too greatly enjoyed the affluence and comfort to 
  which she had grown accustomed. Without a doubt, 
  she was a spy for her homeland... but she had no desire 
  to aid the fatherland too much.
  In truth, Lady Paulmann was a ghoul working at 
  the behest of a coterie of German Ventrue, waging 
  their secret Jyhad against London’s Prince Mithras. 
  Acting directly against Queen Victoria was a bold and 
  desperate move on their part, and the ruse unraveled 
  only because of the timely arrival of the agents of 
  Scotland’s Tremere Lord, Hargau.
  Scotland had long been a territory of primarily 
  Toreador fiefdom domains, owing to a connection 
  between the Caledonian Degenerates and the House of 
  Valois, which had attached the Scottish domains during 
  the rule of Mary Stuart and her marriage to Francis II 
  of France. Dispossessed French Toreador traveled to 
  Scotland, claiming domains there from independent 
  lesser Ventrue, Brujah, and Gangrel Princes, backing 
  their praxis seizures with the power of the French 
  throne before the ascension of Elizabeth in England 
  and the complicity of many English Ventrue.
  Amid this centuries-old political and Kindred 
  quagmire, Lady Paulmann’s plot against Victoria 
  formed. And the night her séance began, it was 
  interrupted by the arrival of Hargau, who then held the 
  Lordship of the assembled domains. Hargau’s arrival 
  was purest coincidence, but the guilty looks of the 
  Queen’s other guests when he made his introductions 
  queered the entire ritual and roused his suspicions. 
  Under his withering presence, one of the assembled 
  “witches,” Lady Margaret Willoughby, admitted the 
  entire plot, and with a hasty session of Dominated 
  probing, Hargau confirmed the conspiracy and its 
  betrayers.
  In most cases, this would have spelled the end for 
  both the holdout traitors and the one who gave them 
  away, for Tremere justice is an unyielding thing. A 
  greater tumult in the House of Tremere changed the 
  outcome this night, however, and the plot against 
  Queen Victoria became the catalyst for a greater scheme 
  that would span continents. The crisis had yielded an 
  opportunity.
  The opportunity wasn’t a pleasant one, however, as 
  might be expected of the treacheries of the Damned. 
  Of the five witches, Hargau killed three, to protect the 
  secret of the conspiracy — and to slake his thirst on 
  their blood. Thereafter, the Tremere Lord sequestered 
  himself at an ancillary Tremere chantry in Glasgow 
  LADY MARGARET 
  WILLOUGHBY
  Keeper of the Lost Secret
  
  41 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  with Ladies Paulmann and Willoughby as his “guests,” 
  where they were attended by obsequious ghouls and 
  bizarre Thaumaturgical constructs that placated their 
  needs. The ladies responded differently to their host’s 
  hospitality, and Hargau made plain that he had plans for 
  them that involved a greater degree of the sorcerous arts 
  than their limited attempts at Balmoral had provided.
  For a month, Hargau courted the two ersatz witches 
  with temptations to power, exacting from them tithes 
  of blood that he used to initiate them into the mysteries 
  of Clan Tremere. On the most auspicious night, when 
  a cloudless sky yielded a long, raw solstice, the Tremere 
  Lord brought his apprentice into the chantry vault to 
  Embrace Lady Paulmann. Incensed, Lady Paulmann 
  protested, for if the secret of true witchcraft traveled 
  in the blood, why should she have to settle for the 
  Embrace of a low and common apprentice? Hargau 
  slapped her, stunning her into silence, warning her 
  that the structure of the pyramid must needs have 
  its foundation, and that there were… ways to rise the 
  potency of the Blood. Lady Paulmann then churlishly 
  submitted to the apprentice’s Embrace, while Lady 
  Willoughby looked on in horror and watched her die.
  When the undead creature that Lise Paulmann had 
  become rose from the death-chrysalis, the Tremere 
  Lord ordered her to feed on the blood of a ghoul. And 
  as if to demonstrate the sanguine hierarchy of the clan, 
  he compelled Lady Paulmann to perform the same act 
  upon Lady Willoughby, to pluck the thread of her life 
  and replace it with the midnight blood of Damnation. 
  The look in Lady Paulmann’s eyes as she approached 
  Lady Willoughby paralyzed the still-mortal woman with 
  despair. She had always been docile, and had joined the 
  witches’ coven largely out of obligation to the others, 
  and to see the monstrosity that awaited her under the 
  curse that this Hargau fiend had explained — but the 
  time for such terrors vanished as her life poured from 
  her body in a thrilling rush that bloomed within her 
  voracious accomplice.
  Hargau then gave a practical lesson in those “ways 
  to rise the potency of the Blood.” He explained to the 
  fledglings that by drinking another Kindred’s blood and 
  beyond, by consuming her very soul, one could focus the 
  power in vitae, distilling it, alchemically reducing it to 
  a more potent humour and gleaning from its puissance 
  a more acute power over the Kindred condition. And 
  then, as the viselike grip of a Thaumaturgical servitor 
  rendered Lady Paulmann immobile, he instructed 
  Margaret Willoughby to perform that very act.
  The Amaranth scarred Lady Willoughby with 
  its violence, with its carnal pleasure, and with the 
  unwholesome blasphemy of its function. As the blood 
  of her sire of a few moments streaked from Lady 
  Willoughby’s mouth and nose, Lise Paulmann’s body 
  crumbled to ash.
  “This is for your protection and mine,” Hargau spoke 
  cryptically, and only later did Lady Willoughby come to 
  understand the value of the remove from her grandsire’s 
  lineage. At the cost of her own humanity, she gained the 
  power of her grandsire’s Embrace, but also a distance 
  between them — a progenitive gap that suggested an 
  autonomy from Hargau’s will accomplished only by the 
  illusory pretense of ancestry. “Besides,” the Tremere 
  Lord disclosed, “a sense of entitlement like your 
  departed sire’s makes for a dubious foundation in the 
  pyramid.”
  Alas, the newly Embraced aristocrat showed little skill 
  with Thaumaturgy, finding its practice repulsive and 
  medieval. At Hargau’s urging, she gravitated toward the 
  political theater of the clan, but here she similarly had 
  little success. The political weight of a Tremere who was 
  a minor lord’s wife in Toreador-dominated Scotland 
  was negligible, and she proved as much a liability to the 
  Warlocks as she did an asset. About this time, Hargau’s 
  own career with the Tremere was in decline, and the 
  two parted ways.
  In an effort to leave the United Kingdom behind, 
  Lady Willoughby took her own monies, left to her after 
  the unfortunate consumptive death of her husband, 
  and invested in the Transandine Railway. Shipping off 
  the entirety of her estate to Argentina, Lady Willoughby 
  looked very much the part of the expatriate investor, 
  and despite the difficulties the Ferrocarril Trasandino 
  Clark company had in breaking ground, the endeavor 
  eventually not only launched but prospered. With a 
  modest investment quietly accumulating resources for 
  her, Lady Willoughby’s interests turned inward. With 
  a humble haven in Mendoza, she learned the language 
  and enough of the Argentine culture to play up her role 
  as an urbane émigré.
  Such quiet resolutions rarely occupy the Kindred for 
  long, though, and such proved to be the case for Lady 
  Willoughby. One evening, when she had held a dinner 
  party for several of the city’s elite at her californiano 
  home, she received a visitor: her grandsire, Hargau. His 
  star hadn’t faded by chance, he had simply constructed 
  a quiet exit from the Lordship of Scotland with the aid 
  of a silent patron placed elsewhere in the Pyramid. This 
  had all been part of his long-term plan, he confessed, 
  
  42 
  LADY MARGARET WILLOUGHBY
  because he and his patron had discovered a secret that 
  might have sparked a war in Europe, and with tensions 
  rising in Austria-Hungary at the time, the last thing 
  the Kindred needed was high conflict on top of the 
  worsening mortal political climate.
  Hargau disclosed his situation: that he had found 
  an unlikely ally in a thread of Thaumaturgical research 
  during time spent in the late 1700s in Vienna. In 
  various studies of Kindred blood, the composition of 
  the Gargoyle bloodline, and the curse-haunted soil of 
  Eastern European domains, Hargau and a small cabal 
  of fellow Tremere of House Goratrix had discovered 
  a curiosity that seemed to have flourished, if such 
  could be said, in the vitae of Clan Tzimisce. And, if 
  the experiments conducted by the chantry proved 
  true, Hargau and his cabal would have the ability to 
  render the “anomaly” inert. Lady Willoughby didn’t 
  understand, so Hargau explained — if the blood magic 
  could be developed, the Tremere would have the ability 
  to terminate the Curse of Caine in the Tzimisce, 
  sending the ritual traveling up the mystic lineage of the 
  Fiends like a virus, reducing them to ash where they 
  stood.
  The details still eluded Margaret Willoughby, but 
  that was why Hargau had chosen her. She lacked the 
  ability to effect the ritual herself, so he had no worries 
  that she’d abuse it without his knowledge, and her lack 
  of effectiveness in larger Kindred politics had meant 
  that no one had taken undue notice of her. She was 
  an excellent candidate to protect the secret that he was 
  now poised on the verge of discovering.
  The problem, of course, was that House Goratrix 
  had chosen to ally with the Sabbat, which had been 
  formed after the Anarch Revolt as a union of Lasombra 
  and… Tzimisce. With the power of the Sabbat on the 
  rise in the New World, Goratrix saw an opportunity 
  to place his rogue chantry of Tremere antitribu in a 
  position of advantage among them. This didn’t quench 
  any of House Goratrix’s enthusiasm for finding the 
  ritual. Rather, Hargau confided, his old coven seemed 
  highly motivated to do so — it simply made their 
  motives somewhat different from those of the Tremere 
  still faithful to Vienna and the Council of Seven. The 
  Spellbinder’s priorities belonged first to himself and 
  then his House, with loyalty to the Sword of Caine 
  falling to a distant third on the Usurper’s agenda. To 
  Goratrix, the Sabbat represented a useful tool and a 
  powerful patron sect rather than an ideology to venerate 
  in and of itself.
  Since Hargau’s arrival in South America, the Sabbat 
  had its eyes on him, and despite his expert use of 
  Thaumaturgy to hide his trail, the rebels of House 
  Goratrix had greater sorceries at their command. 
  With his movements known to those Sabbat agents 
  that Goratrix’s faction had deemed appropriate to 
  tell, Hargau knew that his time was running out, but 
  that someone outside the rogue faction must possess 
  the secret. He stayed at Lady Willoughby’s haven for 
  several months, though he vanished for weeks at a time, 
  intentionally keeping her ignorant of his movements so 
  that anyone who questioned her wouldn’t be able to 
  pry his whereabouts from her, regardless of what they 
  might inflict on her.
  During these months, Margaret Willoughy considered 
  her fate. Her sire had abused her since her first night 
  among the Damned, treating her as a pawn and a patsy, 
  pushing first his condition and then his agenda upon 
  her. By the autumn of 1912, Lady Willoughby decided 
  she’d had enough of Hargau’s ill treatment. When the 
  Víboras de Dios pack came calling, with murder on their 
  minds and fire at hand, she offered them a deal. She’d 
  present them with a staked Hargau and they’d leave her 
  alone while she fled their domain. Disappointed at the 
  lack of need to force her to yield her guest, the Víboras 
  de Dios left Lady Willoughby with a grim warning. If 
  she planned to renege on the agreement, they’d hunt 
  her too the ends of the earth and splay her innards 
  in a blood eagle for the sun to devour. Margaret had 
  no intention of backing out of the deal, but she had 
  played the shrinking violet long enough. Having steeled 
  herself to her course of action, she planned a betrayal 
  that to her bore the gravity of justice.
  The next night, Lady Willoughby rummaged through 
  Hargau’s rooms, looking for through his meager 
  belongings for anything that might have looked like 
  it might bear Thaumaturgical value. Hargau was no 
  fool, however, and had both hidden his journals that 
  contained the ritual and warded his makeshift haven 
  from tampering. When he returned to Margaret’s 
  haven, filthy with the grime of obviously desperate 
  travel he demanded that she show him her hands. 
  There, beneath the lace of her evening gloves, glistened 
  his weeping sigil, opened raw upon the flesh of her 
  hand.
  Lady Willoughby confessed to the arrival and fierce 
  threats of the Sabbat pack that had come to demand 
  that she deliver him to them, but that she had no idea 
  where he was. From there, however, she concocted a lie 
  that suited her meek demeanor, that they demanded 
  
  43 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  some personal trinket of his and that she relented, 
  rifling his belonging in a desperate attempt to give 
  them something of value.
  Hargau bought the ruse, prideful of his own 
  anticipation that someone might have been tailing him 
  and the wisdom in hiding his ritual journal. He forgave 
  Lady Willoughby the transgression and questioned her 
  as to the identities of the interlopers. She described the 
  Víboras de Dios, whom he recognized as Sabbat, but 
  without any known connection to the Tremere antitribu.
  The Argentine domains had no formal sect 
  allegiance, being a confederation of territories in which 
  Princes and Bishops of both the Camarilla and Sabbat 
  held sway. Between the most populous areas stretched 
  vast, unknown domains, where Autarkis might be the 
  only power, or where packs of Sabbat or Anarchs might 
  claim praxis of their own. As such, Hargau explained, 
  the only authorities to be found were of the very local 
  variety, and should the Prince of Mendoza not have any 
  personal grievance against the Sabbat, she might not 
  have any issue with turning a troublemaker over to an 
  eager pack if it meant the Sword of Caine would move 
  on from her domain back to its own. That meant that 
  their safety was in their own hands, and that flight was 
  their best recourse.
  Weeping tears of blood that Hargau assumed to be 
  borne of fear, Lady Willoughby agreed. They would 
  abandon the californiano the next night, and she would go 
  where he instructed her, waiting until he contacted her 
  again to make her next move. She even suggested that he 
  not tell her his destination, again that his secrecy might 
  be protected. Hargau smiled. His grand-childe knew 
  her role. He had chosen well. He next night, when they 
  once again left each other’s company, he would travel to 
  the macondo where the local Chulupi fearfully revered 
  him as Desmodus. There, he could practice his rites, 
  “Embracing” the victims the Chulupi provided with his 
  sorcerous approximation of the Tzimisce condition and 
  the tie it developed between the fledgling and the land. 
  He collected his things, including the oilskin satchel 
  that contained his encoded diaries, which contained 
  the location of his secret Thaumaturgical cache near 
  the Chulupi village.
  His plan was never to come to fruition.
  While Hargau retired into a smug day-sleep, Lady 
  Willoughby roused herself from slumber and crept to 
  his room in an agonizing lethargy. In her mind, she 
  fought the urge to rouse her grandsire in the moment 
  before she condemned him, letting him know that his 
  hapless subordinate had finally suffered enough, but 
  too much was at stake. Without the satisfaction of his 
  understanding, Margaret plunged a carob stake into 
  Hargau’s heart and hammered it home with a silver 
  mallet purloined from among the ex-Lord’s meager 
  travel belongings. Sodden with his spurting blood, 
  hoping that he recognized her in the moment when 
  his eyes bulged at the attack, Lady Willoughby crawled 
  back to the comfort of her own chambers and slept a 
  fitful sleep for the remainder of the day.
  When next she woke, Margaret contacted the Víboras 
  de Dios and let their pack leader know that she was 
  ready to fulfill her half of their agreement. When the 
  pack arrived, she allowed them to plunder his sleeping 
  quarters. It was in a ruin, she explained, because she 
  and Hargau had planned to flee that very night, but she 
  misled him to allay his suspicions, and they had struggled 
  briefly when she had staked him in his surprise. She 
  had no use for his half-packed things, she said, and the 
  pack could take what they wanted. The pack sought 
  information about the Tremere’s Thaumaturgical 
  breakthrough for its patron Dominion, but they had 
  no reason to think that Lady Willoughby would know 
  what they desired. And she continued to play her part 
  as the timid victim, convincing the Víboras as wholly as 
  she had Hargau.
  In truth, Lady Willoughby had taken Hargau’s satchel 
  before she arranged for the pack to collect its gory prize. 
  She knew the satchel didn’t contain the precious secret, 
  but she knew that it contained clues to where it had 
  been hidden. She then asked for the protection of the 
  Víboras de Dios, begging asylum within the Sabbat for, 
  when word of her betrayal reached Vienna, she would 
  be a marked Kindred.
  Lady Willoughby’s request was beyond the authority 
  the Víboras de Dios had, especially in the contested 
  domains of Argentina and in a domain claimed at 
  least nominally by a Camarilla Prince. They were 
  savvy enough to realize that they weren’t dealing with 
  a sniveling neophyte who would end up impaled on 
  a spit during the Sword of Caine’s next Fire Dance, 
  however — they knew Hargau’s background and the fact 
  that a powerful rival faction in the Sabbat afforded him 
  some degree of protection. Rather than take a chance 
  at offending that unknown entity, they referred her 
  to Néstor Lavagna, then a Bishop of Clan Lasombra, 
  who maintained a civil discourse with the Prince of 
  Mendoza.
  The audience with the Bishop went as well as it 
  could have. For her part, Lady Willoughby was mostly 
  forthright. Bishop Lavagna plucked several illuminating 
  
  44 
  LADY MARGARET WILLOUGHBY
  thoughts from Margaret’s mind, as well, smoothing over 
  the ripples in her memory afterward so that she wouldn’t 
  recall the inquiry — and he was intrigued by what Lady 
  Willoughby’s confessions suggested. The question was, 
  how could he turn this best to his advantage? If the 
  mystical knowledge she possessed was true, the Tzimisce 
  rivals of Clan Lasombra in the Sabbat would cease to 
  be a political threat to the Keepers’ rightful dominance. 
  But the weapon was a dangerous one, for without the 
  Tzimisce, the Sabbat stood little chance of holding its 
  already tenuous domains against the Camarilla, and 
  without adequate soldiery, the Sword of Caine certainly 
  could pose no threat to the hated Antediluvians. And 
  Bishop Lavagna had to acknowledge the truth — that he 
  was a remote Bishop in a contested territory who had 
  little grasp of the global status of the Camarilla-Sabbat 
  conflict. So he did what the Kindred do best. He traded 
  his information for favor.
  The Lasombra curry favor with one another like 
  no other clan can, and Lady Willoughby soon found 
  herself invited to the domain of São Paulo by none 
  other than the Archbishop. The last anyone saw of her 
  was under the protection of a cadre of Caine’s Chosen 
  in the spring of 1917, and there her trail vanishes from 
  the consciousness of the Damned.
  It would seem that Lady Willoughby’s tale ends thus, 
  with her becoming a captive of the Sword of Caine, 
  likely in some wretched hell beneath the streets of 
  Sampa, where she either lies staked or shackled to a 
  scrivener’s desk, scratching out possible permutations 
  of the ritual Hargau thieved from under the collective 
  noses of House Goratrix. That is not the case, however. 
  Or, rather, it was, but it no longer is. The Tremere of the 
  Sabbat did indeed have Lady Willoughby indentured 
  and ensorcelled, bound to the subterranean library of 
  the apostate Pontifex of Brazil. There she remained a 
  prisoner, poring over not the ritual itself, but Hargau’s 
  journals, which held the secret of the ritual that could 
  cripple the Tzimisce.
  One night, the ritual binding Margaret into the 
  biblioteca simply… lapsed. She felt the ward cease 
  suddenly, like manacles falling from the wrists of a 
  slave. That was over a decade ago. She still hasn’t left 
  the library — how can she? She’s in an unknown city 
  where she doesn’t speak the language, in a domain 
  claimed by an Archbishop she may or may not know 
  anymore, who may or may not be among the Damned, 
  and the arguable chattel of a clan that has vanished, 
  which is a fact she doesn’t possess. For all of her efforts 
  to free herself from the yoke of Hargau, she’s ended 
  up in an even worse situation, and lacks the temerity 
  to make her own go of it again. Instead, she confines 
  herself to the vast underground library of the absent 
  Pontifex, feeding from a dwindling retinue of still-living 
  servitors (shouldn’t they all be dead by now?), wearing 
  the immaculately kept remainder of a century-old 
  wardrobe and guarding a secret she doesn’t actually 
  possess.
  Little by little, though, Lady Willoughby has been 
  mustering the boldness to test the confines of her prison. 
  On the night of the new moon, he says, a Spanish-
  speaking Malkavian envoy of the Black Hand visits 
  her to check on her ongoing progress with Hargau’s 
  journal. She doesn’t trust him, and he knows she lies 
  to him when she tells him that she’s been diligent with 
  the effort but that it hasn’t yielded anything, and so 
  the two play their own private Jyhad. This Black Hand 
  contact does permit her contact with the outside 
  world, though, and faithfully brings her handwritten 
  letters to be posted, collecting what few responses she 
  may receive. It’s a strange code of honor this Freak of 
  Caine’s Chosen possesses, for he doesn’t read her mail, 
  believing that some night he’ll find out whatever it is 
  that keeps him coming back to Margaret’s side.
  So who exactly corresponds with Lady Margaret 
  Willoughby? Valkar de la Rosa, a Spanish Tremere 
  Embraced perhaps a decade before the Pontifex’s ritual 
  wavered. When Margaret’s Black Hand attendant first 
  visited her, she had sent a letter to Valkar’s sire, but it 
  ended up in the hands of the childe. From there, de 
  la Rosa continued the communication out of a sense 
  of duty, and has since learned what Lady Willoughby 
  thinks she hides, as well as collecting an incomplete 
  copy of the journals of Hargau, which Margaret encodes 
  with her own cipher, trickling it to him one page at a 
  time. Why did Lady Willoughby choose Valkar’s sire 
  with whom to initiate correspondence? And why does 
  she continue it despite knowing that it’s not her first 
  choice of Kindred who returns her letters? Only she 
  knows, but she plans to soon try again, hoping to reach 
  a different Kindred whose last known whereabouts 
  she hopes to discern from the arcane library beneath 
  São Paulo. With little attention to how much time has 
  passed, she’ll probably reach another descendent of any 
  named Kindred, or even a childe of a childe, assuming 
  the receiving address still exists at all.
  The disintegration of what remains of Maragaret 
  Willoughby’s unlife isn’t the worst of the situation, 
  however. Hargau, in the hands of the Víboras de Dios, 
  never made it to the Chulupi macondo. Whether his 
  
  45 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  ritual would or wouldn’t have succeeded never became 
  known, but whatever he buried there in the heights of 
  the Andes did something to the village near where it 
  lay buried. Tonight, none of the Chulupi survive as the 
  mortals they once were. They have long since become 
  the desmodus, the nag loper; what remains of the village 
  itself is little more than a desiccated necropolis… and its 
  dwellers are hungry.
  Sire: Lady Lise Paulmann (deceased)
  Clan: Tremere (possibly antitribu)
  Nature: Loner
  Demeanor: Caregiver
  Generation: 9th
  Embrace: 1864
  Apparent Age: Late 30s
  Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 2, Stamina 2
  Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2
  Mental: Perception 5, Intelligence 2, Wits 2
  Talents: Alertness 4, Awareness 1, Empathy 2, 
  Subterfuge 3
  Skills: Etiquette 3, Performance 1, Stealth 3
  Knowledges: Academics 2, Investigation (research) 2, 
  Medicine 1, Occult 1, Science (outdated eugenics 
  theory) 2
  Disciplines: Auspex 2, Dominate 2, Thaumaturgy 
  (Path of Blood) 1
  Thaumaturgical 
  Rituals: 
  Communicate 
  with 
  Kindred Sire, Deflection of Wooden Doom, Engaging 
  the Vessel of Transference, Wake with Evening’s 
  Freshness
  Backgrounds: Contacts 1, Herd 2, Retainers 2
  Virtues: Conscience 1, Self-Control 2, Courage 2
  Morality: Humanity 4
  Willpower: 2
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 14/2
  Image: Lady Willoughby has been denied the 
  opportunity to assimilate into modern society. She 
  exhibits the stasis of the undead in her clothing in 
  particular, wearing full Victorian dress when she 
  expects to feed or when she expects to entertain her 
  Black Hand Malkavian rival and confidant. In fact, 
  she has little choice, as the only clothes she has are 
  those with which she was entombed in the biblioteca 
  of the Sabbat Pontifex. Her Embrace came in the cold 
  of December, and she has a winter countenance that 
  stands out significantly among the tropical complexions 
  of the residents — and Kindred — of Brazil. Her hands 
  are small and dainty, almost always sheathed in damask 
  gloves, and she wears her long hair in a proper Marcel 
  wave. 
  Roleplaying Hints: You are a tempest at sea, slow 
  to rouse, but when the full weight of your wrath has 
  arrived, it is terrible to behold, so long have you been 
  shuttered away from any but simpering thralls and 
  the fractured agent of some killer’s cult. Woe to the 
  Kindred, especially the rapacious Sabbat, who consider 
  your reserve to be timidity or complacency. Confined 
  to this dank and horrid den, you have become its 
  lioness. Were you ever to escape, you would likely be 
  overwhelmed by the immense changes wrought upon 
  the world since your removal from it. Everything would 
  seem familiar enough to unsettle your long-atrophied 
  mind, but sinister enough in its difference to plunge 
  you into fear-frenzy or worse.
  Haven: The library of the lost apostate of São 
  Paulo is a wonder, but an incomplete one, and Lady 
  Willoughby’s lack of practical skill with Thaumaturgy 
  makes it a gilded prison. Or it would, if she had any 
  ambition for blood magic. Instead, she haunts its vast 
  shelves like a revenant, bound to it now by the twisted 
  sense of safety she finds in its contemptible familiarity. 
  She has a perfect memory of what books and scrolls 
  reside where, but not their contents. Since the mortal 
  servants who attend the library have slowly begun to 
  die off, she maintains a shrine to their memory in a 
  previously unused alcove of the vault, where she displays 
  their severed heads and occasionally conducts one-
  sided conversations with them, remembered verbatim 
  from the last time they spoke.
  Derangement: With her contact limited and few 
  substantial outlets for conversation, Lady Margaret 
  Willoughby finds herself prone to vicious bouts of 
  hysteria, and it is in these states that she removes the 
  heads from her beloved? — no, that’s not the word — 
  mortal minions when they finally succumb to age 
  and she grieves. In reality, Lady Willoughby obviously 
  suffers some horrific aggravation of something akin to 
  Stockholm syndrome. Under the combination of this, 
  her hysterics, and the unending sameness of dwelling in 
  a candlelit tomb of the written word, she is dangerous 
  and unwholesome company.
  
  46 
  MEIXIU
  
  47 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  The Kindred have long sought to better understand 
  their “cousins” in the Far East, the so-called Cathayans. 
  These inscrutable vampires pose both a threat and an 
  obstacle to the Kindred, some of whom seek to gain 
  a foothold in Asia while others aim to forestall any 
  similar gains by the Cathayans in Western domains. 
  To this end, the Camarilla in particular has sought to 
  create diplomatic ties to its kuei-jin kin, most often by 
  cautiously welcoming certain of the Eastern Kindred 
  to their domains as emissaries of sorts, from whom 
  they can glean information and possibly even cultivate 
  influence in a meaningful way.
  Much less frequently, a Western Kindred will actually 
  travel to China, Japan, or another Cathayan domain 
  to directly engage the local undead, either in some 
  diplomatic capacity or for more personal reasons. Rare 
  is the Kindred who remains in the East for any length 
  of time, however. As vigilant as the Kindred are about 
  outsiders, they are nothing as compared to the watchful 
  Cathayans who are xenophobically protective of their 
  own territories. Even Kindred who are welcomed 
  as guests usually have a deadline by which time they 
  must leave, so as not to “distract” the Eastern vampires. 
  During their stay they often endure the close scrutiny 
  of their hosts and they are strictly forbidden to engage 
  in any behavior that might upset the intricate customs 
  that govern kuei-jin society. This is especially the case 
  with regards to creating ghouls among Asian mortals. 
  However, nothing is so proscribed as the practice of 
  Embracing one of the native kine. The stories that 
  recount the punishments for such a crime are as 
  gruesome as they are instructive. Consequently, few 
  recognized Western Kindred have been sired in the 
  domains of the Cathayans.
  One of these rarities makes her haven in Washington, 
  DC. What is most remarkable is that she is entirely 
  unaware of the uniqueness of her Embrace. Since the 
  night she was stolen from the ranks of the living, she 
  has been wholly convinced that she is unlike the other 
  creatures of the night who prowl the nation’s capital in 
  search of blood. For more than two decades, she has 
  believed that she is one of the Cathayans, one of the 
  Ten Thousand Immortals, and that it is her duty or 
  karma to overthrow those Cathayans who have become 
  possessed by the demons of Diyu, the Chinese Hell. 
  She strives to become powerful enough both personally 
  and through those she can command to topple the 
  Communist Party of China (CPC), which she believes 
  is a tool of these possessed immortals, and thereby 
  unlock the gate of Heaven that will otherwise remain 
  forever closed to her. 
  Meixiu was in her last year of study at the China 
  University of Political Science and Law in Beijing in 
  1989. Her father was a mid-level salary man with an 
  automotive manufacturer, a figure she admired even 
  though he was rarely present, preferring to spend much 
  of his time with a mistress and a bottle rather than 
  at home with his sickly wife and bright child. Meixiu 
  had an unremarkable childhood, though her academic 
  achievements marked her as a girl who would likely have 
  successful future. As she blossomed into womanhood, 
  though, her parents felt that her newfound beauty 
  was a gift that should not be wasted, and they sought 
  to marry her to the nephew of her father’s boss. She 
  refused the arrangement, furious that even her mother 
  would allow her to be used in this way, and looked for 
  a way to avoid this fate.
  Chen Zhaoxing was a professor of Law at CUPL 
  whom Meixiu had known from attending a few 
  university seminars open to the public. She admired 
  his charm even if she did not agree with his political 
  views. Zhaoxing was a strong supporter of Hu Yaobang, 
  the retired former Communist Party General Secretary 
  famous for a lifetime of pro-reform policies that 
  ultimately led to his removal and ill treatment by the 
  regime. Ironically, it was her beauty that won her his 
  MEIXIU
  The Black Dragon Princess
  
  48 
  MEIXIU
  attention, which soon become full patronage. Zhaoxing, 
  smitten by the girl, used his influence to have her 
  admitted to the university. Given the poor economic 
  climate and the lack of prospects for student graduates, 
  her father allowed her the opportunity, sure that when 
  she had finished her studies she would make an even 
  more valuable bride.
  She proved an adequate student, but her studies took 
  a backseat to other, far more pressing matters. Meixiu 
  became embroiled in the increasingly strident student 
  movement that demanded an end to government 
  cronyism and corruption and a solution to the 
  stagnant economy, spurred on by her mentor and lover, 
  Zhaoxing. She joined various student organizations, 
  signed petitions, and carried a demonstration sign at 
  a number of gatherings, caught up in the emotion of 
  the times. 
  When Hu Yaobang died of a heart attack on April 
  15, 1989, Meixui camped on the campus lawn with 
  many thousands of other students eulogizing Hu 
  and demanding that the CPC officially renounce 
  its criticism of his political legacy. She marched with 
  the crowd to Tiananmen Square alongside throngs 
  from Peking University and Tsinghua University 
  and helped lay the impromptu wreath two days later 
  to commemorate Hu’s contributions to reform and 
  liberalization. After being pushed out of the plaza by 
  police, Meixiu and thousands others marched back 
  later that night and drafted a series of demands that 
  required the government to publicly acknowledge the 
  need for reform. 
  What began as a simple protest against the 
  dishonoring of a much-loved liberal politician grew 
  over the next seven weeks to become an international 
  tragedy that forever changed a nation, with the tides 
  of the revolutionary movement changing many times 
  before it was finally snuffed out. The student gatherings 
  announced boycotts and strikes and, enflamed by 
  passion and a feeling that they might be ignored, 
  erupted in open looting and mayhem. The government 
  sought to open dialogue with the students, even if they 
  had no intent to give in to the demands of the youth. 
  A notorious editorial in the April 26th edition of the 
  Communist-controlled People’s Daily newspaper that 
  painted the students as traitors plotting the overthrow 
  of the government pushed the chaos even further. 
  More than 100,000 student protestors responded, 
  joined by factory workers and others who saw them 
  as true patriots, and together they marched through 
  Beijing. Even when the government sought to appease 
  at least some of the protestors’ demands, the situation 
  grew worse. Hunger strikes were staged in Tiananmen 
  Square with the aim of embarrassing the Communist 
  Party leadership on the eve of an historic visit by Soviet 
  leader Mikhail Gorbachev. 
  On May 20th, the Chinese government declared 
  martial law and in the first days of June, the military 
  finally moved in with tanks and soldiers to forcibly 
  clear Tiananmen Square of the tens of thousands of 
  encamped protesters who had made it their home for 
  more than a month. Even after the clearing, terrible 
  violence emerged in the surrounding neighborhoods 
  and thousands on both sides were killed or injured in 
  the battle. When it was over, the world was aghast at 
  the atrocities and responded with heavy condemnation 
  and sanctions. The Communist leadership sought to 
  downplay the events and to distance itself from the 
  worst violence, but mostly they sought to silence or 
  arrest anyone who might dare revive such protests.
  For Meixiu, the seven weeks were personally even 
  more transformative. 
  Some months prior to the Tiananmen Square 
  Massacre, a Malkavian named Colin McAllister had 
  arrived in Beijing from Hong Kong, where he had 
  cultivated a network of influence for over a year as 
  a representative of his sire’s financial interests. In 
  February, he had felt an overpowering urge to visit the 
  Forbidden City in Beijing, convinced that there was 
  something or someone there that he needed to find, 
  though he was unsure of the purpose. Upon arriving, 
  he was brought before a representative of the Imperial 
  City’s Cathayans and was formally welcomed, though 
  he was assigned a chaperone for the duration of his 
  stay. When the protests first broke out in April, Colin’s 
  escort restricted his movements so that Tiananmen 
  Square and the universities were off-limits, ensuring that 
  the Malkavian could not bear personal witness to what 
  had the potential to become a cultural embarrassment.
  But Colin’s curiosity and assurance that he was 
  supposed to be in the Forbidden City persuaded him 
  to ignore the warnings and elude his chaperone’s 
  accompaniment. With violent protests a fortuitous 
  distraction, he was able to slip into the imperial palace 
  and find the thing he was meant to find: a relic of 
  ancient bone carved with inscriptions that had an 
  almost hypnotic power over the delighted Kindred. 
  He absconded with the artifact and fled with the 
  other looters into the night, avoiding capture from his 
  desperate escort by hiding among the students. When 
  he was struck by machine gun fire, the Beast erupted 
  
  49 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  and he lapsed into a frenzy of bloodlust and rage that 
  didn’t end until just before sunrise, when he found the 
  crimson rage finally subsiding.
  In his arms was the beautiful young Meixiu, injured 
  by gunfire herself and easy prey for the rampaging 
  Malkavian amid the nightmarish chaos along the 
  blood-soaked Chang’an Avenue. As some semblance of 
  control returned to him, Colin felt himself overcome 
  by emotions of horror for what he had done, as well 
  as fear of what would happen to him if the Cathayans 
  found him. Without thinking further, he Embraced 
  the girl in the ever-doomed hope of saving her, then 
  he dragged her to safety inside the ruin of a destroyed 
  shop while he found more secure refuge further from 
  the scene of the crime.
  Meixiu awakened to her new existence completely 
  unaware of how it had happened. The only evidence 
  she possessed that linked her to her sire was the artifact 
  he had stolen from the Forbidden City, for he left it to 
  her out of a sense of guilt that possessed him at the last 
  moment before he left her. For more than a month she 
  acclimated to — what was she? A predator? A parasite? 
  — though it took every ounce of cunning, willpower, 
  and spiritual effort to adapt. When finally captured by 
  the Cathayans and dragged before the eldest, Cha’ang-
  Li, Meixiu was first thoroughly questioned about her 
  origins, and then subjected to a series of gruesome 
  interrogations both physical and supernatural. As she 
  was unable to reveal anything, she was proclaimed a 
  by-blow of some laowai interloper and sentenced to 
  destruction. 
  More for political reasons than out of any concern for 
  the terrified Malkavian, that sentence was “mitigated 
  by purchase” and she was delivered instead into the 
  hands of Martino della Passaglia of Clan Giovanni. 
  He was aware that she knew the location of an Oracle 
  Bone, the artifact her sire left with her, and it was of 
  great importance to the necromancer. Once under 
  his protection, he had her retrieve it from its hiding 
  place. No longer interested in her and unwilling to 
  be held responsible for her, especially given the severe 
  mood swings that plagued her and posed a regular 
  threat to the stability of his domain, he sent her to 
  America in 1993 to pay off a debt to Chas Voyager, a 
  powerful Toreador in Washington, DC, with whom he 
  maintained substantial financial dealings.  
  Chas was a member of the Primogen and one 
  of the most influential Harpies in the domain of 
  Washington, DC. He was ecstatic when he received 
  his “gift” from della Passaglia, especially because he 
  
  50 
  MEIXIU
  could not determine Meixiu’s true nature. What little 
  the young creature knew of her own kind only made it 
  harder to discern any truth, for she had filled many of 
  the tremendous gaps in her Kindred origin with her 
  own fanciful and rather egocentric explanations for 
  her condition, something her Giovanni ward had not 
  discouraged. Her answers to the many questions posed 
  by the Kindred of the domain made her a favorite 
  among the well-heeled Damned, even if she was viewed 
  far more as a divertissement than a peer.
  As it always does, Elysium’s fascination with Meixiu 
  waned, and just as quickly, so did the Toreador 
  Primogen’s. She was formally released and Prince 
  Marcus Vitel even recognized her small domain near 
  the George Washington University campus in the hope 
  that one night he might find some use for her. Given 
  the demographics of the city, he hoped it might even 
  lead to some arrangement with an influential Cathayan 
  diplomat.
  Once released, Meixiu constructed a personal 
  cosmology that explained her condition to her, based 
  on the legend she had already patched together in her 
  deranged mind. First and foremost, she was sure that 
  she was not one of the Western Kindred, especially one 
  of the ruinous Malkavians. No, she was a Cathayan, at 
  least as she imagined them to be, and she was not just 
  any Cathayan, either. She began to identify herself as 
  Hēi Lóng Gōngzhǔ or the Black Dragon Princess, a title 
  to which she aspired based on her fractured memories 
  of Chinese legend. She believed it was her destiny to 
  one day defeat the “Demon Princes,” those Cathayans 
  who currently ruled her homeland and were possessed 
  by demons from the most foul realm of Diyu. 
  She understood her vampiric state, and that of all 
  other Cathayans, to be a just suffering for failings of 
  morality while alive. Only by repaying karma could 
  she return to her original form, and to do this should 
  would have to become a paragon of ascetic morality. 
  However, her own salvation would have to wait until 
  she first destroyed the Demon Princes, for only as one 
  of the Ten Thousand Immortals would she have a 
  chance at defeating such mighty enemies. And to do 
  this she would first need to greatly increase her own 
  power.
  Meixiu’s misdirected research had led her to conclude 
  that the way she was going to do this was by obtaining 
  the Bái Zé Tu, a legendary grimoire authored by none 
  other than the god-like Yellow Emperor that contained 
  the secrets of all 11,520 types of supernatural creatures. 
  With this tome in her hands she would know her foes’ 
  every strength and weakness, and with that wisdom 
  would be unstoppable. Of course, she would first have 
  to find this sacred scroll, but again she was sure that she 
  had discovered the means to accomplish this task, too.
  The Oracle Bone that her sire had left her and that 
  had been confiscated by the Giovanni was not the only 
  one of its kind, she learned. While very rare, a number 
  of similar artifacts had been discovered by archaeologists 
  over the years. Experts claim that the script on these 
  desiccated bones and tortoise shells is the oldest record 
  of the language spoken during the Shang Dynasty. Her 
  studies had led her to the conviction that the location 
  of the Bái Zé Tu was recorded on one or more of the 
  Oracle Bones. Therefore, she turned her attentions 
  to obtaining and deciphering as many of them as she 
  could until she unlocked the hidden resting place of 
  the eldritch Bái Zé Tu.
  In a relatively short time, the Black Dragon Princess 
  has gained a notable degree of influence in her adopted 
  city, most of which she uses to directly aid her in 
  acquiring more Oracle Bones and deciphering them. 
  As might be expected, she first sought the support of 
  the local Chinese community, primarily cajoling the 
  aid of students and others who would believe her to be 
  a peer. A number of the Tiananmen Square protesters 
  managed to escape China in the aftermath of the 
  uprising, and more than a handful found their way to 
  the Washington, DC area, and to its universities. The 
  GW campus boasted some of these and Meixiu queried 
  them first to aid her quest. She also extended her 
  influence beyond the student population and into the 
  larger Chinese community, even into the diplomatic 
  corps, using her attractive physicality as well as her 
  supernatural gifts to convert Communists to her way 
  of thinking. 
  Her greatest asset came from her involvement in 
  the growing Falun Gong movement that had been 
  founded by Li Hongzhi in Changchun in 1992. This 
  physical, moral, and spiritual teaching has its roots in 
  qigong and became popular in the mid-1990s, but has 
  been increasingly viewed by the Chinese Communist 
  Party as a threat to society and government. A harsh 
  campaign to paint the Falun Gong as a heresy aimed at 
  taking down the government paved the way for massive 
  protests in 1999 that were nearly as impressive as those 
  that had ended with the Tiananmen Square massacre. 
  With Li Hongzhi in New York, the protests crushed, 
  and many of those involved jailed or worse, the activist 
  wing of the movement relocated outside China. 
  
  51 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Meixiu helps the Falun Gong in Washington, 
  DC by funneling resources to the movement’s local 
  organization, the Falun Dafa Association. A select group 
  of members belong to the Tears of the Black Dragon, 
  a ghoul cult created by Meixiu whose fundamental 
  purpose is to serve as her herd. Its members believe 
  that she is indeed the Black Dragon Princess and, 
  while not granted complete understanding of her 
  nature or purposes, they have been conditioned with 
  enough of her delusion to both motivate them and 
  make them useful tools. Every day this group and the 
  larger organization have their agents on the National 
  Mall and in front of the White House handing out 
  pamphlets and staging small rallies in the hope of 
  ultimately winning American support for their cause, 
  even while some among them seek more vessels to sate 
  the unending hunger of the Black Dragon Princess.
  Cha’ang-Li and his Blood Court paid no heed to the 
  rumors of one of their kind in the United States capital 
  at first. However, in the past decade they have learned 
  more that has convinced them that some vampire in 
  Washington, DC actively supports the Falun Gong and 
  thus must be working against their broader interests. 
  They have heard the name Hēi Lóng Gōngzhu and, 
  while they can’t definitively determine whether this 
  is someone they should fear or not, they are worried. 
  Their greatest fear is the influence this Black Dragon 
  Princess might have over their minions in Washington 
  and elsewhere in the West. To uncover the truth, they 
  have sent mortal agents to infiltrate Washington’s 
  Chinese community in search of information about 
  the mysterious vampire. The Blood Court has made 
  a particular effort to investigate the Falun Gong and 
  its various associated organizations, including the DC 
  office of the movement’s official western newspaper, 
  the New York-based The Epoch Times. Very recently 
  the Quincunx has sent its own kind to investigate, 
  concerned that so far they have made no real progress, 
  especially in an age when censorship has become more 
  and more difficult.
  Some of the Kindred of DC regard Meixiu with 
  continued interest, though most, by and large, do not 
  view her as a particular threat. While her status as a 
  curiosity is long gone, she still commands a degree of 
  admiration and respect due to her mysterious identity, 
  especially among the domain’s political outsiders. 
  A few of the city’s Kindred have attempted to call 
  her out regarding her origins, with one remarkable 
  performance by a trio of Malkavians a few years back 
  quite literally naming her sire and the circumstances 
  of her Embrace, but the nature of the demonstration 
  as well as the reputation of the participants achieved 
  nothing more substantial than making the matter seem 
  all the more incomprehensible. 
  Tonight, Meixiu appears in Elysium less frequently, 
  in particular because she has become aware that there 
  seem to be Cathayan forces moving against her and her 
  interests. By taking her search for the Oracle Bones 
  further and further beyond the traditional boundaries 
  of the DC domain, she hopes that she can build real 
  alliances with other domains’ Kindred and thus call 
  upon more allies to protect her from such threats 
  should they become serious. However, her bipolar 
  condition makes these inter-domain forays difficult 
  and more than once they have actually hampered her 
  goals, worrying Princes and Bishops of her stability and 
  further suggesting to some that whatever she’s actually 
  up to might rouse the ire of some mysterious nemesis. 
  Still, her personal network of contacts extends much 
  further than her Kindred or Cathayan adversaries 
  understand, including a Tremere nexus in New Orleans 
  named Éléonore Labonte, whose expertise she enlists 
  in matters of supernatural esoterica.
  To her credit, Meixiu feels she is making real progress 
  with the Oracle Bones. She keeps five of these artifacts 
  in a special chamber in her DC haven and has another 
  two within her sights. One currently occupies a public 
  museum and another belongs to the private collection 
  of a famed mortal plutocrat. Her attempts to translate 
  the millennia-old engravings, however, have been less 
  than triumphant. Three times she paid heavily for 
  consultations with dubious “experts” whom she believed 
  would uncover her prize based on her translator’s best 
  work, and four times she failed to locate the mythical 
  Bái Zé Tu. These failures do not deter her, however. On 
  the contrary, with each passing night Meixiu’s delusions 
  grow stronger and she is further empowered to follow 
  her destiny as the Black Dragon Princess, scion of the 
  Yellow Emperor.
  Sire: Colin McAllister
  Clan: Malkavian
  Nature: Fanatic
  Demeanor: Enigma
  Generation: 10th
  Embrace: 1989
  Apparent Age: Early 20s
  Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 3
  Social: Charisma 4, Manipulation 3, Appearance 5
  
  52 
  MEIXIU
  she is taller than she is. When among the Kindred she 
  often affects the distasteful stereotype of the mysterious 
  Asian vampire, with long, patterned-silk garments and 
  elaborately styled hair.
  Roleplaying Hints: As the Black Dragon Princess, 
  you uphold a special code of honor that values truth, 
  justice, and strict morality above all else. At the same 
  time, you will stop at almost nothing to obtain the 
  things you need to fulfill your destiny. You play up your 
  mysterious nature and undying youthful beauty to gain 
  what influence you can, but you wield them as weapons 
  whenever prudent. The Kindred are beneath you, but 
  you will suffer them until the time is right for you to 
  show your true nature to them and your true foes.
  Haven: Meixiu’s haven is a four-story townhouse 
  in the heart of Foggy Bottom, near the campus of 
  the George Washington University. The interior is 
  decorated like a small, private museum, with vases, 
  artifacts, artwork, and furnishings throughout, some of 
  which are replicas. The top floor is her private chamber 
  and contains a walk-in closet that she has fortified so as 
  to protect her most valuable possessions, including her 
  Oracle Bones.
  Influence: Meixiu has done quite well with her Falun 
  Gong and student minions. She continues to make 
  inroads with Chinese diplomats, too; usually via their 
  offspring, who are eager to believe the tales of the Black 
  Dragon Princess. Meixiu knows that her time in DC 
  is probably limited, however, and she seeks to “beat 
  the Kindred at their own game,” building a balance of 
  prestation favors and extending promises she hasn’t yet 
  decided if she’ll honor.
  Mental: Perception 4, Intelligence 3, Wits 2
  Talents: Awareness 1, Intimidation 2, Subterfuge 3
  Skills: Etiquette 1, Stealth 3
  Knowledges: Academics 2, Computer 1, Law 1, 
  Occult 2, Politics 2, Expert Knowledge (Chinese 
  Mythology) 4
  Disciplines: Auspex 3, Dementation 4, Obfuscate 3
  Necromantic Rituals: Insight, Knowing Stone. 
  Meixiu has no formal knowledge of the Discipline of 
  Necromancy, having gleaned what little she knows 
  from furtive observation of her della Passaglia “patron.” 
  Her difficulty for these rituals is always 10 and requires 
  the expenditure of a Willpower point to have any 
  chance of working. Still, something occasionally gives her 
  necromantic feedback, despite her not understanding 
  the principles of the Black Art….
  Backgrounds: Contacts 4, Domain 3, Fame 1, Herd 3, 
  Resources 3, Retainers 1, Status 1
  Derangements: Bipolar Disorder (Clan Weakness), 
  Delusions 
  Virtues: Conscience 5, Self-Control 3, Courage 2
  Morality: Humanity 6
  Willpower: 5
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 13/1
  Image: Meixiu appears as a pretty Chinese graduate 
  student and typically dresses in a fashion that suits the 
  assumption. She usually keeps her black hair in a long 
  ponytail and wears glasses to give additional weight to 
  her words. She is of medium height, but high heels 
  and her commanding bearing give the impression that 
  
  53 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  
  54 
  EDGARDO ROBBIA
  It all started with a Sicilian fisherman who decided 
  he was sick of being Austrian.
  Sicily had been ruled by various empires for hundreds 
  of years. Prior to 1713, the Spanish Empire controlled 
  it, but the Treaty of Utrecht ceded Sicily to the House 
  of Savoy, and under Savoy rule, Edgardo Robbia was 
  born, the older of two brothers. Edgardo’s father was 
  a fisherman, fiercely proud of his Sicilian heritage. 
  In 1720, Edgardo had returned to the wharf with his 
  father, helping him tie up their fishing boat, when a 
  neighbor rushed to them the news: Sicily had been 
  traded to Emperor Charles VI of the Austrian Dynasty. 
  They were all now Austrian.
  Edgardo’s father was furious. He made snide 
  comments about being a “true Sicilian” and charged 
  higher prices to traders and merchants from Austria. 
  When Edgardo was 14, his father finally snapped, 
  striking an Austrian man who tried to pay him a few 
  tari less than the agreed-upon price. The man fell and 
  cracked his head on a nearby stone, dying instantly — 
  and the terrified fisherman ran.
  Edgardo never saw his father again. Now he had to 
  provide for the family.
  Over the years Edgardo grew more and more bitter. 
  He frequently spat venom about his father being a 
  coward and leaving his family to fend for themselves. 
  He got into fights with anyone who held any kind of 
  nationalist stance, each time unaware of the irony. His 
  mother and younger brother suffered the sharp edge 
  of his tongue and, increasingly, the back of his hand. 
  They became afraid of Edgardo, all while he claimed to 
  be protecting them. 
  Events took a turn for the worse in 1734, when Sicily 
  was conquered again by Charles III of Spain. The 
  Bourbon king rode to Naples to claim his prize, but 
  Austrians trapped there still tried to fight his forces. 
  Edgardo’s brother had been fishing near the islands 
  off the coast of Sicily when he noticed the Duke of 
  Montemar’s forces approaching the island where he 
  had tied his lines. He tried to get away, but the fishing 
  boat was stuck where he had tethered it, and it was 
  too valuable to simply leave behind. The Austrians 
  stationed there engaged Montemar’s forces, and 
  Edgardo’s brother was killed in the crossfire. Edgardo’s 
  mother became inconsolable, and took her own life a 
  few days later, throwing herself from a cliff.
  Edgardo had finally had enough. He spoke out 
  against both Austria and Spain, demanding that Sicily 
  be truly free from any foreign power. One night in 1736, 
  he had been shouting in the local square after a long 
  evening of drinking, cursing and slandering Charles 
  III at the top of his lungs. A couple of men from the 
  Bourbon army, tired of listening to the insults to their 
  king, dragged him into a dark alley. One stood watch 
  while the other drew his sword and held it to Edgardo’s 
  throat. Edgardo simply spat in his face, defiant in the 
  face of his own murder.
  The lookout screamed. Edgardo’s assailant turned to 
  see a well-dressed woman with chestnut hair standing 
  over him. A scarf, unseasonably warm for the time of 
  year, had slipped from her face, revealing a twisted jaw 
  and jagged scars on the lower half of her face — and 
  her fangs. Edgardo stared in awe as his attacker died, 
  taken down by the inhuman speed and strength of the 
  scarred woman. Their blood pooled at his feet as she 
  offered her hand to help him up. “I am Katherine,” 
  she said in a strange accent, “and I know what it is like 
  to be powerless.” She gave him a chance to seize power 
  and the time to make real change in the world, and he 
  accepted. That night, Edgardo died.
  Over the next few nights, the scarred woman taught 
  Edgardo about vampires, Clan Brujah, and ancient 
  Carthage. She had been watching Edgardo’s passionate 
  dismissals of conquering empires, even in the face of 
  immediate prosperity, and it appealed to her inherent 
  hatred of the nobility.
  EDGARDO ROBBIA
  “The Robber”
  
  55 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  As she trained and educated Edgardo, however, she 
  realized that what she thought was a political hatred 
  of those in power was actually a deep-seated personal 
  rage. She thought she saw a man who was wise, but in 
  reality he was simply angry at himself and his father, 
  and his Brujah blood didn’t help. Over the years their 
  relationship became more and more troubled, and by 
  the start of the 19th century, she released him from her 
  patronage and they went their separate ways.
  For years Edgardo tried to stay out of politics, both 
  mortal and Kindred. He saw where it all led, and he 
  was just as sick of Ventrue pomposity as he was of 
  mortal nobility, so he kept his head low and did odd 
  jobs as a mercenary for mortals and Kindred alike. By 
  the 1830s, however, he had started paying more and 
  more attention to the “Young Italy” movement led 
  by Giuseppe Mazzini. The group advocated for the 
  liberation and unification of all of Italy. A flame that 
  had guttered in his breast for nearly a century leapt 
  back to life. He tried to convince himself that getting 
  involved with the Young Italy movement was just an 
  easy source of blood, a chance to build a herd of his 
  own, but he found himself more and more enthralled 
  with the promise of not being owned by an outside 
  empire. For the first time in his existence, he could 
  properly be Italian.
  He acted as a quiet supporter of the movement, 
  nudging things here and there. He heard about 
  Giuseppe Garibaldi, who was banished from Italy for 
  a failed attempt to overthrow the current government, 
  and kept tabs of his activities in South America. 
  Garibaldi wore the red shirt of the gauchos of South 
  America, and his flair for the dramatic appealed to the 
  Italian rebels, and to Edgardo. By 1848, rebellions had 
  broken out all over Italy, and Garibaldi returned to his 
  home to fight.
  Edgardo, by now a veteran backer of anti-royalist 
  rebellion, arranged to meet with Garibaldi. He told 
  himself that he wanted to Embrace Garibaldi, to crush 
  his idealism like his own had been crushed, to show 
  the mortal leader that all of his struggle and ferocity 
  would wither and die under the weight of empire. 
  Instead, Edgardo found an honest, passionate man 
  who firmly believed that socialism would help the 
  wounded kingdoms of his home. He was not bitter and 
  angry like Edgardo, but sincere and devoted. Edgardo 
  realized that Garibaldi was the kind of man Katherine 
  thought he had been, and he was ashamed. Instead 
  of Embracing him, Edgardo donned a red shirt and 
  fought alongside Garibaldi for years, taking up arms 
  under cover of night to help bring about the unity and 
  independence of Italy. 
  Over the years, however, Garibaldi’s socialist ideals 
  evolved into fascist ones. He went so far as to declare 
  himself dictator when he took Naples in 1860. Edgardo 
  saw this change and lost his fervor. His initial instincts 
  were right — all passionate ideals ultimately became 
  enslaved by empires in one way or another. By the time 
  Italy was finally unified, Edgardo didn’t care anymore.
  The Great War came, and Edgardo courted faction 
  after faction, focusing on how he could profit from each 
  ideology or battle. He refined his nationalist speeches, 
  parroting their hollow words to convince each faction 
  that he firmly believed they were right before draining 
  them of money and supplies, then moving on. He sold 
  experience, tactical knowledge, intelligence, arms — 
  whatever rebels wanted. He became known as Robbia 
  the Robber, a mysterious highwayman among the 
  enlisted men fighting all over Europe.
  After the war was over, Edgardo didn’t want 
  his business to end. He attached himself to some 
  peacetime militant organizations and molded them 
  into factions that he could bleed dry. Eventually, he 
  returned to his native Italy and fell in with Mussolini’s 
  Fascist movement. By then, Mussolini was forming a 
  militia arm, which he called the Voluntary Militia for 
  National Security. Edgardo admired that they wore 
  black shirts, encouraging the same kind of solidarity 
  and showmanship that Garibaldi’s red shirts did. The 
  Blackshirts quickly became notorious, and the symbol 
  of the shirts spread to other rebel groups in Britain and 
  India. Edgardo was able to milk the organization for 
  blood and money for years. 
  He spread his influence further, encouraging the 
  Blueshirts of Ireland and the Brownshirts in Germany. 
  None of the factions were aligned, or even entirely 
  aware of each other, which suited Edgardo just fine as 
  he latched on to each fascist or anarchist group and set 
  them up with weapons and resources before beginning 
  to leech from them. By the time World War II erupted, 
  he was able to smoothly transition back to the wartime 
  profiteering that worked so well for him.
  After World War II, global culture didn’t have much 
  call for visible fascist groups anymore. He tried to retire, 
  to take what he’d used his blood, sweat, and tears to 
  steal and start building something of his own. As the 
  years wound on, however, he found that he couldn’t 
  settle down.
  Of late, underground terrorism seems to be the big 
  new thing for war profiteering, but Edgardo finds he’s 
  
  56 
  EDGARDO ROBBIA
  only interested in groups with revolutionary ideals. 
  He became heavily involved with the Baader-Meinhof 
  Group in the 1970s. Although he told himself that he 
  was just making another profit, bleeding another group 
  dry, he knew had been lying to himself. He doesn’t 
  need the money anymore, but there’s a little voice in 
  the back of his head or deep within his blood that keeps 
  telling him that he should support just one more cause, 
  poison just one more government. Through much of 
  the late 20th century, he went from terrorist group to 
  terrorist group in Europe, each one more radical than 
  the last, though he always pursued nationalist causes 
  instead of religious ones.
  On September 11, 2001, it became very unprofitable 
  to be known as someone who sells weapons to terrorists. 
  Edgardo quickly divested himself of his assets, killed 
  off a few key contacts, and broke his ties with Europe. 
  He decided to move to New York, where he ended 
  up meeting his sire again, now going by the name 
  Katherine Wiese. She pointed out to Edgardo that the 
  war between the Camarilla and the Sabbat was heating 
  up, and tensions with the Anarchs were getting tense as 
  well. It was time to pick a side, to choose a cause.
  Edgardo carefully spoke with vampires in each sect, 
  and in the independent clans. He found the Camarilla 
  to be too much like the nobles he hated when he 
  was a mortal. The Sabbat were too like the terrorist 
  organizations he avoided; radical religion isn’t good 
  for business. The Anarchs were too weak for him, in 
  that they weren’t willing to make their cause militant 
  enough, and many of their concessions looked an 
  awful lot like the same kinds of imperial bullshit the 
  Camarilla encouraged. Each group, though, pressured 
  him into joining, into picking a side when Gehenna 
  came or the war got huge.
  Edgardo has decided to do what he does best: take 
  what he can from all of them, and hope that he doesn’t 
  find himself once again drawn to one of their ideologies 
  against his better judgment.
  Sire: Katherine Wiese
  Clan: Brujah 
  Nature: Fanatic 
  Demeanor: Capitalist 
  Generation: 8th 
  Embrace: 1736 
  Apparent Age: Early 20s 
  Physical: Strength 3, Dexterity 3, Stamina 5 (Stand 
  Back Up) 
  Social: Charisma 2, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2 
  Mental: Perception 3, Intelligence 2, Wits 4 
  Talents: Alertness 3, Brawl 2, Intimidation 2, 
  Streetwise 5, Subterfuge (Blending In) 4 
  Skills: Drive 1, Etiquette (Militant Groups) 4, 
  Firearms 4, Larceny 2, Melee 1, Survival 2 
  Knowledges: Academics 1, Computer 2, Finance 
  (Laundering) 4, Law 2, Politics (Militant Groups) 4 
  Disciplines: Auspex 2, Celerity 3, Dominate 2, 
  Potence 3, Presence 5 
  Backgrounds: Alternate Identity (Edwin Rodgers) 4, 
  Contacts 5, Resources 4, Retainers (bodyguards) 2 
  Virtues: Conscience 2, Self-Control 2, Courage 4 
  Morality: Humanity 4 
  Willpower: 6 
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 15/3
  Image: Edgardo is a short, swarthy man. His fingers 
  are slender but his knuckles are callused from fighting 
  and his palms are scarred from countless hours holding 
  and struggling with fishing poles. He has short, dark 
  hair, cut in a simple style that allows him to comb or gel 
  it into a variety of looks as needed. He speaks in heavily 
  accented English, partially because he hasn’t had much 
  practice with English as he has had with the Romance 
  languages, and partially because he has realized that 
  playing the foreigner in the United States works to his 
  advantage, even among Kindred. He works to keep his 
  facial expressions blandly appealing, but his dark eyes 
  often blaze with intensity.
  When he’s not actively infiltrating a group, he dresses 
  in dark button-down shirts and slacks. He is careful to 
  choose clothes that look tasteful but not elaborately 
  expensive. He tries to cultivate a look of casual 
  professionalism, something that looks good anywhere 
  from an expensive hotel lobby to a raucous nightclub. 
  His one weakness is boats: He will often splurge on 
  the latest and more technologically advanced pleasure 
  crafts he can afford, and uses any opportunity he can 
  to show them off.
  Once he’s chosen a group to “support,” however, 
  he changes. He slowly changes his looks to match the 
  ideals of the group with which he’s aligned himself. He 
  uses idioms and catchphrases that his targets identify 
  with, and he consciously mirrors their body language. 
  He carefully disagrees with just enough that he can 
  be “convinced,” but not so much that he’s not worth 
  trying to convert. A little application of Presence and 
  Dominate usually helps complete his integration into 
  
  57 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  the group. He’s still recognizably Edgardo, but his new 
  comrades feel like he’s a passionate believer in their 
  cause.
  Roleplaying Hints: Edgardo is a master at lying to 
  himself. He has managed to convince himself over the 
  centuries that he isn’t like other Brujah. He views both 
  the idealists and iconoclasts of his clan as gullible, all 
  while involving himself in the latest nationalist cause.
  Before infiltrating a group, he tries to present himself 
  as calm and collected. His Brujah nature often gets the 
  best of him, though, and he sometimes becomes irascible 
  during tense discussions. He continually chides himself 
  for his angry outbursts, not realizing completely that 
  these passionate displays often encourage the kinds of 
  people he’s trying to infiltrate. Once he’s involved, the 
  self-deception goes the other way: He tells himself that 
  he’s pretending to be heavily invested in a cause, but 
  the reason why he’s so good about faking fanaticism is 
  that a part of him isn’t faking it. Dangerous militants 
  are good at detecting infiltrators, and it’s that small 
  spark of sincerity that gets him by, more than all the 
  carefully constructed lies and vampiric Disciplines.
  As a result, Edgardo is a spontaneous manipulator who 
  has convinced himself that he’s actually a mastermind. 
  When things go his way, he’s able to look back and put 
  together the pieces in his head to make it look like he 
  planned it that way, when in reality he’s often going on 
  instinct and passion. This is all relative, however. What 
  another elder like Edgardo would consider to be a plan 
  put together on the fly could still involve months of 
  planning and preparation from a neonate’s perspective. 
  That said, despite his age and savvy, Edgardo is still 
  relatively new to the deep end of the Jyhad.
  Once in a while, when Edgardo is depressed, has had 
  a bad turn, or just needs to get away for a while, he takes 
  one of his boats out and goes night fishing. He hardly 
  ever keeps his catches, but he finds the calm of the act 
  soothing. If a prospective client or fellow Kindred ever 
  gets on the subject of fishing, Edgardo becomes quite 
  passionate on the topic, discussing the latest techniques 
  and technological innovations of the sport at length.
  Haven: Edgardo is maintains his primary haven and 
  business operations in New York. However, he has a 
  few secondary havens in key North American cities, as 
  he travels among them conducting business between 
  various mortal and Kindred factions. He also has a few 
  converted pleasure boats all around the United States 
  that can act as emergency havens in a pinch. All of 
  his havens are purchased and owned through his false 
  identity, Edwin Rodgers.
  Each of his havens is designed to be comfortable but 
  not opulent. He doesn’t make money just to spend it 
  on his own vices (fishing notwithstanding). Instead, 
  he invests in haven security: weapons, reinforced 
  window shutters, fire suppression systems, and mortal 
  bodyguards. As a man who regularly deals with fanatics, 
  he understands how important it is to protect himself.
  Influence: Edgardo’s influence is difficult for many 
  vampires to understand. From a Kindred perspective, 
  Edgardo is a study in contrasts. He is too fast-paced to 
  be an elder, too detached from politics to be an ancilla, 
  and too contemplative to be a neonate. He hasn’t chosen 
  any sect to fully support, but he is actively involved in 
  Kindred politics, unlike most Autarkis. And yet, he’s 
  more than just a simple mercenary or arms dealer. He is 
  keenly aware of the modern mortal political landscape, 
  but he is stuck in a nationalist mindset while the world 
  evolves into a global one. He claims to be above causes, 
  but knows the latest updates on the Occupy Wall Street 
  movement, for example. Edgardo, quite simply, doesn’t 
  easily fit into many Kindred’s cultural categories.
  Despite his relative lack of impact in the Jyhad, 
  Edgardo is not an unknown Kindred. He has done 
  business with a number of other the Damned in 
  Europe, and some of the Kindred he works with now 
  in North America are other European expatriates who 
  have made the jump to the New World. However, he 
  hasn’t used his sire as a political connection. He’s 
  kept his relationship with Katherine quiet, and for the 
  moment it appears she’s willing to do the same. The 
  relationship between the two is cool at best, and all that 
  many outsiders can discern is that they are two Brujah 
  elders who occasionally have common interests. 
  
  58 
  DASTUR ANOSH
  
  59 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  The origin of the martyred Dastur Anosh is a subject 
  of interest to the fanatics of the Sabbat’s Black Hand. 
  His contribution was archetypal within the Hand: the 
  Cainite so important to the assassin cult that when he 
  suffered the Final Death the order felt it necessary to 
  encode his duties into the identity of the Hand as the 
  title of Seraph. Sabbat historians solemnly note that the 
  Black Hand appoints four Cainites to the Seraph’s title, 
  a recognition of Anosh’s importance.
  Life and Embrace
  The Black Hand’s apocrypha claims Anosh was born 
  in ancient Persia, of humble origins. He only ever 
  spoke to his followers of his time in the company of the 
  Golden One, the wise man clad in white that history 
  would later know as Zarathustra. Some modern Sabbat 
  historians doubt the veracity of this tale, but most of 
  the Black Hand accept it as practically an article of faith 
  in their cultic history. 
  While there, Anosh was one among many of the magi 
  who gathered around the Golden One. Although he was 
  not so learned as some of the astrologers and magicians 
  there, he was born with visions. The noble and learned 
  magi paid little heed to his strange dreams, but a scribe 
  and scholar who frequented their gatherings showed 
  interest, asking the young man about his visions and 
  what he thought they meant.
  The two struck up an abiding friendship. Every 
  dream the young man had, the older scribe recorded, 
  and they often passed the hours of the night discussing 
  their meanings. When Anosh spoke of seeing a strange 
  stone that wept blood, and the sounds of a woman 
  sobbing on the desert winds of the night, the scribe 
  grew very interested. He diligently recorded all of the 
  young seer’s recollections of the stone. Again and again 
  the young man dreamt of the weeping stone, each time 
  with greater and greater clarity and recollection.
  Eventually, at the scholar’s urging, the two departed 
  the company of Zarathustra’s faithful. At first, Anosh 
  assumed they were simply wandering, but an off-hand 
  remark of the scholar’s brought understanding: They 
  sought the stone. Afraid but excited, he searched with 
  the scribe for more than a year. The closer they came 
  to finding it, the more intense his dreams became. 
  They traveled during the night, sleeping during the day 
  according to the needs of the scholar, which Anosh did 
  not understand, though he did not comment on them 
  in any way.
  Finally, the pilgrims found the stone, in a strange, 
  desolate valley with iron-reddened sands that looked like a 
  field of blood under the wan desert moon. The stone itself 
  was tall, lushly curved, and planted deep in the earth. The 
  coppery smell of blood wafted from it on the wind and the 
  scholar trembled as they neared it. A thin trickle of liquid 
  coursed slowly down the stone’s surface, its path over the 
  centuries having worn a rivulet in the basalt.
  The scholar licked the stone, tasting of the blood 
  before Anosh knew what he was doing. When the 
  scholar turned to regard him once more, his face was 
  bestial, all fangs and rage and grief. The Cainite scholar 
  fell on him in frenzy, and killed the young seer. As 
  dawn neared, however, he raised the young man in the 
  Embrace and brought him across the threshold into 
  damnation.
  Flight from Alamut
  They fled, then, bound for the secret citadel of Alamut, 
  his sire’s home. In that journey, Anosh found that his 
  dreams had left him. Instead, the scholar woke from his 
  daily slumber shrieking of his terrifying dreams. The 
  two agreed that somehow he’d drunk the boy’s visions 
  along with his blood; his sire insisted that the “blood of 
  Zillah” had something to do with it. He would answer 
  no further questions, however, until they arrived.
  DASTUR ANOSH
  The Seraph Dying and Reborn
  
  60 
  DASTUR ANOSH
  At the citadel of the Eagle’s Nest, Anosh found a 
  cold welcome. Sequestered in a black cell deep within 
  the fortress, Anosh lost all track of time. Those who 
  brought him his draughts of blood intimated that is 
  master sinned in Embracing him, and that he must 
  answer for those sins.
  Finally, they called for Anosh, and he came to them. 
  He answered their questions truthfully, fearful for his 
  existence. In the end, they granted him their leave to 
  exist, but made it very clear that it was by his sire’s 
  virtue, not his own. He and his master left quickly.
  As they traveled, Anosh’s sire wept his own tears of 
  blood, and often woke from his daily slumber with 
  screams. Eventually, Anosh discovered that his master 
  was dreaming, experiencing visions of the destruction 
  of Enoch, Irad, and Zillah. As they traveled at night, his 
  master spoke with hatred of the Third Generation and 
  their terrible sins.
  When Dastur asked why they did not travel directly 
  to the Stone, his master smiled and replied that it 
  was because they were being followed. The Kindred 
  of Alamut desired the knowledge of where the Stone 
  might lie, and he refused to tell them. In the hours 
  before they returned to slumber, and in the hours after 
  they woke at night, Anosh’s sire trained him in the arts 
  of battle, the use of his Blood and the legacy not only of 
  the progeny of Haqim, but of Khayyin and the Second 
  Generation.
  They traveled away from the lands controlled by 
  Alamut, until the night when the three dark-skinned 
  Kindred appeared at the edge of their encampment 
  as the sun set in the west. These three emissaries of 
  Alamut ordered them to return to the Eagle’s Nest, but 
  Anosh’s master refused. The only reply the emissaries 
  gave were drawn blades, and Anosh hid. The battle was 
  hideous, the kind of carnage that only Kindred of many 
  years can unleash, but in the end only Anosh’s master 
  stood.
  Anosh and his sire traveled into Africa where they 
  met many strange Kindred. There Anosh’s master was 
  called the Weeping Master for his oft-bloodied eyes and 
  his terrible power. The African Kindred soon learned 
  to leave the ebon-skinned scholar and his apprentice in 
  peace as they traveled. 
  As time passed, however, Anosh couldn’t help but 
  notice his master’s degeneration. He often spent entire 
  evenings in thrall to his visions, weeping uncontrollably. 
  The Weeping Master forgot his name entirely, and 
  nearly slew his childe when Anosh called him by it. 
  He was falling into his visions and finding it harder 
  and harder to find a way back out. More than once, he 
  emerged from his trances in a frenzy, and Embraced no 
  few of his victims afterward, forcing Anosh to take his 
  new siblings under his wing. 
  The Lost Tribe
  Although he considered it, Anosh knew better than 
  to risk a trip to Alamut again to introduce them to the 
  rest of the clan. In one of his rare moments of lucidity, 
  the Weeping Master sorrowfully referred to himself and 
  his childer as the “Lost Tribe of Alamut,” never daring 
  to risk returning to that vaunted citadel. 
  In time, the small company returned to the site of 
  the Weeping Stone. Anosh was the last of the Master’s 
  childer to taste the blood of the Stone. The others tasted 
  the strangeness in the bloody trickle and experienced 
  odd dreams, but Anosh fell into his own blood-dream 
  trance, wracked by visions for the first time since being 
  mortal, dreaming the horror and bitterness and grief of 
  Zillah’s psychodrama.
  He emerged from these visions a changed man. 
  Where his Master’s gibbering and glossolalia once only 
  terrified him, he understood more of what he said. 
  He saw his Master’s burden not as madness, but a gift 
  from the First. He took to recording the ravings of the 
  Weeping Master and organizing them into something 
  of a cogent whole.
  Over the next few centuries, the Lost Tribe grew and 
  attracted a small handful of others. As time passed, the 
  Tribe assumed a cultic reverence, with the Weeping 
  Master as their prophet and Anosh as his high priest 
  and interpreter. They built a haven near the Weeping 
  Stone, and members of the Lost Tribe guarded the site 
  from others.
  The years turned him introspective, and Anosh found 
  himself sympathetic to a body of principles similar to 
  the Path of Blood that his master tried unsuccessfully 
  to teach him. Taking the canon of that Path and 
  combining it with the tenets of the beliefs they were 
  developing, Anosh developed one of the first portions 
  of what would later come to be known in the Sabbat 
  as the Path of Caine. Even tonight, Noddists the world 
  over hold Anosh to be one of the founders of that Path.
  All such things come to an end, however, and in time 
  the Lost Tribe discovered that the agents of Alamut 
  sought them once more. They fled the site of the 
  Weeping Stone, hoping to protect its location through 
  obscurity and diversion. 
  
  61 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  The Lost Tribe established a hold in the bustling 
  young metropolis of Alexandria. The resources of the 
  city proved useful in the development of the Tribe’s 
  strange philosophy. They sought evidence of the Third 
  Generation, first as proof of their existence, and then 
  with a fanatic’s zeal and desire to destroy them. Anosh 
  counseled slow progress in such things — the sheer 
  power of the Antediluvians was inspiration toward 
  diligent planning and study.
  It was here that the Lost Tribe found fragments of 
  the Book of Nod. Its words further galvanized their 
  philosophy and spurred their research. But even before 
  they were able to formulate any plans for discovering 
  and destroying any of the Antediluvians, the hawks of 
  Alamut found them and attacked their hold. Vicious 
  fighting brought about the Final Death of many of the 
  Lost Tribe. Anosh managed to smuggle a number of 
  his brethren to safety, but Alamut’s agents captured the 
  Weeping Master, spiriting him back to Alamut.
  Anosh believed that the Followers of Set in Alexandria 
  sold them out, and maintained a foul regard of Setites 
  from that night on, so much so that his dislike became 
  partially encoded in the Black Hand’s operations, 
  making it very difficult for Serpents of the Light — 
  “still too close to the dead god’s breast” — to become 
  members.
  In his grief, Anosh scattered his followers to the 
  winds, sending them far away for their own safety. He 
  would call upon them in the future, he assured them. 
  In the meantime, they should keep secret their goals 
  and spend their efforts to gather more information on 
  their great enemies, the Third Generation.
  Then, in the year 139 BCE, Anosh returned to the 
  site of the Weeping Stone, fortifying himself on a taste 
  of its bloody rivulets, and returned to the bosom of the 
  earth, surrendering to grief and torpor.
  The Return of Anosh
  Several centuries passed before Anosh made his 
  presence known again, in a spectacular fashion. 
  Footnotes in the annals of Alamut’s history record 
  the troubled times when the clan rooted out the 
  assimilation of Islam among its childer. They note that 
  the renegade Dastur Anosh, childe of the Weeping 
  Heretic, was caught in the citadel’s archives. 
  Disguised as a recently-embraced neonate, he claimed 
  to be seeking his sire, managing to escape before his 
  captors took him before the masters of Alamut. His 
  
  62 
  DASTUR ANOSH
  powers of deceit and command were impressive; it was 
  later discovered that he’d been in their midst for almost 
  a full year before anyone discovered him.
  Shortly thereafter, he appeared to all of his old 
  followers, scattered across Europe, Eurasia, the Middle 
  East and North Africa, placing in their minds the 
  desire to journey to undertake a pilgrimage. Following 
  inexpressible subconscious directions, these Cainites 
  made their way slowly to the site of the Weeping Stone.
  There, they found a much-changed Dastur Anosh.
  Where once he was a quiet, scholarly man, driven by 
  his devotion to his master and teacher, they found a 
  firebrand apocryphist. It was clear had emerged from 
  torpor for many years at that time, and he’d spent his 
  time searching for the Weeping Master and seeking 
  fragments of Cainite history. He roused his followers 
  to a religious frenzy, drinking from the Weeping Stone 
  to Dionysian excess, falling into states of spiritual 
  rapture and drunken trance, relating their visions to 
  one another.
  Then, at the end of ten nights of this, when the 
  moon was but a sliver in the sky, he slaughtered a third 
  of them as they lay in near torpid blood-glut. When the 
  others regained their senses sufficiently, he called on 
  them as the faithful, calling them his Lost Tribe. 
  Those who met the Final Death were traitors, he said, 
  who did not keep his commandments to be silent. They 
  failed to seek the knowledge of the Third Generation 
  in his absence, or had doused their hatred of Zillah’s 
  killers in their blackened hearts. They had given up 
  their knowledge of Dastur Anosh to petty Princes and 
  to the agents of Alamut in exchange for wealth or favor.
  To acknowledge themselves as the worthy survivors 
  of Anosh’s killing floor, the survivors took the blood of 
  the Weeping Stone and mixed it with clays, tattooing 
  themselves with the blackened crescent moon of that 
  night sky, the sign that eventually came to denote 
  membership in the Black Hand of the Sword of Caine.
  His apostles were no more than a dozen or so 
  Cainites, and they went their separate ways once more, 
  after copying down one another’s gathered lore. For 
  hundreds of years, they met on the anniversary of the 
  Cleansing of the Tribe, as it came to be known. Some 
  years, one of the apostles did not return. In other years, 
  one or two brought childer or acolytes who were true 
  believers, to be inducted into the Tribe.
  The Lost Tribe continued in this way for generations, 
  until the assault upon the Lasombra Antediluvian. 
  Word quickly reached the Lost Tribe from its agents 
  in Malta. Some of them counseled caution, suggesting 
  watching these angry childer from the shadows, aiding 
  them where they might. Others suggested that they 
  subvert this movement and use it as their own weapon.
  But Anosh chose the middle path: The Lost Tribe 
  retained its secrecy, but joined with this vestigial Sabbat 
  movement. The vampires of the Blackened Crescent 
  infiltrated these movements, feigning ignorance of 
  one another. Members of the Lost Tribe participated 
  in the attack on Lasombra, and again later aided the 
  Amaranth of the Tzimisce Antediluvian.
  The Black Hand
  As the Sabbat established its identity through 
  sheerest chaos, overthrow of the vampiric social order 
  and consuming the heart’s blood of members of the 
  Thirteen, the Lost Tribe likewise set its own plans into 
  motion. They christened this shadow faction the Black 
  Hand, claiming to have found kinship with one another 
  in the Sabbat’s holy crusade, and dedicating themselves 
  to acting as the foremost weapon of the Sabbat. Their 
  insular activity and crescent marks gained them quick 
  notoriety within the young sect, and soon brought 
  recruits to their doors.
  Although Anosh maintained a position of leadership 
  in the Black Hand, it soon became clear he was not 
  the only force within its membership. Powerful 
  Sabbat Cainites — many well known for their martial 
  prowess and thirst for violence — were inducted into its 
  membership, and their charisma soon stole some of the 
  influence and control of the assassins’ cult away from 
  Anosh.
  By the time the colonization of the New World had 
  begun, Anosh realized that the Lost Tribe was no more. 
  What had been conceived as a disguise for the Tribe 
  had supplanted it. No more were Cainites swearing to 
  uphold the rigors of the Lost Tribe. In fact, those who 
  had even known of its existence made up a smaller and 
  smaller portion of the Black Hand’s population.
  With this in mind, Anosh did what was unthinkable 
  to his brethren of the Lost Tribe. He revealed their 
  existence. In a gathering of the leadership of the Black 
  Hand — including those who would one night be called 
  its Seraphs — Anosh revealed the origins of the black 
  crescent, his contributions to the Path of Caine, his 
  personal history and even the location of the Weeping 
  Stone, all in his notably passionate style of address.
  Once again his fiery rhetoric served him and his 
  brood well, and the Black Hand rejoiced at its ancient 
  lineage, older even than the Sabbat. Its gathered elders 
  
  63 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  begged to be taken to the Weeping Stone, to taste the 
  coppery tears of nighted Zillah, and to be given the 
  chance to know she whom they would avenge in the 
  coming nights. A pilgrimage to the Weeping Stone 
  became part of the Black Hand’s rites, and the history 
  of the Lost Tribe became a part of the Black Hand’s 
  identity.
  The elders of the Sabbat, however, discovered these 
  pieces of information for themselves as it slowly trickled 
  out of the Black Hand’s membership and came to the 
  awareness of the sect as a whole. Appalled to learn of 
  such a full infiltration, they resented being made fools 
  of, though Anosh made earnest attempts to soothe 
  pride frayed at the discovery.
  Nonetheless, he found his loyalty questioned ever 
  more frequently, with Priest after Bishop after Priscus 
  citing his great betrayal when his actions crossed their 
  ambitions. A creature of patience and aplomb, even 
  Anosh’s tolerance for these importunities had its limits. 
  One particularly onerous Bishop, the Tzimisce called 
  Altzay, cast aspersions on Anosh’s motives and zeal before 
  the leadership of the sect as a whole, and he answered 
  the accusations calmly, the whole night through.
  Then, at the end of the night, he challenged Altzay 
  to the Rite of Monomacy and ripped the much-larger 
  Cainite apart.
  Anosh’s demeanor had always been one of such 
  unwavering composure that it was easy to forget what 
  a devastating purveyor of violence he could be. In fact, 
  few among the Sabbat had ever seen him truly fight. 
  To their horror, as it turned out, few of the assembled 
  Brothers and Sisters were aware of just how old he was. 
  Anosh, of course, was aware of all of these factors, 
  and chose to use the sudden eruption of ultra-violence 
  to make his point, calmly announcing that anyone else 
  who challenged his loyalty would be met reasonably, and 
  he would submit himself to questioning. But anyone 
  who proved to be incapable of proving his perfidy would 
  find themselves met with a similar challenge. Then he 
  left the gathering, and never returned to another.
  Other Hands at Work
  From that time forward, Anosh was no less resented, 
  but other Sabbat became much more circumspect with 
  their accusations. For their part, individual members of 
  the Black Hand were often fiercely loyal to their high 
  priest, particularly younger members who admired to 
  his devotion, iconoclasm, and fiery words, so full of 
  passionate hope and hatred for the Antediluvians.
  For many years, he retreated to the site of the Weeping 
  Stone, entering a period of seclusion, seen only by those 
  Black Hand elders with the authority to visit the site. 
  The once-a-year initiation of new Black Hand members 
  continued, in which they received their taste of Zillah’s 
  vitae and their black crescent tattoos.
  From his perspective, however, Anosh watched 
  strange traditions take root in the Black Hand. An old 
  hand at infiltration, he was canny enough to recognize 
  the signs, though he’d been far too close to see it. Young 
  members showed up at the Weeping Stone, bragging of 
  the ritae they’d mastered and the patrons they’d won, 
  and Anosh saw other influences where his own had 
  once held sway.
  He turned the pastoral duties of care for the Weeping 
  Stone to one of his childer and disappeared. In time, 
  word trickled back through the Black Hand that 
  Anosh had revealed himself among the Sabbat who’d 
  traveled to the New World. It was clear that he was not 
  eager to lay claim to the new lands on behalf of the 
  Sword of Caine, as so many of them were, however. 
  He simply showed up in newly claimed Sabbat diocese 
  occasionally, frequently in need of safe harbor from 
  Lupines he’d run afoul of in his wanderings.
  No one really is sure what it is he sought during those 
  times, or why his obsession with finding his old master 
  would bring him to the New World. An old journal 
  written by a Lasombra neonate — noteworthy for being 
  one of the first mestizos to be given the blood of the 
  Clan of Shadows — notes a long conversation its author 
  had with the wandering Anosh in which he claimed 
  that he had again experienced visions.
  After a decade away, Anosh returned to the Old 
  World and spoke with admiration of some of the warrior 
  cultures of the native peoples of the Americas, who had 
  introduced some of their ways into the Black Hand’s 
  ever-evolving culture. While the Hand was distracted 
  with the new customs he’d introduced, he swore in 
  three kamuts led by those who’d once been members 
  of the Lost Tribe themselves, and took them to a new 
  sanctuary on the upper reaches of Mt. Washington, in 
  New England.
  From here, he watched carefully. He took command 
  of the Black Hand in the New World himself, carefully 
  watching its members and drawing more from those 
  Cainites newly Embraced from among the natives and 
  settlers of the young domain over those with ties to 
  Europe. Years passed in this way, and the Black Hand 
  came to speak of his increasing eccentricity, wondering 
  
  64 
  DASTUR ANOSH
  if madness was far behind for the high priest of the 
  Black Hand.
  After making his presence so visible in the New 
  World, Anosh returned to his old habits. He claimed 
  to be entering torpor in a hidden location in the 
  countryside around Mt. Washington and promptly 
  disappeared. He reappeared in Mexico City, disguised 
  as a neonate among a recent mass Embrace. There, 
  he attracted the attention of the Black Hand, and 
  was inducted into their ranks, which granted him a 
  fascinating perspective.
  The rites that he’d established for his followers were 
  being subverted, subtly altered at the lowest level of 
  interaction: pack priests and individual agents. He 
  slowly traced these lines of influence, following them 
  back to a source. Then, one evening while this mid-
  level agent and instructor within the Hand trained 
  him, Anosh sprung his trap. Despite the power of the 
  Nosferatu antitribu, Anosh overwhelmed her easily.
  For the next week, he kept the staked vampire available 
  to answer questions, compelled by both commands 
  and the occult thought-reading Anosh had mastered 
  centuries before his prisoner had been Embraced. The 
  answers he found in the vampire’s mind and records 
  were unsettling: A death cult of some kind, tied to 
  ancient stories of the city of Enoch, pulled her strings. 
  Finally, he gained a name: the Tal’Mahe’Ra. The 
  very next night, an unholy host of ghosts and shrouded 
  Cainites attacked the Nosferatu’s haven, destroying her 
  and attempting to lay waste to Anosh at the same time. 
  They had underestimated his power, however, and he 
  nearly destroyed them.
  Anosh disappeared once more, fleeing into the 
  isolation of the deserts of Mexico, a territory now 
  familiar to him. There he wandered and thought. After 
  a many months of this, he reappeared in the Black 
  Hand citadel in the mountains of New Hampshire. 
  Already, the rumblings of conflict among branches of 
  the Sabbat had begun.
  In 1766, Dastur Anosh died. His death came as a 
  shock both to the sect and his followers in the Black 
  Hand. His rivals in the Sabbat were quick to accuse one 
  another, or to lay the blame at theoretical enemies of 
  the Lost Tribe. Shortly thereafter, the first Sabbat Civil 
  War broke out, pitting the Sword of Caine against itself.
  The Seraph Dying and Reborn
  Anosh, of course, did not die. The attack on him 
  was real enough, however, arranged by agents of the 
  so-called “True” Black Hand seeking to terminate his 
  influence. He destroyed their agents and rid the area 
  of all evidence, save for one set of ashes, into which 
  he dropped some of his own regalia, first scourging 
  the remains of their true identity so that the able 
  death-sorcerers of the Tal’Mahe’Ra might have no 
  incontrovertible proof one way or the other.
  Anosh gave up his original identity and the leadership 
  of the Black Hand — two things that weighed him 
  down with responsibility and limited his ability to 
  search effectively for the answers he demanded from 
  the world. He grew concerned that the would-be leaders 
  of the Black Hand would break out into open warfare 
  with one another, so soon after the end of the Sabbat 
  Civil War. Fortunately, they settled on the idea of four 
  Seraphs, leaders in his image.
  In the time since, he has taken on the mantle of 
  multiple Sabbat neonates, often showing up as recent 
  Embraces from various crusades, or claiming a recently 
  destroyed Sabbat vampire as a sire. About half the time, 
  he arranges to find a place in the Black Hand, going 
  through the induction rites thereof and drinking once 
  more from the Weeping Stone. He even occasionally 
  implants in younger Sabbat a memory of having recently 
  Embraced him, giving him an easy introduction into 
  the sect when he wishes it. He does what he is there to 
  do, and then stages his own death once more.
  The time in solitude has not been without its effects 
  on him. Sometimes, he forgets what he’s looking 
  for — the Antediluvians. His sire. The Tal’Mahe’Ra. 
  Sometimes, he conflates them, sure that the False 
  Hand is in service to the Antediluvians, or that his sire 
  was consumed by an Antediluvian he seeks vengeance 
  against that progenitor. Perhaps the Weeping Master 
  was taken by the Tal’Mahe’Ra?
  Over the years, the Seraphs have collated information 
  about the appearance of strange Cainites in the midst 
  of the Black Hand. Jalan-Aajav acquired sufficient 
  information to deduce that the ancient Anosh — the 
  original Seraph of the Black Hand, the high priest of 
  the Lost Tribe — endures.
  Jalan-Aajav and the others have heard of what 
  amounts to a shadow war between this figure and 
  seemingly disparate factions and individuals within the 
  Black Hand, which flares up occasionally, as swift as a 
  sudden desert sand storm, and is gone as quickly.
  Sire: The Weeping Master
  Clan: Assamite antitribu
  Caste: Vizier
  
  65 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Nature: Visionary
  Demeanor: Enigma
  Generation: 5th
  Embrace: Unknown; sect apocrypha indicates he was 
  Embraced around the time of Zoroaster
  Apparent Age: early 30s
  Physical: Strength 4, Dexterity 6, Stamina 5
  Social: Charisma 6, Manipulation 5, Appearance 3
  Mental: Perception 5, Intelligence 3, Wits 4
  Talents: Alertness 6, Athletics 4, Awareness 5, Brawl 3, 
  Empathy 3, Expression 7, Intimidation 3, Leadership 5, 
  Streetwise 2, Subterfuge 5
  Skills: Etiquette 3, Larceny 2, Melee 6, Stealth 6, 
  Survival 2
  Knowledges: Academics 4, Investigation 5, Law 2, 
  Medicine 2, Occult 6, Politics 3
  Disciplines: Auspex 7, Celerity 5, Dominate 6, 
  Fortitude 4, Obfuscate 7, Potence 3, Presence 5, 
  Protean 3, Quietus 6
  Backgrounds: Alternate Identity 3, Black Hand 
  Membership 2 (5*), Contacts 8, Resources 4, Rituals 5, 
  Status (Sabbat) 4* (Anosh has access to the Backgrounds 
  marked with an asterisk if he reveals his true identity.)
  Virtues: Conviction 5, Instinct 3, Courage 3
  Morality: Path of Caine 9
  Willpower: 8
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 40/8
  Image: Anosh is a small man, standing just over five 
  and one-half feet. He dresses in clothing appropriate to 
  his current façade, or goes unseen most of the time. His 
  eyes are deep-set, and his flesh has become the deep, 
  almost-reflective obsidian of truly ancient Assamites. 
  He usually hides his identity through a combination of 
  cosmetics and potent Obfuscate, avoiding the presence 
  of elder Cainites of the sect unless holding them 
  accountable for some transgression.
  Roleplaying Hints: Anosh is quietly intense, with 
  a veneer of unsettling calm. He chooses his words 
  carefully for maximum effect, except when he’s speaking 
  on some subject he is passionate about. Then his words 
  are a torrent of pathos, sweeping up those around him 
  in their spell even without the use of Disciplines. Most 
  troubling of all, and truly part of the horror and danger 
  he represents, is his dwindling ability to recall certain 
  specifics of his solitary crusade. Even when he becomes 
  confused as to the end he desires, his passion for it never 
  ceases. In his most lucid moments, he suspects that he 
  is becoming something other than the consciousness 
  he once held in iron thrall to his cause. Despite the 
  bulwark of the Path of Caine, Anosh is terrified that 
  the Beast owns him more than the Man, and his long 
  unlife has a fearsome number of lacunae in its history.
  Contacts: Anosh has carefully cultivated a variety of 
  contacts worldwide who aid him in his various searches 
  and travels. Each knows him as someone different.
  
  66 
  LAURETTE MOREL
  
  67 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  The French Riviera, or more properly, the Côte 
  d’Azur, is more fantasy than reality for most. It is a 
  stretch of stunningly pristine coastline where the ultra-
  rich and famous truly live life to the fullest. They dine 
  on thousand-dollar meals, shop for ten-thousand-dollar 
  outfits, place hundred-thousand-dollar bets, party on 
  million-dollar yachts, and when the day is done they 
  retire to their ten-million-dollar seaside villas where 
  they dream of tomorrow’s next hundred-million-dollar 
  deal. The people here pretend this is all normal, that 
  money is not important and that celebrity is just a silly 
  notion that means nothing to them. From the casinos 
  of Monte Carlo to the art galleries of Saint-Tropez, 
  this playground for the rich and beautiful is a place of 
  brilliant sunshine that made the suntan fashionable, 
  courtesy of Coco Chanel. Its nights may be splendid, 
  but it is the perfect combination of Mediterranean 
  climate and dazzling sunlight that infuses its postcard-
  perfect public image and makes the French Riviera 
  what it is.
  Strange wonder, then, that one of its most powerful, 
  albeit uncelebrated, residents shrinks from the light 
  even as she has relied upon it to promote the region 
  and her many interests in it since long before its sleepy 
  fishing villages became enclaves for billionaires, movie 
  stars, princes, and presidents. It is not humility that 
  keeps her name from the lips of those who gambol 
  in the streets, shops, restaurants, marinas, racetracks, 
  casinos and, of course, on the beaches, however. Rather, 
  it is the fact that she is a creature of darkness, one of the 
  Damned, and that despite its sun-splashed reputation, 
  there really are things in the Côte d’Azur that are more 
  important than fame and wealth — things that reek of 
  chaos and violence and death, things that cannot be 
  dispelled by the light of another day in paradise.
  Laurette Morel was just a slip of a girl when her father 
  put aside his fishing nets and joined the ranks of the 
  bourgeoisie. Through a combination of charisma and 
  luck, he established a successful shipping business in 
  nearby Nice, though he maintained his small home in 
  Beaulieu-sur-Mer for the sake of his wife, whose dusky 
  beauty was attributed to Moorish ancestry. Young 
  Laurette, who inherited her mother’s striking looks, 
  spent her youth playing on the beach and listening to 
  the stories of the fishermen and the sailors who had 
  seen wonders unlike any she had experienced. She was 
  a dreamer and, spellbound by the natural beauty of 
  her home, her imagination was filled with an endless 
  tableau of magical characters and places.
  As Laurette matured and her girlish prettiness 
  transformed into the features and curves of 
  womanhood, she increasingly found joy in music, 
  dance, and especially art. Her heart was ensnared by 
  a young painter and poet named Charles Belrose. The 
  pair imagined worlds far removed from the reality of 
  the one they knew, sublime realms where Beauty was 
  queen and Truth and Love her lieutenants. They were 
  happy and wanted nothing more from life than each 
  other and their dreams. On account of her father’s 
  clear dislike for Charles, when Laurette was seventeen, 
  she and her lover fled the coast for Paris, where they 
  were sure their dreams would be made real.
  The bright flame of love and hope that had fueled 
  their flight did not prove to be as lasting as they had 
  imagined. Things were particularly difficult in 1787 
  for the Third Estate, those French citoyens who did not 
  belong to the clergy or nobility. This was especially true 
  for those on the lowest rung of the common class; with 
  no real money, connections, or practical skills, this is 
  where Laurette and Charles found themselves. 
  Married almost as soon as they arrived in the city, 
  Charles struggled to make money as a portraitist and 
  a scrivener, but begging and theft truly kept the roof 
  over their heads. Laurette earned some coin as an 
  artist’s model, but mostly did menial work in exchange 
  for food and other necessities. It was not even a year 
  before the wondrous dreams they shared were crushed 
  LAURETTE MOREL
  The Coquette of Cannes
  
  68 
  LAURETTE MOREL
  by the harsh reality of life in Paris. Romance bled away, 
  painfully, and the two all but surrendered to the misery 
  of their station.
  Largely oblivious to the crass realities of politics 
  around her, Laurette could no longer afford to bury her 
  head in the sand. France’s economy was a shambles, and 
  making ends meet had become agonizingly difficult. 
  Prices soared as food and other necessities grew 
  scarce. King Louis XVI, seen by the common people 
  as too far removed from their plight and drudgery, 
  desperately sought ways to appease the growing chorus 
  of opposition that demanded solutions. The obscene 
  debt accumulated by the French as a result of many 
  long years of war along with the heavy burden of that 
  debt being placed unfairly upon the Third Estate had 
  brought France to a breaking point. 
  In May of 1789, the King convened the first Estates-
  General since 1614, a conclave of representatives from 
  each of the three Estates that was tasked with finding 
  a solution to the nation’s financial problems. However, 
  the more the Third Estate pushed for meaningful 
  reform, the more their clerical and noble counterparts 
  moved to quell any real change. Laurette, like most of 
  her contemporaries, became caught up in the fervor, 
  at first for practical reasons, but soon because it struck 
  a chord within her. The idea of real revolutionary 
  change, the idea that the hopes of ordinary people 
  might trump the traditional powers of the Ancien Régime 
  that had simply been “how it was” for so, so long, was 
  fantastical — enough that she found herself possessed 
  of a new lust for life. The dreamer reawakened and the 
  romantic hope and aspirations that had been so much 
  a part of her returned with a strength that surprised, yet 
  delighted her.
  Charles cautioned her, even as he supported the 
  same cause, but as she did in all regards now, Laurette 
  paid him no heed. When the National Assembly 
  was announced that summer, she felt herself swell 
  with pride. She engaged in passionate marketplace 
  discussion of the proposed new constitution and she 
  even attended meetings organized in her arrondissement, 
  where she found camaraderie with others who shared 
  her hope for a better tomorrow. Her natural charms 
  made it easy to gain attentive listeners and she found 
  her vivid imagination enabled her to communicate her 
  vision of the future.
  Laurette celebrated the infamous storming of the 
  Bastille in July and the subsequent Declaration of 
  the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, events which 
  signaled the end of feudalism and the much-detested 
  Ancien Régime. The king was severely handicapped in 
  his power by the National Constituent Assembly that 
  now effectively wielded the bulk of French political 
  clout and he retreated to Versailles and the protective 
  insularity of his court. This did not satisfy everyone, 
  however. Instigators seized on and publicized any rumor 
  they could to keep the pot boiling, especially those that 
  showed the king and his much-hated foreign wife Marie 
  Antoinette as uncaring and even treasonous rulers.
  Laurette was always more ready to believe the story 
  that best fit her worldview, however fanciful, than the 
  more honest yet uninteresting one. She believed the 
  worst of the gossip spreading through the marketplace 
  and, on October 5, when the now-commonplace 
  complaints about the scarcity and price of bread and 
  other foods spontaneously erupted into an angry mob 
  denouncing the king, she joined their ranks without 
  a second thought. Before long, a full-fledged riot 
  erupted and rapidly spread to similar markets across 
  the city, until the heart of Paris was surging with angry 
  citizens. The throng was so enflamed by the need to do 
  something — anything — that they undertook a march 
  from Paris to Versailles to present their grievances to 
  the king directly, led by one of the rising heroes of the 
  nascent revolution, Stanislaus Maillard. 
  The mob camped at the palace and demanded an 
  audience, but for a time they were refused. Seeking 
  to remove the threat at his gate as quickly as possible, 
  Louis XVI entertained a small delegation to discuss 
  the concerns of the Parisian citizens. Laurette, hand-
  picked by the crowd on account of both her beauty and 
  her ability to capture people’s emotions, was one of six 
  women who met with the king and presented him with 
  the demands of the Third Estate.
  Fully prepared to stand firm, Laurette found herself 
  so captivated by the opulence of the palace and the 
  chance to meet the king himself that she quite literally 
  swooned and fell to the floor. Later, revived, she was 
  convinced that the delegation had been successful 
  and she delivered to the crowd an address aimed at 
  convincing everyone present of the same, praising 
  France’s king for his compassionate sympathy and his 
  heartfelt intention to work with the common people. 
  She returned to Paris that night along with Maillard 
  and a small company of others, believing that they had 
  triumphed and that from this night forward things 
  would be different. In an entirely different sense than 
  Laurette believed, she could not have been more right.
  Since the previous winter, Émeric de Sauveterre, the 
  Toreador grandchilde of Prince Beatrix, had watched 
  
  69 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Laurette, first captivated by her physical appeal, but 
  ultimately won over by her obvious passions and 
  romantic ideals. A staunch supporter of the Ancien 
  Régime that had defined not only mortal French society 
  but even more so that of the Kindred for so long, 
  de Sauveterre desired Laurette in a way that roused 
  passions the Damned so often let lapse into dormancy. 
  He swore to himself that she would be his. 
  While the object of his obsession was in Versailles, de 
  Sauveterre directed his ghoul to murder Charles so that 
  it would appear to be the result of the desperation of 
  the city, thereby leaving Laurette with no one to care for 
  her and nowhere to go. But de Sauveterre was unable to 
  wait for the scenario to play out as he had envisioned, 
  with a long, drawn-out seduction that led to Laurette’s 
  voluntary request for the Embrace. Overcome by his 
  own powerful emotions, he instead waited for at her 
  empty apartment and surprised her when she returned. 
  In a notably un-romantic fashion the Toreador ancilla 
  overpowered her and claimed his prize. 
  With the Parisian courts in tumult in both the 
  mortal and Kindred worlds, Laurette’s sire did not have 
  the luxury of taking the customary time to introduce 
  her to the concepts of Kindred society or even much 
  of a fundamental understanding of her condition. 
  Laurette’s delegation to King Louis XVI had been a 
  failure, as the crowd had later laid siege to the palace 
  and forced the king and his court to return to Paris, 
  where things grew increasingly unsteady. The French 
  Camarilla, with its cold hand pulling too many strings 
  among the aristocracy and clergy, was on similarly 
  unsure footing. Kindred sought seeking to protect 
  themselves from harm even as they jockeyed for power 
  in the salons and among the philosophes — even among 
  the radicalizing Jacobins — and many seized on any 
  perceived advantage, regardless of how audacious or 
  despised. 
  Clan Toreador controlled most of France and its 
  members had worked not so secretly to place the other 
  Kindred clans at great disadvantage in the realm. This 
  scheme, hatched by the prince’s seneschal Francois 
  Villon, had led to significant unrest among the other 
  clans, most notably the Brujah, who maintained a 
  troublesome minority in Paris and other large cities. 
  However, the Toreador had so far managed to keep 
  the Rabble from becoming a real threat by establishing 
  alliances among the Ventrue and Tremere, clans that 
  hoped to use the detente to aid their own aspirations to 
  power in France.
  De Sauveterre was a strong supporter of his prince, 
  but he despised Villon. The seneschal had once been 
  an Anarch himself, and de Sauveterre was not one 
  to let that dishonorable past lay forgotten, even if he 
  was favored by Beatrix. In fact, Villon’s favor with 
  Beatrix only made de Sauveterre hate him more, and 
  so as the situation in Paris grew more chaotic and the 
  Traditions of the Kindred bent and fractured under the 
  strain of revolution, the spiteful ancilla sought every 
  opportunity to undermine Villon and elevate himself 
  at the seneschal’s expense.
  Laurette was as much a tool to help de Sauveterre 
  achieve his own ends as she was a subject of his 
  reckless desire. He fully believed he could guide her 
  extraordinary passions away from revolutionary ideals 
  and instead refocus them on a cultural foundation 
  turning her revolutionary zeal into support for the 
  status quo. He was sure that with his coaxing and 
  careful ministrations she would prove to be his greatest 
  asset, akin to a marvelous piece of jewelry that would 
  earn him the envy of the Harpies and the prestige and 
  status in Elysium he sought to edify his position — and 
  to undermine Villon. 
  The fledgling Toreador took to unlife quickly. 
  Although initially horrified to learn that she had 
  become in reality what the revolutionaries accused 
  the aristocracy of being, she welcomed the Embrace 
  as an escape from what she saw as a failed life. Freed 
  of mortal needs and possessed of a will to power that 
  made her feel as if some of her childhood dreams 
  were indeed coming true, Laurette wasted no time in 
  acclimating herself to the prison of night that was now 
  and forever her gilded cage. The fantasy revealed itself 
  for the horror it truly was, Laurette came to realize, but 
  the fairy tales had always had their dark sides.
  She heeded her sire’s command, but she also 
  realized that she had a far longer leash than most other 
  Kindred of her station. With Elysium trembling from 
  the drumbeats and cannon of revolution, she made 
  connections with other Kindred that normally would 
  have been impossible. Members of the Estates General 
  believed her to be their mistress, diplomats courted 
  her affections at Louis XVI’s doomed soirees, and of 
  course the Third Estate still counted her as one of their 
  number. With every vampire desperately seeking some 
  advantage and whatever allies they could, Laurette was 
  well-positioned to exploit those relationships. Even 
  Villon admired her and showed her some attention, 
  which de Sauveterre cautiously encouraged, seeing in 
  
  70 
  LAURETTE MOREL
  the seneschal’s lustful stare a weakness that could be 
  turned against him.
  However, Laurette proved to be far more independent 
  than de Sauveterre imagined. She refused to succumb 
  to her sire’s antiquated political and cultural views, 
  no matter how much he tried to explain that she was 
  now herself an aristo — under shadow — and Laurette 
  instead cleaved to her youthful dreams, placing idealistic 
  romance and beauty above traditional authority. She 
  used her subversive Kindred alliances to take a direct 
  hand in manipulating certain notable kine, especially 
  those among the Jacobins’ club, such as the Liberal 
  politician Victor de Broglie. Because de Sauveterre’s 
  attention was fixed so intently upon Villon, he paid 
  little heed to his childe’s own activities, no matter how 
  contrary to his own aims they became. Even as Laurette 
  increasingly collaborated with Brujah and other 
  Anarchs to push the revolution further and further, her 
  sire remained willfully blind to her agenda.
  In 1791 the Anarchs, led by the Brujah, accomplished 
  their goal of toppling the Camarilla and establishing 
  all of France as an Anarch barony. The Kindred of 
  Paris were stunned at this turn of events and, to 
  save themselves from the bloodthirsty savagery of 
  the suddenly triumphant Brujah, largely fled their 
  arrondissements for the safety of London, where the 
  embarrassed Toreador émigrés submitted themselves to 
  Ventrue authority. 
  Only the most powerful and self-assured French 
  Toreador remained behind, confident in both their 
  own prowess as well as what they anticipated as the 
  eventual collapse of the uprising and their return to 
  rightful rule. The situation was far more serious than 
  these holdouts believed, however. Prince Beatrix was 
  destroyed by Anarchs while fleeing Paris after hearing 
  news of Louis XVI’s arrest and incarceration. Villon, 
  surrounded by foes, continued to struggle despite 
  the odds, but in September was himself forced to bid 
  adieu to his beloved Paris and seek safe haven across 
  the Channel, in no small part due to de Sauveterre’s 
  betrayal of their own clan’s elder.
  Laurette’s sire survived in Paris as long as he did 
  largely because the Brujah recognized how helpful 
  he would be in eliminating Villon. They knew of his 
  antipathy toward the former seneschal and stayed out of 
  his way as he schemed to bring about Villon’s downfall. 
  But it was even more their promise to leave him alone 
  so long as Laurette assisted them in their larger goal 
  of taking control of France. However, once Louis XVI, 
  now simply called Citizen Louis Capet, was sent to the 
  guillotine in early 1793, the pendulum swung the other 
  direction. The Anarchs no longer needed the assistance 
  of de Sauveterre or his neonate. Realizing what this 
  would mean, Laurette convinced her sire that they 
  should quit Paris. 
  Sire and childe did not follow their peers to London, 
  however. Instead, at Laurette’s recommendation, they 
  hired passage out of the country and formally requested 
  the protection of the Camarilla in the then-Savoia 
  Italian city of Nice. The Ivory Tower was only too happy 
  to welcome the refugees, for the Sabbat were a rising 
  threat and the Prince of Nice saw the duo as allies who 
  would help bolster the sect’s influence. Laurette was 
  also overjoyed to be back on the southern coast and 
  from afar, she spied on her father and secretly helped 
  him to build his business empire, though he remained 
  wholly unaware of his secret benefactor. To her mind, 
  it was repayment for abandoning him and some small 
  atonement for what she had become.
  By night, the end of the French Revolution and 
  the rise of Napoleon signified the return to Paris of 
  Francois Villon and the authority of the Camarilla. 
  Villon declared himself Prince in 1805 and one of his 
  first formal acts was to summon de Sauveterre to his 
  court to answer for his treasonous actions against him. 
  De Sauveterre was sentenced to Final Death. Laurette 
  was delayed in attending her sire’s trial by a surge in 
  Sabbat activity in Nice and was sentenced in absentia to 
  submit to a partial blood bond to the Prince to ensure 
  her obedience to her elder. When she arrived, she had 
  no choice but to accept the new Prince’s will, and took 
  her draught before the assembled Primogen, noting 
  how many of them had once been members of the 
  Ancien Régime, then shifted sympathies to the Anarchs, 
  and were now again among Napoleon’s imperialist 
  allies. Laurette also heard whispers that Villon himself 
  might have had something to do with her own Sabbat 
  “delay,” but answering her summons and sentence was 
  hardly the place to address that suspicion.
  For the next century, Laurette remained in Paris, 
  where her sire’s fate proved a heavy weight that made it 
  difficult to gain status in the eyes of the Kindred, though 
  she maintained close ties with her coastal home. When 
  Nice became French following the Second Italian War 
  of Independence and the railroad arrived along the 
  Côte d’Azur in the 1860s, Laurette was able to establish 
  her own recognized domain along the Mediterranean, 
  effectively far enough from Villon and his agents to 
  permit her own independence. 
  
  71 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Except for Nice, the rest of the coastline was devoid 
  of Kindred, except for a few itinerant Gangrel and 
  nomadic Sabbat packs, none of which had much 
  interest in establishing a lasting presence. Laurette 
  exploited this absence and, with the full support of 
  the Savoia-aligned Giovanni who had moved in during 
  the Camarilla’s troubles with the Sabbat, threw her 
  energies and growing resources into turning the sleepy 
  shoreline into something more resembling the idyllic 
  world of her childhood daydreams. But time and 
  reality had scourged those daydreams, and what once 
  might have been a realm of whimsy instead bore the 
  undeniable touch of the Damned. Opulence hid decay, 
  pleasure yielded to depravity, and the tastes of the rich 
  and esteemed placed them in dangerous proximity to 
  the Kindred.
  Laurette used her influence in Paris to convince 
  numerous artists to visit the French Riviera, as well 
  as the aristocracy and the wealthy merchant class. So 
  successful was her plan that by the end of the turn of 
  the century the area had become the premier vacation 
  retreat for European royalty and the very wealthy, 
  along with famous painters like Auguste Renoir, Henri 
  Matisse, and Pablo Picasso.
  Laurette was busy in Paris, also. Her achievements in 
  the French Riviera provided her some prestige among 
  the Harpies, who sought her out in order to find ways 
  to sway or even dictate the attitudes of the kine. With 
  the financial help of a Ventrue named Georges St. 
  Pierre, she backed the establishment of a film company 
  in the Parisian suburb of Neuilly-sur-Seine where 
  she maintained her haven. Via the public face of its 
  eponymous founder, Laurette was able to establish 
  some early influence over the fast-growing French 
  cinematic tradition. 
  From the very first moment she saw a short film in 
  a darkened theater, she was awestruck and unable to 
  curb her admiration. Nothing she had ever seen came 
  so close to rendering the things she conjured up in her 
  rich imagination. She knew she had to be part of this 
  transcendent phenomenon, and her motion picture 
  company provided her that. Laurette was so captivated 
  by the fantastical world of cinema that she chose as 
  her first childe a remarkably influential female film 
  director, who directly oversaw the company’s studios at 
  La Villette.
  Laurette’s power grew exponentially after the First 
  World War as American industrialists and literati joined 
  their European counterparts on the postcard-perfect 
  beaches of the French Riviera, rubbing shoulders with 
  the likes of Coco Chanel, whose golden tan became all 
  the rage. Toreador in America learned Laurette’s name 
  and, less concerned about the “Old World” smirches 
  on her resume than their French clanmates, toasted her 
  accomplishments, especially after the Second World 
  War when the rising Toreador cinephile patronized the 
  creation of the one of the world’s most prestigious film 
  festivals.
  As her prestige grew among her fellow Toreador, she 
  also made inroads with the other clans. The Ventrue 
  admired her business acumen when in 1975 she 
  enthralled the entire family of the media tycoon and 
  heir who was already a major stakeholder in her film 
  company. Placing him in charge of the studio, which 
  was struggling with the decline of the European film 
  industry, she turned its fortunes around and thereby 
  made herself a major player behind the curtain of 
  the movie business. She also made some effort in 
  inviting the Malkavians into her circle of conspirators, 
  supporting certain films that the Lunatics felt strongly 
  about having produced. 
  Laurette’s influence continues to grow. She now 
  resides in Cannes where she is the de facto Prince, 
  though she does not make such a claim, as it would 
  raise her profile such that Villon might have a renewed 
  interest in her “wellbeing” and domain. She also pays 
  her continued respects to the Savoia Giovanni in Nice, 
  not only in word but also in cash. As it turned, out her 
  sire made an agreement with the Giovanni when the 
  two sought the domain of Nice in flight from Paris, as 
  the presence of the Savoy necromancers had been in 
  place longer than she had previously believed, which 
  she continues to honor. She seeks a way out of this 
  bargain, but the few moves she has made to accomplish 
  this were met with a subtle yet firm resistance among 
  the Giovanni’s interests in the film trade.
  Despite her past, Laurette has become one of the 
  continent’s more influential Harpies. Each May she 
  throws an over-the-top salon that coincides with the 
  famous film festival that welcomes only a select list 
  of Kindred hand-picked by herself and her childe, 
  who is her closest confidante. Francois Villon always 
  receives an invitation, but he has yet to attend the 
  soiree, preferring to simply send a pleasant response 
  apologetically declining the gracious offer. Presumption 
  in Elysium is that Villon’s acceptance would officially 
  remove the two-centirues-old stain from Mademoiselle 
  Morel’s status, a stain of dishonor that ensures she 
  can never rise high enough to pose a real threat to the 
  authority of Villon and the elders of France.
  
  72 
  LAURETTE MOREL
  For the kine, the trauma of the French Revolution 
  and its Reign of Terror that left Louis XVI and his 
  Marie headless is practically ancient history, but for 
  the Prince of Paris and his contemporaries, it remains a 
  powerful reminder of just how precarious the survival 
  of the Camarilla and its Traditions is, especially in the 
  face of concerted Anarch and Sabbat threats from all 
  corners. The specter looms large now, in particular, 
  as the debt crisis that afflicts Europe threatens the 
  comfortable lives of French citizens and the Kindred 
  who rely on their vitae to survive. For all Laurette’s 
  accomplishments and prestige within the bounds of the 
  Camarilla, Villon knows that first and foremost, like 
  himself, the Coquette of Cannes, as she is sometimes 
  called in Paris, will always be a creature of passion and 
  that she will always be ready to pursue those passions 
  no matter where they lead her. Villon sees his former 
  Anarch self in her and, even as he privately admires it, 
  nothing gives him more worry.
  Sire: Émeric de Sauveterre
  Clan: Toreador
  Nature: Idealist
  Demeanor: Gallant
  Generation: 8th
  Embrace: 1790
  Apparent Age: 20s
  Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 3
  Social: Charisma 5, Manipulation 4, Appearance 5
  Mental: Perception 5, Intelligence 3, Wits 4
  Talents: Alertness 2, Awareness 2, Empathy 4, 
  Expression (Speeches) 4
  Skills: Drive 1, Etiquette 5
  Knowledges: Finance 2, Politics 4, Expert Knowledge 
  (Film Industry and Production) 5
  Disciplines: Auspex 5, Celerity 4, Necromancy 
  (Sepulchre Path) 1, Presence 4
  Backgrounds: Allies 4, Contacts 4, Domain 5, Fame 1, 
  Herd 2, Influence 3, Resources 5, Retainers 3, Status 
  (Camarilla) 3
  Virtues: Conscience 4, Self-Control 3, Courage 2
  Morality: Humanity 6
  Willpower: 7
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 15/3
  Image: Laurette is physically beautiful, with a dark 
  cast to her fine features that enhances her appeal. 
  Her long dark hair cascades over top-designer outfits 
  and she always looks as if she’s about to step onto the 
  red carpet. She often wears sunglasses and is usually 
  attended by an entourage that includes her childe, who 
  helps to keep the paparazzi at bay. 
  Roleplaying Hints: The Côte d’Azur is yours, the 
  dream world that you made a reality, and here none 
  shine as brightly as you. You detest crude political 
  and financial discussion and surround yourself only 
  with those who similarly exult beauty, creativity, and 
  romantic truth. Of course, you have greater aspirations, 
  but they will come in their own due time, for on the 
  moonlit paradise that is yours, there is no shortage of 
  this commodity. Over the years, you have managed to 
  stave off the attentions of a subculture hungry for tabloid 
  gossip, but in a world of always-available information 
  and ever-present media, you wonder how long you’ll be 
  able to hide your secret, given your comparatively high 
  profile, and it’s come to occupy much of your waking 
  attention, to the degree that you actually resent your 
  unavoidable Fame.
  Haven: The Coquette of Cannes maintains a palatial 
  villa in the festival resort that rivals those owned by 
  her neighbors, the Hollywood, financial, and political 
  elite. Modern security features protect her from most 
  dangers, but she also relies on her supernatural abilities 
  to ensure her safety. She routinely has guests, who are 
  often other Kindred, for glamorous parties, which 
  provide her a forum to promote her interests and 
  expand her mortal and unliving influence.
  Influence: Technology has enabled Laurette to gain 
  a significant foothold in the American film industry, 
  though she currently struggles to understand how to 
  best navigate the rapid changes that same technology 
  brings with it. Her vast financial resources have also 
  given her extensive freedom in gaining control over 
  smaller businesses and individuals, both in Europe and 
  overseas, always towards the goal of indebting other 
  Kindred that might one night pave the way for her 
  return to Paris as a liberator from the stodgy strictures of 
  the Traditions. Film itself can be used for many means, 
  for the communication of utopian fairy tales to brute 
  propaganda, and Laurette is experienced in producing 
  the spectrum, for which no few Kindred both owe her 
  favors and admire her vision.
  
  73 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  
  74 
  MARYANN FLETCHER
  The Kindred known tonight as the Hangman’s 
  Bride, once Maryann Fletcher, began her life in a 
  small hamlet in the English countryside. She grew up a 
  devout Roman Catholic, part of a hard-working family 
  of wool merchants. Although her prospects in life were 
  as humble as one might expect for a pre-Restoration 
  provincial — she was the youngest of eight children and 
  could hope for neither inheritance nor dowry — she led 
  a serene and joyful existence. She loved her home and 
  her family and didn’t need any more than providence 
  offered. Life was good.
  When the Gunpowder Plot to assassinate King 
  James I and members of parliament failed, the Popish 
  Recusants Act of 1605 was passed into law. This 
  document effectively made Catholics in England 
  second-class citizens, deprived them of many rights, 
  and made any professed or suspected allegiance to the 
  Pope high treason, punishable by hanging, drawing 
  and quartering. The resultant atmosphere of paranoia 
  and persecution swept across England like a sickness. 
  Neighbors who had spent years living next to each 
  other suddenly turned into bitter enemies, their latent 
  sectarian hatred fostered by the avarice and corruption 
  of the Stuart court.
  Maryann’s family had never been part of any political 
  activity, clandestine or otherwise, but a rival merchant 
  house seized the opprtunity to usurp their business, 
  denouncing the Fletchers to the local magistrates as 
  papist conspirators. While much of her family was 
  arrested and executed, Maryann avoided sharing their 
  fate because she had been in a different town buying 
  wool that day. Hidden by distant relatives living in 
  Portsmouth, Maryann was deeply affected by the ruin 
  of her parents and siblings. Tormented by nightmares 
  and panic, she developed a speech impediment so 
  profound she could hardly communicate with others.
  Finding the girl an easily bullied mark, a foul 
  Nosferatu named Stanford Warwick took notice of 
  the girl when seeking informants he could add to his 
  cadre of ghoul spies. Because she appeared absent-
  minded and couldn’t speak coherently, most people 
  thought she was simple and didn’t watch what they 
  were saying when she was around, which the Nosferatu 
  appreciated. Working as a maid at her relatives’ tavern, 
  Maryann did hear many of the subtle secrets people 
  whispered among each other. Warwick considered her 
  an ideal candidate and revealed himself to her after a 
  few months of observation.
  Although she was shocked to be confronted by what 
  could only be witch’s fetch, Maryann had no choice 
  but to accept the gruesome Nosferatu at his word. 
  Compared to the petty inhumanities by which the 
  people around her everyday betrayed one another, this 
  devil could at least be taken for what he appeared to 
  be. Instead of running or trying to fight the monster, 
  Maryann sat down and listened to what he had to say.
  Warwick was impressed. An understanding and 
  unassuming pawn suited him perfectly. He explained 
  that he expected her to act as his spy and courier and he 
  promised her guaranteed protection from the corrupt 
  vessel of the Anglican Church in return. That night was 
  the first of many times Maryann drank Warwick’s vitae.
  The young woman served the Nosferatu’s cause 
  unfalteringly for many years and Warwick kept his 
  promises. Maryann and her relatives never once 
  came under the shadow of suspicion or had to fear 
  persecution. This changed almost a decade later, when a 
  Ventrue rival of her domitor intercepted vital Nosferatu 
  correspondence that included a list of all ghouls that 
  Warwick had enthralled. In one fateful swoop, the 
  Ventrue’s mortal agents sacked the Nosferatu ghouls’ 
  homes in daytime raids under the appearances of a 
  MARYANN FLETCHER 
  The Hangman’s Bride
  
  75 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  government action. Maryann and her relatives were 
  brutally bludgeoned and tied up in their tavern, which 
  was then set ablaze.
  When night fell, Warwick learned of what had 
  befallen his servants and searched their houses, finding 
  only smoldering ash-heaps of atrocity. When he came 
  to the ruin of the tavern, however, he discovered that 
  Maryann was still alive. She was horribly burned, her 
  blackened skin stretched taut over seared flesh, scorch 
  marks running down her cheeks, where her tears had 
  been boiled in the heat of the fire. No life should 
  have still flickered within this forsaken carcass, but 
  the Nosferatu’s potent vitae had sustained Maryann 
  through her suffering, denying her the mercy of death. 
  Seeking to preserve what he might in the wake of the 
  Ventrue’s purge, Warwick decided not to grant her 
  release but damn her with the Embrace.
  In the weeks after Maryann’s transformation, 
  Warwick learned that his whelp had lost or repressed 
  many memories of her former life and the manner of 
  her death. Although painful and traumatic flashbacks 
  occurred on her worst nights, Maryann percieved 
  her past as a bad dream or fit of madness. The wily 
  Nosferatu decided to take advantage of his progeny’s 
  mental lacunae and set about indoctrinating her in the 
  ways of the clan. Maryann adapted quickly to her new 
  condition and became as capable a Nosferatu as she 
  had been a ghoul.
  Over the 17th and 18th centuries, Maryann served 
  as Warwick’s trusted lieutenant, accompanying him 
  on his rapid rise in clan status and power. During 
  this time she became a mentor to numerous young 
  Sewer Rats, cultivating a cabal of informants among 
  the Catholic underground that dwelled in the shadow 
  of Anglicanism. She became a symbol of Nosferatu 
  disenfranchisement, a religious minority among the 
  privileged majority just as she was a despised Nosferatu 
  among the genteel Ivory Tower. Her sire was cunning 
  and opportunistic, while she was understanding and 
  compassionate. Although he was her Elder, she was the 
  one who inspired loyalty among the neonates of the 
  clan.
  Maryann was loath to openly participate in the courts 
  of the Camarilla, but she felt no remorse for spying 
  on its proceedings from hidden alcoves in the halls of 
  power. The constant bickering and backstabbing that 
  served as the coin of the realm among the Elysium 
  crowd reminded her of the ways of the Stuart monarchy 
  that had caused her such grief. In the end, Warwick 
  decided it was time for her to make her debut, when he 
  was called away by the Nosferatu Trajan to coordinate 
  the clan interests in New England. By this time an 
  Elder herself, she felt an indelible bond to her sire and 
  obeyed. Upon her first visit to a salon in Warwick’s 
  retinue, a Toreador Harpy, seeing the close relationship 
  between the two unwanted guests, quipped that even 
  someone as unpleasant company as a hangman would 
  find a bride eventually. The Toreador in question, 
  referring in his insult to Warwick’s rumored job as the 
  Prince’s executioner, soon vanished, never to be seen 
  again. The moniker “the Hangman’s Bride” stuck, 
  however, and Maryann wears it to this night as a mark 
  of her devotion to her sire.
  Life among the courts of the “Dark Colony” disagreed 
  with her, so the Hangman’s Bride eagerly accepted an 
  opportunity to serve as archon after she had impressed 
  the Nosferatu Justicar Petrodon at a conclave early in 
  the 20th century. She doesn’t remember much of her 
  mortal life, but she has an instinctive and profound 
  aversion against persecution and the abuse of power, 
  which leads her into occasional conflict when working 
  as an agent for the Camarilla. The Hangman’s Bride 
  considers it her duty to be as precise and unfailing in her 
  investigations as possible, to expose the guilty and leave 
  the innocent — an odd context in which to consider 
  the Kindred — untainted by the evils of others. In this 
  idiom, she has actively worked against Elders, Princes, 
  and even other Archons who would find scapegoats 
  for their own transgressions. Tonight, the Hangman’s 
  Bride is an Archon at large, unattached to a specific 
  Justicar, but herself without the authority of that title.
  Over her centuries of unlife, the Hangman’s Bride 
  has acted both as an antagonist as well as aide to young 
  coteries. Kindred who stand accused of a crime come 
  under meticulous scrutiny when Maryann investigates 
  them. This complete loss of privacy and her offensively 
  straightforward style of questioning have resulted 
  in Kindred feeling helpless, violated, or just plain 
  angry, greatly resenting and potentially even rebelling 
  against their potential savior. The Hangman’s Bride 
  is completely unbiased, however, giving those whose 
  condemnation she investigates a chance at redemption 
  they might never have otherwise had in the prestation-
  trading courts of the Camarilla. Maryann even 
  investigated and exonerated a Kindred accused of the 
  assassination of her own patron Justicar, Petrodon, ten 
  
  76 
  MARYANN FLETCHER
  years after his death. Everyone knew the accused was a 
  patsy — but who else would have bothered to stand up 
  for him?
  Nosferatu Kindred know the Hangman’s Bride in 
  another capacity, as well. She remains very active in 
  clan politics and is both a champion of and investor 
  in SchreckNet, the communication network that 
  functions as a sort of Nosferatu “dark Internet.” Her 
  interest in ShreckNet is as a vehicle for communication 
  of information that is by definition true, though it 
  may damn other Kindred. This often leads her into 
  conflict with other ShreckNet users who propagate 
  disinformation or who would hide an incontrovertible 
  truth under layers of informational noise.
  Sire: Stanford Warwick
  Clan: Nosferatu
  Nature: Architect
  Demeanor: Judge
  Generation: 8th
  Embrace: 1614
  Apparent Age: late 20s
  Physical: Strength 4, Dexterity 1, Stamina 3
  Social: Charisma 2, Manipulation 3, Appearance 0
  Mental: Perception 4, Intelligence 4, Wits 4
  Talents: Alertness 4, Awareness 3, Empathy 4, 
  Intimidation 3, Leadership 3, Subterfuge 4
  Skills: Animal Ken 2, Etiquette 3, Larceny 3, Melee 3, 
  Performance 3, Stealth 5, Survival 4
  Knowledges: Academics 2, Computer 3, Finance 3, 
  Investigation 5, Law 4, Occult 2, Politics 4, Science 2
  Disciplines: Animalism 4, Auspex 2, Obfuscate 5, 
  Potence 4
  Background: Contacts 5, Influence 2, Mentor 5, 
  Resources 4, Retainers 2 (two young Nosferatu traveling 
  as her chroniclers), Status 4
  Virtues: Conscience 4, Self-Control 3, Courage 3
  Morality: Humanity 7
  Willpower: 7
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 15/3
  Image: Maryann is a burned and blackened thing, 
  unrecognizable as the mild villager she once was. Her teeth 
  bleached in the conflagration, leaving a shockingly bright 
  maw punctuated by shattered fangs. The Hangman’s 
  Bride’s eyes are milky-white and her fingernails have 
  become menacing, jagged talons. She frequently wears a 
  wig to replace her long hair that burned away in the fire. 
  In the field, the Hangman’s Bride affects the shapeless 
  robes often preferred by the twisted Nosferatu. When 
  she appears before the Inner Circle, however, she affects 
  elaborate Jacobean dress, though its rigid bodices and 
  wired collars chafe and burst her savaged skin.
  Roleplaying Hints: The Hangman’s Bride is rather 
  limited in her movement, as her skin is stretched taut 
  and her muscles have atrophied. Thus she has almost 
  no body language at all and takes her time getting 
  places. Nightly, she chooses from a collection of 
  walking sticks to support her movements. To overcome 
  her considerable speech impediment, she gathers her 
  thoughts before speaking and then communicates in 
  one short burst of rushed and atonal words. She is 
  polite but direct and firm. Although she affects truth 
  first and foremost, underneath her formal manner, she 
  has little tolerance for evasiveness, and those who lie to 
  her risk rousing her to frenzy.
  Haven: Maryann and her small retinue usually 
  set up camp in an easily accessible but well-secured 
  public building when they investigate a domain. These 
  premises serve as the archon’s offices and quarters 
  for her Retainers. The Hangman’s Bride calls upon 
  Nosferatu hospitality in the sewers if the domain is 
  home to a Nosferatu warren. The Bride cares little for 
  conventional comfort, relying more on the feeling of 
  duty to her clan.
  Influence: The Hangman’s Bride has served loyally 
  and without any thought of personal gain as an Archon 
  under a variety of Justicars. She enjoys great prestige 
  and can rely on the respect for her title and support 
  of her Mentor and the Inner Circle. However, her 
  unwillingness to sacrifice individuals to further the 
  political aspirations of others has also made her a great 
  number of enemies. So far, her usefulness as one of 
  the Camarilla’s top investigators has shielded her from 
  political backlash, but the tide may turn against her one 
  night. Indeed, her position as Archon without a patron 
  Justicar continues a special dispensation from the Inner 
  Circle because she does her duty well, though any one 
  of them may harbor ill will against her personally or 
  politically. As such, her considerable influence is only 
  of use at infrequent intervals, so she calls on it only 
  rarely and with good reason.
  
  77 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Derangement: With her family having been executed 
  vindictively and having suffered her own death in a fire, 
  Maryann harbors a great aversion to physical pain. She 
  avoids direct confrontation if at all possible and succumbs 
  to frenzy as soon she is injured. (Thus, appearing in 
  formal dress before the Inner Circle requires a great deal 
  of will for her.) This aversion extends to others as well. 
  She never employs torture in her interrogations and if 
  she must deliver Final Death, she does so as swiftly as 
  possible. Additionally, fire drives her mad with fear — 
  more so than other Kindred — and difficulties for her to 
  resist Rotschreck increase by 1.
  
  78 
  NASCH THE CIRCASSIAN
  
  79 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  A snorting mare, dark against the silver mountains, 
  its hide limned auburn by the setting sun. The laughter 
  of a sister teasing him near a muddy stream. The rich 
  smell of his mother’s cooking accompanied by the 
  distant sound of his grandfather’s pain. The sudden 
  scream of an eagle just before it drops on its prey from 
  the brilliant heavens like a javelin and in one brutal 
  moment seizes and rends its prey: the snake that had 
  been hiding so completely in the tall grass. These are 
  the only memories that remain of his childhood, of 
  the time before Egypt, before manhood, before the 
  deathly chill of the long shadows of the Endless Night 
  that engulfed him. These last remaining fragments, 
  these momentary flashes of imagery and sensation are 
  the last anchors of a vestigial sense of humanity that 
  remains above all else his most treasured possession.
  Nasch was born among the Bzhedugh Adyghes, one 
  of the peoples known more popularly as the Circassians, 
  especially in the Mamluk culture that dominated the 
  Near East at the time of his birth. Like many Circassian 
  boys, he was proud when his father arranged for him 
  to travel to Egypt to serve in the sultan’s army, viewing 
  his sale to the visiting merchant as a ticket to freedom, 
  not slavery. The sights and sounds that greeted him in 
  Cairo were beyond anything he had imagined and he 
  quickly heeded the clarion of Islam and the seductively 
  mysterious culture of the ancient land of the pharaohs. 
  The boy became the property of Kulayb al-Naqid, 
  a powerful bureaucrat who spent whatever it took to 
  ensure that his young warrior received the best martial 
  training available. His bow, lance, mace, and sword 
  were as extensions of his body and his horsemanship 
  improved so much that his patron regularly hosted 
  competitions to further enhance his standing in 
  the sultanate’s administration by showing off his 
  remarkable young charge. 
  Complementing Nasch’s military education was 
  a more cerebral one that was even more a source of 
  pride for the learned al-Naqid. The lad was given 
  regular access to the personal and religious libraries 
  of his master and his master’s network of friends, 
  which included Islamic scholars as well as Christian 
  and Jewish authorities. Nasch was captivated by what 
  he read and proved a quick learner, mastering Arabic 
  and a handful of other important scripts and tongues 
  before he had reached majority. He was most fascinated 
  by those texts that revealed the older history of Egypt, 
  its rulers, and its gods, and he made a special effort to 
  teach himself hieroglyphics in order to pluck from the 
  ancient inscriptions the lost secrets of the pharaohs. 
  Upon reaching the age for battle, Nasch was granted 
  his freedom and provided arms and armor in addition 
  to a mount. This did not remove his obligation to al-
  Naqid, however. As was the Mamluk custom, Nasch 
  remained bound to his former master by an oath of 
  blood loyalty. This was not an issue for the Circassian at 
  first, but in time the elder al-Naqid grew demanding and 
  continued to treat Nasch as a trophy to parade before 
  his friends as the aging bureaucrat struggled to maintain 
  his station in a shifting political landscape. As Nasch 
  increasingly resisted this treatment, al-Naqid began 
  to spread rumors of his “son” that resulted in doors 
  being closed to him that previously had been open. He 
  found himself cut off from the scholarly works that had 
  become his great passion and his contacts refused to see 
  him, all on account of al-Naqid’s poisoned words.
  Only one door remained open to the abandoned 
  Mamluk. A Copt named Abul-Darda Hashim al-
  Musayyab, a rival of al-Naqid’s who had been working 
  hard to undermine him in order to assume his 
  influential position as a tax administrator, openly 
  welcomed Nasch and supplied him the intellectual 
  companionship he desperately sought. Al-Musayyab 
  also quickly changed Nasch’s views on his obligation 
  to his former master, convincing the young man that 
  a father who does not treat his son with due respect is 
  NASCH the CIRCASSIAN
  Serpent Among Kings
  
  80 
  NASCH THE CIRCASSIAN
  himself worth none. When al-Naqid learned of Nasch’s 
  association with his enemy, he formally denounced him 
  as a conspirator and traitor. The crafty Copt seized the 
  opportunity his manipulation had provided, fanning 
  the flames in Nasch’s heart and urging him to take 
  action before al-Naqid went any further. So effective 
  was al-Musayyab’s argument that when Nasch found 
  himself standing over al-Naqid’s bloody corpse, he was 
  convinced that the idea had been his own.
  Nasch’s story might have ended there, but two things 
  worked in his favor to save him from punishment. First, 
  the Mamluks were swiftly rising in power on account 
  of the recent ascension of Baibars to the sultanate, 
  the first of the new dynasty’s rulers after centuries of 
  Ayyubid rule. Second, al-Musayyab was only the servant 
  of Nasch’s true patron, the Ventrue elder Palamon. 
  A devout Copt who dedicated himself to the goal of 
  purging Egypt of Islam and restoring it to its ancient 
  glory, Palamon had watched Nasch for some time 
  and saw in him the perfect childe. He had actually 
  masterminded al-Naqid’s downfall with the assistance 
  of “sympathetic parties” among the Followers of Set, 
  with whom he had allied himself against the Muslim 
  undead. It did not take long for Nasch to become 
  convinced to swear a new blood oath to the passionate 
  Ventrue and in 1263 he took an oath of fealty in the 
  form of the Embrace. With his nights now freed of 
  mortal concerns and the Followers of Set willing to 
  share occult secrets with him that no mortal possessed, 
  Nasch saw his sire as both his savior and a true father 
  that deserved his eternal loyalty.
  As much as he threw himself into his occult pursuits, 
  Nasch also put substantial energy into mastering 
  contemporary politics. Aided by his nascent mastery 
  of Presence, a gift that seemed to come more naturally 
  to him than his clan’s parallel affinity for Dominate, 
  he proved a skilled and valuable asset that his sire fully 
  exploited. This partnership proved a successful one and 
  by the time Nasch reached his fiftieth year as a Kindred  
  and was rewarded by being formally released by his sire, 
  the pair had become quite accomplished. However, this 
  did not last, for even as Nasch and his sire cultivated 
  influence among key officials throughout Egypt and 
  the empire’s Syrian territory, they remained wholly 
  oblivious to the way they were being manipulated.  
  The Followers of Set who had allied themselves with 
  Palamon were a very secretive cabal even among their 
  fellow Setites: a group possessed of a secret that they 
  shared with no one and would do anything to protect. 
  Dubbing themselves the Coil of the Lion, these Serpents 
  were dedicated to no less a duty than protecting one of 
  the clan’s holy sites suspected of being the tomb of the 
  Antediluvian Set. They not only knew its location, but 
  had been guarding it from discovery and intrusion for 
  millennia, keeping their progenitor safe until the time 
  had come for his return. This responsibility meant that 
  despite their dark stewardship, they occasionally had to 
  relocate the torpid form believed to be the Antediluvian 
  in order to protect him. The time had again come nigh 
  for this task and they used their Ventrue pawns to 
  ensure that this could be accomplished as smoothly as 
  possible. 
  Key to The Coil of the Lion’s plan was creating 
  enough distraction among the region’s Kindred to 
  focus their attention elsewhere when the move took 
  place. The cult decided that a political and cultural 
  scandal would serve this purpose well and the best way 
  to accomplish this was to turn Nasch against his sire. 
  Just as he had been receptive to the deceptive entreaties 
  of al-Naqid, the young Ventrue was equally susceptible 
  to the persuasions of the agents of the fork-tongued 
  Setites. He began to see his sire as no different from 
  al-Naqid, an exploitive master who only pretended 
  respect, which was not wholly untrue. He slowly came 
  to believe that his release from his sire’s authority was 
  actually a ploy to make him more loyal to Palamon even 
  as the elder took greater advantage of him: a thralldom 
  under the guise of freedom. Ultimately, The Coil of the 
  Lion succeeded in convincing Nasch that, as a Mamluk 
  and Circassian, he would never be able to achieve parity 
  with his sire or other Ventrue, but he would instead 
  always be viewed as little more than a fancy slave.
  By this time, Palamon, in large part due to the help of 
  his favored childe, had achieved near-total control over 
  the immediate advisors to Sultan al-Ashraf Sha’ban. 
  With the backing of the Setites, Nasch made his move 
  and lent his support to an uprising among the Mamluks 
  that began in Syria and quickly spread to Egypt. The 
  turmoil took Palamon, along with other Kindred, by 
  surprise and though their eventual downfall was not an 
  overnight affair, they were unable to regain their upper 
  hand. Nasch’s mortal ally Barquq, a cunning Circassian 
  like himself, was instrumental in the rebellion and, 
  after nearly five years of political and military chaos, 
  finally succeeded in seizing the sultanate for himself, 
  thereby founding the Burji Mamluk dyansty.
  Naturally, Palamon and the other Ventrue did not 
  look kindly on Nasch’s betrayal. They invoked the 
  Lextalionis and did their best to make unlife difficult 
  for the traitorous ancilla. Despite his best efforts, were 
  
  81 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  it not for his Setite patrons, Nasch knew he would be 
  doomed. It was during this tumultuous time that the 
  Coil of the Lion made its near-fatal mistake. Sure of 
  their hold over the ruined Ventrue, they grew careless 
  and boasted about their true purpose to enflame the 
  imagination of the Ventrue they considered their 
  debtor. They underestimated his understanding of the 
  old ways and when they demanded his assistance in 
  helping them ensure the protection of some pilgrims 
  to the necropolis of Saqqara, he knew it was his only 
  opportunity to seize an advantage that he so desperately 
  needed. 
  In the winter of 1381, with the eyes of local Kindred 
  directed elsewhere, the Coil of the Lion undertook 
  the dangerous journey they had planned for so long. 
  When Nasch’s Mamluks attacked the small caravan the 
  morning after their arrival in Saqqara, the Setite ghouls 
  and mercenaries were unprepared and unable to defend 
  their cargo. The raiders seized the opulent sarcophogus 
  and all but two of the Setite escorts met Final Death, 
  the survivors fleeing in snake form into the night-
  chilled sands. Their minions were slaughtered and all 
  traces of the caravan burned or secreted away inside 
  desert-scourged tombs. They dragged this choicest prize 
  into one such funereal chamber and guarded it until 
  the sun set.
  When Nasch arose and stood before the ebony 
  coffin he was not sure exactly how to go about the 
  deed. He had read and heard many different things 
  about the Amaranth, but such forbidden whispers 
  bore no specifics. What he was sure of was that no 
  matter how things happened, he was facing a creature 
  that was whispered (fearfully, reverently) to be nothing 
  less than a god in the eyes of the Setites, and to come 
  unprepared would unquestionably mean his demise. 
  For this reason he had worked every minion, contact, 
  and pawn he could, and all but emptied his treasury in 
  order to obtain something that might help him survive 
  and accomplish this task.
  Nasch’s efforts paid off when he was able, a mere few 
  weeks before the desert raid, to acquire a small sliver of 
  ancient bone from a merchant who desperately craved 
  the reward of “eternal life” in exchange for the relic. The 
  merchant claimed that the bone was nothing less than a 
  fragment of the forearm of Osiris, Set’s nemesis. Nasch 
  relished the opportunity, having read in a collection 
  of Gnostic apocrypha that “one of the betrayer’s get” 
  might deal a grievous wound to “his thrice-damned 
  progeny.” Although Nasch asked a handful of trusted 
  conspirators to verify the assertion that the bone 
  fragment was the real thing, he remained skeptical, but 
  without other options and time running out he had 
  little choice but to put his faith in the artifact.
  When his thralls pried open the last seal and removed 
  the startlingly plain inner lid that had concealed the 
  face of Antediluvian, Nasch felt the world shift. The 
  a susurration quickly grew into a clamor — the sound 
  of a thousand serpents rending the air with their 
  unearthly hissing as the chamber around him vanished 
  into blackness. He found himself standing upon a dais 
  in a vast, open temple situated on an otherwise empty 
  expanse of desert that stretched into infinity. Before him 
  lay the body of a man with the head of an unspeakable 
  beast, no sarcophagus in sight, naked but for a simple 
  loincloth. For a few moments Nasch surrendered to a 
  fear that made even the Red Fear seem insignificant. He 
  could not move and was sure that he was to meet Final 
  Death, sure that this was Set, and that the Antediluvian 
  would slake its thirst thirst on his vitae.
  It was at that moment that Nasch recalled the memory 
  of the eagle and the snake. Without permitting himself 
  another thought, he leapt forward and sank his fangs 
  into the dark god.
  What happened next he cannot or will not permit 
  himself to guess. To this night, Nasch recalls a distant 
  memory of power, unimaginable power, surging 
  through him, and of a tremendous roar that drowned 
  out all other sensation. He knows, too, there was pain, 
  as if the sun itself had swallowed him. And his body 
  unconsciously quakes with a terror so all-encompassing 
  that to this night all his other fears have lost their hold 
  on him. 
  When Nasch awakened, he discovered that more than 
  a decade had passed. He found himself in a monastery 
  in Sicily. His servitors had arranged for his transport 
  out of Egypt, but only one remained with him, and 
  the man could provide few additional details about the 
  fateful night in Saqqara. Nasch became convinced that 
  the shard of Osiris had been real, for he could find no 
  other explanation for his survival. At first he believed 
  he had succeeded in committing diablerie, but this 
  conviction did not last long. Strange visions began to 
  haunt his dreams, visions of serpents consuming the 
  world, writhing from the trees and walls, and worse. 
  An unrelenting hissing plagued him when awake, a 
  hallucination he struggled hard to master. 
  The most telling sign that whatever had transpired 
  had failed was his own form. Upon arising from torpor, 
  Nasch had become gaunt and reeked of the grave. 
  
  82 
  NASCH THE CIRCASSIAN
  Initially, he assumed this was normal after torpor and 
  that he would soon regain his former appearance, but 
  no amount of blood would reverse this change. He 
  soon came to believe that rather than taking the vitae 
  an Antediluvian, whatever ancient Kindred this truly 
  was had instead performed some lesser Amaranth upon 
  him, leaving him permanently weakened. In the vain 
  hope of reversing his condition he engaged in an orgy 
  of blood-drinking that exceeded the capacities of his 
  monastic environs. Sure enough, word reached the ears 
  of a nearby Lasombra elder who had barely survived the 
  Burning Times and had no wish to see them rekindled 
  on her doorstep. With no minions or moneys at his 
  disposal, and not wishing to draw too much attention 
  to himself, Nasch chose to heed her warning and he left 
  the domain for Milan.
  For the next few years, Nasch kept a low profile and 
  played the genteel and unassuming Ventrue ancilla. 
  Although outwardly loyal to his clan, his closest ties were 
  to the Tremere. Soon after joining the city’s Kindred, 
  he sought their counsel as to the existence of some art 
  or artifact that might be able to mute his presence  and 
  hide him from Set and his agents. The Malkavian Oracle 
  at Milan sensed an aura of doom around him and made 
  an effort to avoid him, refusing to share her auguries 
  with him. The Nosferatu similarly had no interest in 
  teaching their Discipline to the blighted Ventrue, but 
  the Tremere had no such compunctions. In fact, on the 
  contrary, the magus Marco Pessina was intrigued by the 
  paranoid Blue Blood and promised to help in exchange 
  for Nasch’s knowledge of the Followers of Set and their 
  cyclopean rituals. 
  In 1402, Pessina completed a ritual that he said 
  would answer the Ventrue’s prayers. According to 
  Pessina, the Ritual of Concealing would diminish 
  Nasch’s presence so greatly that no Kindred of the foul 
  blood of the Followers of Set, not even the founder 
  of the clan himself, would be able to detect him. The 
  rite came with two caveats: First, the ritual’s power was 
  contingent upon Nasch’s own behavior. The more 
  he advertised his presence, the weaker the protection 
  would be. Second, given the incredible strength of the 
  blood magic — it is no mean feat to obscure one of 
  the Damned from a god — its efficacy would fade over 
  time. The only way to replenish the ritual’s potency was 
  for Nasch to enter torpor, during which time it would 
  regain its original might. 
  As final payment for the Tremere’s efforts, Nasch had 
  Pessina destroyed. He provided enough information to 
  
  83 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  a Toreador neonate inspired by the recent rumblings of 
  the soon-to-be Anarch Revolt as was necessary and let 
  Kindred nature take its course. Just to be safe, Nasch 
  then tipped off the Tremere of Milan to the jealous 
  Toreador in their midst, “to avenge the death of Marco 
  Pessina, who aided me when I needed it.” Outside 
  Pessina, only one other Tremere had knowledge of 
  Nasch’s treachery, but Nasch was unable to find him 
  after the betrayal — the archon Ambrus Kelemen, who 
  was conspicuously absent the night Pessina met Final 
  Death.
  This became Nasch’s modus operandi. When, over 
  the years, he sought an advantage among his kind, 
  he identified a downtrodden neonate or ancilla 
  and convince the patsy to stand against one or more 
  established Kindred presented an obstacle, even 
  while openly defending the Traditions and declaring 
  allegiance to the establishment. Some, many even, fell 
  for these lies, aided as they were by vampiric charms, 
  but more often those in power saw through his sham 
  and sought his head for stirring up the Anarchs. He 
  survived as long as he did in Milan only because of 
  his continued alliance with the Tremere, who found it 
  more strategically beneficial to look beyond his likely 
  involvement with the diablerie of one of their own in 
  order to gain as much additional information about 
  Setite and Egyptian rituals as possible. One night, they 
  figured, his worth would expire, and then so would he.
  The Tremere did not have that chance, however 
  — at least not yet. Regardless of the danger he might 
  invite, Nasch has historically been unable to avoid the 
  limelight. His reliance on the Discipline of Presence 
  stirred up feelings of rebellion and immediate action 
  in any who fell under its sway, particularly those 
  weak-willed neonates who had become dangerously 
  numerous over the centuries. Even when he eschewed 
  the use of his Disciplines, it was usually too late, and in 
  more than one domain, the Anarchs had already taken 
  to the streets shouting his name. Almost overnight, 
  Milan became a battleground for those defending the 
  Traditions and those howling for a new order and the 
  blood of the defenders. Even as he was hailed as a hero 
  by the Milanese Anarchs and their “patron saint,” a 
  Lasombra named Giangaleazzo, Nasch became terrified 
  that the Tremere ritual would be powerless to protect 
  him from Setite vengeance. Even if it did, the Tremere 
  would still have his head when they finally reached 
  their tolerance of him, as Nasch was sure they would. 
  Ironically, a third contingency proved to be a far more 
  immediate threat.
  The Anarchs were not the only ones who had seized 
  power in Milan. The nascent Sabbat had converted many 
  of the impressionable Anarchs to their cause, heeding 
  the exhortations of Giangaleazzo, or taking the faith of 
  the Sword of Cain under pain of martyrdom. Nasch 
  did not escape the turning tides of Milanese politics 
  and was brought before Giangaleazzo. Desperate, he 
  played the only card he had. In a closed-door parlay 
  with the Lasombra, Nasch traded his knowledge of the 
  purported Setite Antediluvian’s tomb to the astonished 
  vampire in exchange for his protection from the Sword 
  of Caine. The Lasombra “saint” agreed and declared 
  his safety in Milan, so long as the Archbishop himself 
  was satisfied with the contents of the desert tomb.
  Having secured his safety for a time, Nasch voluntarily 
  entered torpor in order to recharge the Tremere Ritual 
  of Concealment.  He woke decades later, with the 
  Tremere absent from the City of the Boar. Surprised 
  that he had been spared by both angry Usurpers and 
  tempestuous Sabbat — and now fully protected by the 
  ritual once again — Nasch skulked away from Milan. 
  Since the fifteenth century, Nasch has spent significant 
  time in at least a score of cities, usually doing his best 
  at first to not draw attention, but always finding himself 
  unable to resist the tendencies that advertise his presence 
  and force him to flee and again seek torpor. His corruptive 
  influence is almost like a virus, and in each place his 
  legacy is one of destabilizing sedition and open violence 
  against the powers that be that often lasts for some time 
  after his terrified exit from the storm he incited.  
  Tonight, Nasch still clings to those few memories 
  he has of life before the nightmare began. The horse, 
  his sister, his mother’s cooking. But the last one, the 
  memory of the eagle, is increasingly replaced not by 
  another recollection, but by a vision of the future. Instead 
  of the eagle falling upon the snake, it is the snake that 
  finds the eagle asleep in his aerie and with cold-blooded 
  intent sinks its fangs into the unsuspecting raptor and 
  crushes it with the strength of a vengeful god.
  Sire: Palamon the Copt
  Clan: Ventrue
  Nature: Conniver
  Demeanor: Eye of the Storm
  Generation: 7th
  Embrace: 1263
  Apparent Age: Withered by time
  Physical: Strength 3, Dexterity 3, Stamina 5
  Social: Charisma 6, Manipulation 5, Appearance 1
  
  84 
  NASCH THE CIRCASSIAN
  Mental: Perception 3, Intelligence 4, Wits 5
  Talents: Expression 4, Leadership 4, Subterfuge 5
  Skills: Etiquette 2, Melee 3, Stealth 3, Survival 4
  Knowledges: Academics 4 (Pharaonic History), 
  Occult 5 (Egyptian rituals), Politics 4
  Disciplines: Auspex 1, Dominate 4, Fortitude 5, 
  Potence 4, Presence 6, Serpentis 1
  Backgrounds: Contacts 2, Influence 4, Resources 3, 
  Status (Anarchs) 3
  Merits/Flaws: Language (Adyghe, Arabic, Aramaic, 
  Coptic, Hebrew), Smell of the Grave
  Virtues: Conscience 2, Self-Control 1, Courage 4
  Morality: Humanity 3
  Willpower: 8
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 20/4
  Image: Nasch appears taller than his entirely 
  average frame on account of his unusually emaciated 
  condition, a situation that also makes him seem greatly 
  aged. His once-powerful muscles have winnowed to a 
  wiry physique, contributing even more to his unsettling 
  appearance. His dark hair is long and straggly, but 
  otherwise he keeps himself clean-shaven, and the 
  charnel scent that accompanies him completes the 
  image of a monster. Only his deep brown eyes hint 
  at his remaining humanity. Nasch typically dresses 
  in clothing suitable for his environment, though it’s 
  perhaps a bit careworn. He is animated when speaking 
  and unable to contain his passions, but he can swiftly 
  transform into a creature of silent paranoia that is 
  notably uncomfortable around others.
  Roleplaying Hints: The Circassian is alternately 
  terrified of the dreadful fate that he’s certain will soon 
  be his — the one he knows he deserves — or manically 
  focused on a scheme that will earn him just enough 
  time to achieve his short-term goals before rebellion 
  once again erupts around him. He is at constant war 
  with himself, seeking to avoid attention for his own 
  safety while at the same time craving the cruel pleasure 
  that betrayal and upheaval bring him. He is an awful 
  creature, a liar for a lie’s own sake and devilishly 
  deceitful.
  Haven: Most of the time, Nasch’s haven is a private, 
  secure home or small structure far from the path any 
  Kindred would have reason to tread. He does not 
  invite others into his domain, and is always prepared to 
  relocate should it be discovered.
  Influence: Among the Anarch Movement, Nasch is 
  as much admired as a leader as he is reviled as a Jonah. 
  While educated Anarchs respect him for his role in 
  the Anarch Revolt, they also see him as the liar he is, 
  knowing he has no loyalty to their sect. Cagey Anarchs 
  may try to exploit Nasch both as the inspiring figure 
  his Presence projects, but also as a necessary sacrifice 
  for the dominant sect if their revolution or subsequent 
  barony fails. This ruse itself usually comes apart as 
  those who would use Nasch fall under the sway of his 
  Presence (and they almost always do). The Camarilla 
  certainly has no love for the Ventrue traitor, but it has 
  refrained from formally pursuing his destruction on 
  account of… things certain Malkavians and Nosferatu 
  whisper about the Circassian.
  
  85 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  
  86 
  MARC de BRABANT
  Deus vult! The cry of madmen, tyrants, and fools. We 
  can never know God’s will. That is all the more reason 
  to treasure our own
  Given to the care of the local Benedictine priory by 
  peasant parents who were too poor to feed him, Marc 
  de Brabant grew up in the 12th century half-expecting 
  to become a monk. At the age of 16, he ran away from 
  the priory in a fit of adolescent rebellion following 
  the death of his beloved mentor, and took up an 
  itinerant’s life across France, eking out a meager living 
  as an agricultural laborer. He sought, in a vague and 
  incoherent way, some kind of purpose in life, and he 
  found it, for a time, in the preaching of a young man 
  named Stephan of Cloyes, the leader of the so-called 
  Children’s Crusade.
  The “children” were in reality not children at all, but 
  young peasants short of work and long on idealism. 
  Stephan of Cloyes, whom history remembers as a 
  12-year-old boy, was actually a charismatic fanatic in 
  his early 20s. The presumptuousness of this unwashed 
  peasant and his ragtag army horrified the nobles and 
  churchmen of Paris, who peremptorily sent them on 
  their way, but Marc continued to believe in Stephan 
  as the crusade meandered through France to the port 
  of Marseilles. There, the naive and idealistic young 
  vagabonds were offered free passage to the Holy Land 
  by unscrupulous merchants who shackled them and 
  sold them as a lot in the slave markets of North Africa.
  Marc ended up in the service of a fat, greasy, Algerian 
  merchant, who discovered that the youth had a 
  remarkable memory. The slave became a living ledger-
  book in addition to a whipping boy and a reluctant 
  catamite. The merchant tried to cheat the Kindred 
  who would become Marc’s sire, Megan of Bristol, 
  who promptly offered the Algerian a choice between 
  an ignominious death or signing over his wealth and 
  property to Marc. The merchant chose the latter and 
  vanished into the night, presumably to die of old age in 
  safe anonymity.
  Next, Megan offered Marc a choice: life as an 
  independent merchant, or the Embrace as her 
  lieutenant. True loyalty, she told him, could not be 
  demanded, only offered freely. She wanted his loyalty; 
  she could be sure that she had it only if she gave him a 
  genuine say in the matter.
  Marc had spent his life doing what others had claimed 
  was the will of God. He hadn’t precisely lost his faith, 
  but he had certainly lost his faith that anyone did or 
  could know what God’s will actually was. In place of 
  blind faith, he would, he decided, simply have to follow 
  his own will, hope that it found favor in God’s eyes, 
  and support the right of others to do the same. Megan 
  offered him power, wealth, and immortality. Why 
  should he fear a Damnation preached by a Church 
  whose doctrine he could no longer believe actually 
  represented God’s plan?
  His first few decades of coping with the Beast gave 
  him more than sufficient answer to that question. 
  But by then, it was too late, and his years as a slave 
  had taught him a great deal about surviving a harsh 
  existence.
  The Crusades opened an avenue of profit for those 
  who had an entrepreneurial spirit, savvy Kindred 
  among them. From the Ventrue lords whose martial 
  might gave them a valuable asset, to the Lasombra 
  and Toreador who wielded influence in the Church, 
  to an offshoot of the Cappadocians who supplied the 
  Crusades via their trade routes, holy war made many 
  Cainites rich. Marc, as the junior member of a coterie 
  that included his sire and grandsire, spent the High 
  Middle Ages roaming Europe and the Mediterranean 
  Basin, laying the foundations of a trading and banking 
  empire that would one night extend into India and the 
  New World as well. With the War of Princes under way, 
  MARC de BRABANT
  Shadow Prince-Apostate
  
  87 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  his coterie was able to parlay its services as couriers and 
  (occasionally and very discreetly) spies, in exchange for 
  permission to operate in the domains of many different 
  Cainite rulers. Of these august elders, no few went on 
  to become luminaries in the Camarilla or the Sabbat.
  By the late 14th century, Marc had developed some 
  sympathy for the nascent Anarch cause in its early 
  stages, but that withered away as the Revolt gave way 
  to the rabid Sabbat. He still believed that everyone, 
  Cainite and kine, should have a chance to choose his 
  own destiny and the Sabbat Vaulderie, in his view, 
  eroded that choice in the name of a brutally wielded 
  doctrine that merely replaced God with Caine. The 
  Camarilla might be the vehicle of oppressive elders, but 
  at least most of them took a hands-off approach to what 
  their subjects believed, so long as they observed the 
  Traditions and rendered tribute. And the Masquerade 
  protected the kine by default, even if that wasn’t its true 
  purpose. Over the next two centuries, Marc became 
  an advocate for the Camarilla at Gangrel Gathers 
  throughout Europe, building a (somewhat undeserved) 
  reputation as one of the sect’s greatest supporters.
  By the dawn of the Renaissance, Marc de Brabant 
  had amassed for himself a fortune, riding the tides of 
  profit that came from the centuries-old struggle between 
  Christ’s followers and Mohammed’s. As the Crusades 
  wound down, Marc’s coterie felt the weight of the ages 
  and gradually dispersed. The Age of Faith gave way to 
  the Age of Rebirth, and while much of the cultural 
  landscape of Europe turned its attentions to the glory 
  of the classical era, Marc found himself looking forward 
  instead. Practicing a policy of enlightened self-interest, 
  Marc found himself alienated from other, more primal 
  Gangrel at the same time he found himself at odds 
  with the more urbane Kindred of Renaissance cities. 
  With unprecedented clarity of thought, Marc turned 
  his outsider status and uncommon perspective from a 
  liability into an asset. As his relationship with his fellow 
  Gangrel grew remote, he engaged in Jyhad where the 
  more “refined” Kindred usually plied their schemes: in 
  the city.
  Those refined Kindred saw an anomaly in Marc, a 
  Kindred who thought in terms of structures and systems 
  rather than individual gains. He was especially popular 
  in the salons of Brussels, where he ultimately decided 
  to establish a haven. For Marc, the proximity to power 
  but the distance from the serpentine courts of Rome 
  and Venice was a great boon. Here, he could propose 
  his systems of Kindred governance with the pomp of 
  the Camarilla but the modern outlook of the Anarchs. 
  And though his personal ideals flirted with political 
  heresy in the opinions of the moneyed gentry of the 
  Ivory Tower, his forward-looking financial savvy earned 
  him a number of influential patrons, who became 
  merchant princes in the same idiom as their Italian 
  counterparts. While the southern Renaissance thrived 
  in Florence and Venice, in the north, Brussels was the 
  seat of enlightenment and prosperity, no small amount 
  of which originated with this charismatic Gangrel who 
  brought his traveled insights to the opulence of the 
  Flemish courts.
   In time, a coterie of Dutch Kindred who aligned 
  themselves with the Camarilla, familiar with Marc’s 
  history and sect politics, extended him an offer. The 
  New World promised great opportunity, and their 
  interest was looking for an agent who might take the 
  “company” to new domains across the Atlantic Ocean.
  By this time, Marc had settled into the luxury so 
  many elders seek, and knew that unless he undertook a 
  new challenge, he risked falling into the licentiousness 
  of post-Renaissance privilege that the emergent 
  Reformation sought to remedy. The Beast within him 
  had grown comfortable and lethargic, and the wild 
  Gangrel with whom he shared his blood would be 
  ashamed of his success. He had become a lapdog, an 
  advisor to Princes, and a victim of his own ability to see 
  the way of the world before it happened.
  With this in mind, Marc left his riches in his beloved 
  Brabant. Provisioned by wealthy patrons, he followed 
  the course of Henry Hudson to the New World, where 
  he established himself as an overseer of company 
  interests in Fort Orange.
  And then he vanished from history.
  Kindred knowledgeable in the politics of the New 
  World sects believe that Marc de Brabant took his 
  patrons’ money and used it to establish a network 
  of petty domains, each of which fell under the sway 
  of one faction or another while ultimately funneling 
  their tribute back to a “Prince” who ruled from the far-
  reaching dark of the North American forests. As Dutch 
  interests favored free trade, a shadow market emerged 
  in which mortal chattels and Kindred assets found safe 
  passage to the New World, where they were quietly 
  delivered to their masters. Gangrel trappers, guides, 
  and couriers crisscrossed the region, tithing some of 
  their earnings to the unseen lord of the region, who 
  then ensured that some amount of it made its way back 
  to the Netherlands and into the coffers of the company. 
  Marc de Brabant may have gone, but his investors knew 
  
  88 
  MARC de BRABANT
  better than to ask questions, so long as the ledgers 
  remained in the black.
  Marc de Brabant has not succumbed to torpor 
  or met Final Death at the claws and fangs of some 
  Lupine horror, however. He learned of Golconda from 
  the Methuselah Menele during that Brujah’s ancient 
  vendetta with Helena, when the two crossed paths after 
  the Dutch seized Spanish holdings in the West Indies. 
  Marc sought personal redemption after making his 
  fortune profiteering with the slave trade, and set out on 
  the difficult path of Golconda to achieve it. Ultimately, 
  the way of Golconda proved too arduous, and the 
  Gangrel plunged into a period of self-exile, during 
  which, despite fits of fugue, he reigned as the power 
  behind the minor fiefdoms he had helped establish in 
  the name of the company. In the form of wolf, bat, or 
  creeping mist, Marc followed a path across the country 
  and back for centuries that only he understood. Only 
  during the past several decades has he felt any impetus 
  to retake the shape of a man and see what has come of 
  the world in the absence of his eye for profit.
  And so it has been for the centuries between the Dutch 
  trade company period and now. Even as the Sabbat and 
  Camarilla clashed, as domains burned, praxis shifted, 
  and territories passed from the clutches of one night-
  fiend to another, the money kept flowing. Those who 
  tried to withhold their tribute from the invisible Prince 
  of the petty domains surrounding the prestigious ones 
  felt not the ruinous claws of a berserk Outlander, but 
  the cold vengeance of a remote master. Their partners 
  soured on them, their contacts abandoned them, their 
  families suffered hardships, and their interests waned. 
  For vampires may come and go in a domain, but steadier 
  than the tides of Kindred politics are the customs of 
  mortals. In some of the petty domains, Marc’s interests 
  had been paying tribute to their mysterious patron for 
  five generations. And when some upstart Ventrue or 
  hell-bent Lasombra shows up in the lesser territories on 
  the fringes of the more prominent domains, he’s seen 
  as an outsider. Far safer to do as the family has always 
  done and keep paying the “dividend” to the boss who 
  visits only at night and let him deal with it.
  The scheme didn’t always work. Marc had to 
  temporarily abandon a domain or let an ally languish 
  more than once. The territory was simply too vast, 
  and the number of Kindred psychos each of the sects 
  is willing to throw at each other too overwhelming to 
  engage. As ever, though, Marc knew that patience and 
  slow confidence would always win out over reckless 
  bravado. Although he grew up in Crusading era of the 
  early 13th century, and spent his first Cainite years as a 
  bit player in the War of Princes, Marc de Brabant finds 
  his medieval world-view surprisingly relevant to the 21st 
  century. From the mom-and-pop antique shops of St. 
  Lawrence county to the foundries of Allentown, from 
  the lonely domains of the Adirondacks to the bridge-
  town territories crossing the Schuylkill, the tribute 
  trickles up to the unseen Prince.
  Deus Vult
  The popular crusades, including the misnamed 
  Children’s Crusade, were a kind of ideological and 
  theological revolt. Mainstream crusading was an 
  aristocratic enterprise organized by the Church; 
  the popular crusaders were peasants who thought 
  themselves directly inspired by God. Mainstream 
  crusading was all about putting the infidel to the 
  sword; the popular crusades advocated peaceful 
  conversion through love and redemption. Mainstream 
  crusading was a rich lord’s craft; the popular crusades 
  associated holiness with poverty and humility. Unlike 
  later revolts such as Wat Tyler’s, though, the popular 
  crusades weren’t about challenging the existing social 
  order, though they did implicitly challenge the moral 
  authority of its leaders.
  The tragic end of the Children’s Crusade destroyed 
  Marc’s certainty that he was doing God’s work. His 
  distrust of the Church’s moral vision widened to 
  encompass grand visions or ideologies of any kind (which 
  remains his main quarrel with the Anarchs and their ill-
  defined notions of “freedom”). But his attitudes are still 
  largely shaped by the events of Children’s Crusade and 
  its aftermath. He retains a tarnished faith in God, but 
  is still instinctively distrustful — if not outright hostile 
  — toward any religious figure who claims to speak for 
  Him. Saracens, Jews, gays… the targets change, but the 
  tired old calls to Holy War against them stay the same. 
  The Sabbat’s conversion-by-the-sword ideology, so eerily 
  reminiscent of the mainstream crusading movement of 
  his youth, is simply the most extreme manifestation of 
  the phenomenon, in his eyes.
  Marc still clings, albeit weakly, to the idea that 
  converting an enemy is better than destroying one. After 
  eight centuries in the darkness, he uses violence with a 
  casualness that would have horrified his younger self, 
  and his belief in the efficacy of love and redemption 
  has long since withered away, but he’ll always prefer 
  a peaceful resolution to a violent one. Of course, his 
  ideas of “peaceful” now include the Kindred portfolio 
  of lies, manipulation, deceit and treachery, but an echo 
  of his old conviction still remains. So, too, does his 
  
  89 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  belief in good and evil and the importance of pursuing 
  a higher moral purpose, which is why he nominally 
  supports the Camarilla and occasionally indulges the 
  title of Prince. The Camarilla, horribly flawed as it is, 
  at least observes Humanity as the proper moral path, 
  and persuasion and negotiation as the default mode 
  of interaction between Kindred. Not, to be sure, for 
  ethical reasons, but the end result is the same. As he 
  puts it, “The Camarilla creates morality the way a 
  Victorian factory created smog. It’s an unwanted by-
  product that the owners would gladly be rid of, but the 
  air’s still thick with it”.
  The appreciable wealth Marc has accumulated came 
  as a result of a more practical kind of revolution: the 
  tremendous development of shipping, trade, and 
  related arts like cartography that took place across the 
  Mediterranean basin as a result of the Crusades. He 
  spent his early centuries in constant travel, sometimes 
  through the domains of hostile Cainites, with his wits 
  and resourcefulness constantly challenged. Perhaps it 
  was the habits of mind established in that era that have 
  allowed him to avoid two of the endemic banes of elder 
  Kindred — stagnation and a tendency to rely on others 
  to do his dirty work.
  Tonight, Marc’s fortunes are a fraction of what 
  they once were, but those incomes are steady, if dirty, 
  and still enough to keep him well appointed. Like a 
  medieval reeve collecting the taxes, Marc prowls among 
  his tenant domains, taking blood and money at every 
  stop of the territory that stretches for hundreds of 
  miles. He’s no stranger to the more populous domains, 
  and he nurses a penchant for travel that’s well-served 
  by his Gangrel lineage and his practical experience 
  moving through what others would consider a Lupine-
  haunted backwater. Those seeking a quiet transition 
  from one domain to another might of necessity move 
  through Marc’s “border domains,” and he may find 
  himself amiably disposed — or wrathful if an interloper 
  is reluctant to provide the proper tribute or tithe.
  Sire: Megan of Bristol 
  Clan: Gangrel
  Nature: Competitor
  Demeanor: Autocrat
  Generation: 10th
  Embrace: 1216
  Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 4, Stamina 3
  Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 5, Appearance 3
  Mental: Perception 5, Intelligence 4, Wits 4
  Talents: Alertness 3, Athletics 2, Awareness 3, Brawl 2, 
  Empathy 4, Leadership 3, Streetwise 3, Subterfuge 
  (confidence) 4
  Skills: Drive 1, Etiquette (Elysium) 4, Larceny 4, 
  Performance (acting) 4, Stealth 4
  Knowledges: Academics 3, Finance 5, Investigation 4, 
  Occult 3, Politics 5
  Disciplines: Animalism 5, Auspex 2, Celerity 2, 
  Fortitude 5, Obfuscate 3, Protean 5
  Backgrounds: Allies 5, Contacts 5, Generation 3, 
  Herd 3, Influence 3, Mentor 3, Resources 5, Retainers 5, 
  Status 4
  Virtues: Conscience 3, Self-Control 4, Courage 4
  Morality: Humanity 5
  Willpower: 7
  Image: Marc stands around five-and-a-half feet tall. 
  His build is thin, but his early life as an peasant laborer 
  shows through in his wiry muscle. He has a slender-
  boned face, with short, fair hair. His body has relatively 
  few permanent animal features, given his many years 
  of comfort, and these he conceals using Mask of a 
  Thousand Faces. Embraced a few months after his 20th 
  birthday, he uses his youthful looks to pose as a college 
  student when he hunts, and he usually dresses the part.
  Roleplaying Hints: Your distrust of the harmful 
  ideologues and ideologies of the cosmopolitan domains 
  has itself becomes a harmful ideology, and your desire 
  to avoid abuse at the hands of more established Kindred 
  powers makes you demanding at best and yourself 
  abusive at worst. While you genuinely prefer the rigors 
  of the Path of Humanity, you’re perhaps a little too 
  comfortable with choosing a lesser evil when “good” 
  seems too difficult, and quite ruthless toward anything 
  you can label overtly “evil.” You sometimes affect a 
  benevolent mien, and by the standards of a Kindred 
  elder, you may well be, but you’re also capable of a great 
  deal of vengeance, spite, and catastrophic violence 
  when you consider yourself taken advantage of.
  
  90 
  RODERIGO AL-DAKHIL
  
  91 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  For all the time he has existed, Roderigo al-Dakhil 
  best remembers his few bright shining years as one of 
  the architects of fate. 
  His first touch of magic almost broke him. As a 
  Castilian soldier in the army fighting to reclaim Cadiz, 
  he’d drilled for the day when he encountered the Moors, 
  like many young men he knew. But the reality was very 
  different from the stories, from the scenarios a fervent 
  young Spanish man had woven in his imagination.
  Gone were the monsters he was sure the Moor would 
  be, flaunting God’s grace and the sovereignty of his 
  beloved Spain. When he drove his sword through the 
  first of his enemies, it stuck, trapped between two ribs. 
  He pulled and grunted, trying to work it free, while the 
  dying man screamed his life away and soiled himself. 
  The reality wasn’t noble or brave — it was horrifying. 
  This was a man, a man with a mother and two younger 
  brothers, Roderigo saw somehow, a man with a lover 
  who at that moment was praying for him to return to 
  her safely. He glimpsed all those who were important 
  to the dying man: a loving son, a devoted brother, a 
  passionate and tender lover.
  And when the man died, Roderigo’s soul shattered.
  He woke to find a strange monk bending over him 
  on the nighttime remnants of the battlefield. The man 
  shushed him and told him to rest. The monk blessed 
  the body of his slain enemy and took Roderigo away to 
  explain what had happened. He was now one of the 
  secret angels of the world, blessed by God with a great 
  destiny. On his head and soul was placed the mark of 
  Uriel, the angel of death.
  For a year, Roderigo learned from his new mentor 
  Brother Figueroa. Once Cadiz had fallen and Roderigo 
  released to go home, the two undertook a long journey 
  along the Silk Road. Eventually, they found themselves 
  in Turkey, where Brother Figueroa introduced him to 
  other magi like himself, in a citadel carved by magic 
  within the volcano called Nemrut Dagi. They were not 
  only Muslims and Christians, nor even all People of the 
  Book. They belonged to every faith Roderigo had ever 
  heard of, and several more besides. And all claimed the 
  same destiny: to bring an ending to the world when the 
  thread of Fate was overlong.
  There he studied the arts of destiny, death and the 
  afterlife. He learned the great Mysteries of this order 
  of death-sages. Roderigo met ghosts from ancient 
  civilizations, and mystics from all corners of the world. 
  He met stranger figures, as well, including the one who 
  would have the most lasting impact on his existence, the 
  scholar and necromancer called Mokhadaji Ranpur, a 
  vampire of great age.
  Ranpur and Roderigo spent many nights together, 
  discussing the nature of the dead and death itself. From 
  Ranpur, Roderigo first learned of the soul of a whole 
  city, an ancient city lost in the howling ghost-winds of 
  the Underworld. In time, however, the order to which 
  Roderigo belonged came under attack by their enemies. 
  Ranpur disappeared one night, returning whence 
  he’d originally come, with only a written promise to 
  Roderigo that they would meet again.
  Roderigo found his soldierly talents in demand once 
  more as their enemies sent great and shining angelic 
  spirits to bring an end to the “spiritual corruption” they 
  claimed had taken root in the volcano. He and all his 
  order fought hard, but they were outmatched. At the 
  suggestion of Brother Figueroa, the magicians of the 
  order performed a great ritual to move their citadel to 
  the mountains of northern Spain.
  Over the next several years, Roderigo and the vampire 
  Ranpur carried on an extended correspondence, 
  carried through the winds of the Underworld by the 
  voices of ghosts bound to their service. By the time 
  Roderigo had seen his fifteenth year as a sorcerer, his 
  power had grown, and for the first time he ventured 
  into the Underworld.
  RODERIGO AL-DAKHIL
  Lich of the Dead City
  
  92 
  RODERIGO AL-DAKHIL
  Into the Dead Lands
  His journey was fraught with dangers to body and 
  soul, particularly for a lone magus, and he braved 
  their terrors with an iron will. Following one of the 
  ghosts bound to his and Ranpur’s correspondence, he 
  managed to find his way to the strange black city in the 
  heart of the afterlife.
  Sadly, these walls did not offer him sanctuary, but 
  dangers greater than any he’d faced. A small moment, 
  a lapse in judgment and the black horrors that lurked 
  within those ancient walls snuffed Roderigo al-
  Dakhil’s life. Before his soul fled him entirely, however, 
  Mokhadaji Ranpur found and Embraced him.
  Thus, he woke a second time as a changed creature. 
  For a time, the loss of his connections to the realms of 
  spirit and magic broke him, and he howled in a prison 
  labyrinth beneath the ancient city. 
  For years, Ranpur would venture down into the cells 
  where the mad neonate dwelt, and simply sit and talk. He 
  spoke on many topics — Hindu theology, philosophies 
  of the ancients, funereal customs, the role of fate in 
  mankind’s destiny. Ranpur read to Roderigo from the 
  Guarded Rubrics, the sacred texts of the Tal’Mahe’Ra, 
  the sect that Ranpur served as a Rawi. In time, through 
  sheer pedagoguery and tenacity, Ranpur restored some 
  sanity back into his suffering childe.
  For almost a century, Roderigo remained in the Dead 
  City, learning at the feet of his master. He read the 
  crumbling libraries of the Tal’Mahe’Ra and spoke with 
  its most learned sages. He listened to the philosophies 
  of the enigmatic Del’Roh and made himself available 
  to the sect’s Liches for any tasks that might need the 
  attentions of a young and eager Kindred.
  Finally, at the dawn of the 15th Century, he petitioned 
  the Basalt Throne for permission to return to the 
  mortal world. The Del’Roh considered the request for 
  one week before granting permission. Roderigo would 
  go and serve as an agent of the Dead City in the world 
  of mortals, however, acting as the voice of the Del’Roh 
  to those Cainites of the sect who worked to inflame 
  the Inquisition against the rebellious childer of the 
  Antediluvians.
  Seeker of Heresy
  For years Roderigo worked tirelessly in Spain, applying 
  a gentle pressure to the agents of the Church. Many 
  vampires claimed to have controlled the Inquisition 
  through the years, but if any came close to it, it was 
  Roderigo. Even his influence was subtle, consisting of 
  whispers in the right ears, relaying information on the 
  whereabouts of vampires to them occasionally and — 
  most important of all — preventing any other Kindred 
  from gaining unreasonable sway over the Inquisition.
  While acting in this capacity, he found evidence of strange 
  heresies among the Bogomils. While the Tal’mahe’Ra 
  specialized in seeding their own strange rituals and beliefs 
  into the heretical notions of mortals, this was different. 
  According to one informant, these Bogomils used full 
  stanzas from the Guarded Rubrics as liturgy of some kind 
  in their debased chthonic rites. Moreover, they quoted 
  the Rubrics with verses that Roderigo had never heard 
  of, suggesting that they might possess a fuller copy of the 
  Rubrics than had been seen to date.
  Delivering responsibility for continuing his work 
  to another agent of his sect, Roderigo departed 
  immediately for Kievan Rus. Upon his arrival, he found 
  the truth of the matter soon enough. These Bogomils 
  did indeed worship the wicked demiurge of their 
  Gnostic faith using a tattered, but almost complete 
  copy of the Guarded Rubrics.
  The gap-toothed, cloudy-eyed priest merely smiled 
  and pointed to the ground. Clearly, some Kindred 
  who masqueraded before these degenerates as a demon 
  or devil of some kind had left it with them. But for 
  what purpose? Intrigued, Roderigo remained, copying 
  the Guarded Rubrics and continuing to investigate the 
  origins of the manuscript.
  Weeks later, however, he discovered the truth of its 
  origins when an ancient Gangrel rose from the ground 
  at the center of the village. The priest’s gesture was 
  not an indication of infernal origins; it referred to an 
  earth-melded vampire. Roderigo introduced himself, 
  explaining why he was present in this elder’s domain.
  The Gangrel’s name was Mitru, who claimed to have 
  once been a Prince, but who sickened of the ways of 
  the Damned and retired to the crags and forests away 
  from the cities of the Eastern Lord Ventrue and their 
  wretched minions. This raggedly bound, scrawled 
  manuscript had belonged to one of them before he’d 
  removed her worthless head from her neck. The 
  manuscript had been among the things he’d claimed 
  as his trophy. Since it did him no good, he’d given it 
  to these degenerate Gnostics, who believed him some 
  kind of apostle of their demiurge.
  Unfortunately, far from solving the riddle, it merely 
  deepened it. True Hand holy writ stolen from the 
  hands of a secular Ventrue at the bloody whim of a 
  Prince who abandoned his domain and had gone to 
  haven in a den of heretics? Madness.
  
  93 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Finally, though, Roderigo’s probing and questions raised 
  Mitru’s suspicions, and then his ire. When his herd of 
  Bogomils came to regard Roderigo as a figure of importance 
  for his knowledge of the Guarded Rubrics, it was the last 
  straw. Mitru attacked the interloper late at night, and 
  Roderigo escaped only by befuddling the Outlander with 
  hostile ghosts. He fled west, stealing the tattered copy of the 
  Guarded Rubrics as Mitru screamed his rage into the night.
  Among the Rroma
  Although Mitru pursued him, Roderigo found aid 
  and succor with strange nomads whose people had been 
  trickling into Europe in small numbers for the past few 
  decades. They called themselves the Rroma, and those 
  who aided Roderigo claimed they did so at the behest of 
  their ancient patron, the spirit called Mokhadaji Ranpur.
  He learned that the elder vampire had been watching 
  his endeavors, and reporting his successes to the 
  Del’Roh. His sire lent his aid where he could, mainly 
  through the network of temporal connections he’d 
  somehow managed to keep intact through the years. 
  These connections slowly became Roderigo’s.
  Roderigo and his caravan of gypsies arrived in Western 
  Europe just in time to encounter the Black Death, and 
  the devastation was terrible. Worse, they were often 
  hounded by minions or childer of the Princes of the 
  western domains, who considered Roderigo’s intrusion 
  a violation of the Traditions.
  One by one they came, and Roderigo defeated or 
  confounded them. One such agent of a Bohemian 
  Prince realized that he could not slay the necromancer 
  alone, and so Embraced one of the young women of 
  Roderigo’s Rroma family, a young woman named 
  Reveka. This Nosferatu agent hoped to use her to 
  strike at the necromancer unaware, he underestimated 
  the ties of the Rroma with one another — even one 
  who’d become accursed shilmulo. His plots undone, the 
  Prince’s childe fled with specters on his trail.
  Ashamed that the aid his hosts gave him selflessly 
  was repaid by the death and cursing of one of their 
  daughters, Roderigo swore to avenge her. Departing 
  to find the fleeing Nosferatu, Roderigo found Reveka 
  following him, insisting that she be allowed to take her 
  revenge. Although hesitant at first, Roderigo agreed, and 
  set about teaching her the intricacies of her undead state.
  In a short time, they found the Prince’s pawn and 
  the confrontation was short and brutal. In the grip of 
  frenzy, Reveka consumed her sire’s blood and plucked 
  the amaranth of his soul, consuming him wholly. 
  
  94 
  RODERIGO AL-DAKHIL
  Returning to the encampment, Roderigo and 
  Reveka found the small tribe fled, broken off in a 
  dozen directions, each going their own way, in hopes 
  of evading the shilmulo. Roderigo offered what comfort 
  he could to the mourning Reveka, promising her that 
  she would never be alone. From that night forward, 
  Roderigo acted as a sort of surrogate sire to Reveka.
  The two traveled Europe for a time, though the Black 
  Death scourged all of Christendom. In the midst of the 
  devastation, the two became lovers — a carrion duo, she 
  skulking among shadows and he devouring the flesh of 
  those wretches she delivered to him. In time, however, 
  Roderigo’s duties called him back to Spain. The two 
  parted ways then, for Reveka felt that she could call no 
  domain her true home. Privately, Roderigo suspected that 
  she sought her family. He only hoped it wasn’t to kill them.
  The Anarch Revolt
  In the late 1300s, a fury gripped the Blood of Caine, 
  like a frenzy that overtook them as a race. The Anarch 
  Revolt sundered all of Kindred society, and stories of 
  atrocities trickled in to Roderigo’s havens in Spain. As the 
  Revolt ran its course, strict lines of allegiance emerged, 
  and the war of factions left no place for those who wished 
  to avoid the strife. Unfortunately, it was not Roderigo’s 
  intellect that chose his place, but his affections.
  Reveka returned in the early 1400s, a harried creature 
  full of fear. “Hide me,” she begged him, and her kisses 
  tasted of old blood and wormwood. Her nightmares 
  were terrible, and for a time she was deeply afraid of 
  the dark. Eventually, Roderigo prised the full story 
  from her, a story of the ultimate rebellion. She’d joined 
  the coterie of a Cainite named Gratiano, and together 
  they’d done the impossible. They had consumed the 
  heartsblood of an Antediluvian.
  The horror of her act was almost too much to bear 
  for Roderigo. What would his masters say, his masters 
  who revered the Ancients in some capacity? Knowing 
  that this act would not go unremarked upon in the 
  Black City, Roderigo found safe haven for Reveka and 
  entered the Underworld.
  Arriving at the foot of the Basalt Throne, he found the 
  Tal’Mahe’Ra just as he suspected he might, in a state of 
  wrath over his protégé’s betrayal. Seeking justice for the 
  destruction of one of the Holiest, its elders demanded 
  swift and terrible punishment for those responsible. 
  Knowing the ways of heretics and blasphemers as few 
  other did, Roderigo spoke up against that plan.
  Wouldn’t it be better, he argued, to shape this nascent 
  tool to their ends, rather than shatter it? Why make martyrs 
  of those involved, when they might make amends for their 
  evils, willing or not? Roderigo won many enemies in the 
  Black City that night, but the Del’Roh merely narrowed its 
  ancient eyes, and gestured for him to continue.
  If this force were guided away from the actual resting 
  places of the Antediluvians, and instead directed against 
  the many elders who’d built empires in the mortal world, 
  it might succeed where the Inquisition had been intended 
  to work, but failed. The Church would not bring its might 
  to bear against the elders who accrued the kind of power 
  that might allow them to battle the Antediluvians at the 
  End of Days. A ravenous pack of hounds, clamoring for 
  their heart’s blood, on the other hand…?
  “We must command them, and shape them,” he 
  said in his quiet, refined tones. “With ourselves among 
  them in ways we never could be among the Inquisition, 
  let us chain this rabid dog rather than put it down, and 
  unleash it upon our foes.”
  The Del’Roh considered, and the Rawis spoke in 
  favor of the suggestion. The voice of Roderigo’s sire was 
  loudest among them, and finally the Del’Roh assented. 
  “Let us forge of them a sword, with its hilt firmly in our 
  grasp,” was the command from the Basalt Throne, and 
  Roderigo was empowered to make that happen.
  Returning to the world of flesh, Roderigo engaged Reveka 
  in his plan. She had already proven herself to the rising 
  Sabbat, and she quickly found her way into its growing 
  throng again. From the shadows, Roderigo aided her, slaying 
  her rivals and seeing that her own goals were realized.
  Even as Reveka helped to shape the movement, 
  however, Roderigo became aware of other forces operating 
  within it. With time, research and the interrogation of 
  at least one vampire, he found a name: the Lost Tribe. 
  His masters in the Black City identified this as a sect 
  of vampires from the cradle of civilization, founded by 
  ancient rebels against the authority of Alamut. By this 
  Roderigo’s time, however, it consisted of little more than 
  outcasts and rebels of Haqim’s get. The Lost Tribe had 
  become practically a cult, dedicated to the destruction of 
  the Ancients in revenge for Zillah, whom they revered.
  Forced to conceal himself more carefully, Roderigo’s 
  efforts became a game of cat and mouse, requiring him 
  to avoid discovery while uncovering those who also hid 
  in the shadows of this Anarchs’ Movement. 
  Forging the Sword of Caine
  While Roderigo was not himself present at this 
  momentous occasion, Reveka was nearby, ready to lend 
  aid to her compatriots should it be required. The wildest 
  of the Anarchs christened themselves the Sabbat, and 
  
  95 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Reveka was one of its first adherents. She seemed the 
  perfect fit for the new movement, exulting in the rituals 
  introduced by the old orthopraxic Lasombra who still 
  longed for some measure of religious symbolism, and 
  the hoary kolduns among the Tzimisce.
  In short order, Reveka became a respected member of 
  the burgeoning Sabbat, well-regarded for her dauntless 
  pride and tenacity. In many ways, the Nosferatu antitribu 
  counted her as one of the first among them, and she was 
  among the first in the Sabbat to use the term “pack” to 
  describe the cohort she gathered for herself.
  Returning from a year-long visit to the Black City to 
  report his actions and continue his education in the 
  theology of the Tal’Mahe’Ra, Roderigo discovered a 
  change in Reveka, not the least of which was a strange 
  black crescent tattooed to her palm. She had joined 
  the faction of assassins and warriors made up of the 
  remnants of the Lost Tribe.
  More terrifying still, she’d suggested calling the group 
  the Black Hand, a name that seemed to stick. Not once 
  had Roderigo ever mentioned the vulgar name of the 
  Tal’Mahe’Ra to his adopted childe. How did she know 
  of it? Had someone suggested it to her? She was evasive 
  on the matter, dismissing it as unimportant, something 
  she’d thought of in the passion of the moment when 
  she’d seen some of the others sporting the black crescents.
  In the Dead City, Roderigo claimed to have fostered 
  the name himself through his adoptive childe, and 
  quickly called for more Tal’Mahe’Ra initiates to 
  infiltrate the Sabbat and its Black Hand. Over the next 
  decade or so, younger members of the cult and the 
  childer Embraced for the specific purpose of seeding it 
  with agents were all inducted into the Sword of Caine, 
  while Roderigo continued to see the disciples of the 
  Lost Tribe.
  The necromancer quickly found his power base 
  threatened with the death of Reveka. Intoxicated with 
  her own growing power, the ancilla Nosferatu antitribu 
  decided that she was owed a position of more authority 
  within the Black Hand, and foolishly challenged one of 
  its leaders. Roderigo’s agents told him that not only did 
  the Assamite antitribu extinguish her life mercilessly, 
  but did so with such ease that he could only have been 
  far older than he claimed.
  Enraged, Roderigo stepped from the Underworld 
  into the haven of his childe’s murderer and slew him 
  as he slumbered during the day, scattering his ashes 
  in the howling tempests of the dead lands. In the last 
  moments of the Assamite’s existence, he threatened the 
  retaliation of the Lost Tribe, and Roderigo understood 
  then. The elder leaders of the Zillah-worshipping cult 
  were not hiding behind the Black Hand. They were in 
  it, posing as younger vampires. He then returned to the 
  Dead City, grief-stricken and disillusioned. 
  There was no way he could exert the kinds of influence 
  on the Sabbat that they could, Roderigo realized, even 
  manipulating multiple agents from afar. No control is quite 
  so firm as direct control, and his own lineage and occult 
  talents were strange enough to invite unwelcome scrutiny.
  Returning to the Basalt Throne, he begged that this 
  burden be lifted from him, and the Del’Roh agreed. 
  His sire Ranpur lauded his achievements before the 
  Basalt Throne and other Rawis, however, urging the 
  Del’Roh to consider a position worthy of his devotion 
  and successes. To Roderigo’s shock, she agreed, naming 
  him one of the Liches of the Ancient City.
  The Third Lich
  For several hundred years, though, Roderigo found 
  his new position demanding of him — almost fatally so. 
  The Liches of the Ancient City are rivals beneath their 
  skull-masked veneers of politeness and noblesse oblige. 
  His sire aided him where he could, but his greatest 
  aid was demanding that Roderigo seek out and master 
  blood magics with the fervor with which he had once 
  learned magic as a mortal.
  As part of his researches, Roderigo often undertook 
  journeys into the world of flesh. This made him unique 
  among the Liches, and among many elders of the True 
  Hand. He always made it a point to learn the nuances 
  of the world, and how it had changed since he last was 
  there. Even when in Enoch, the Sabbat agents of the 
  Tal’Mahe’Ra often learned that they might foster a 
  patronage with one of the venerable Liches if they but 
  maintained correspondence with one who wished to 
  know as much about the world as possible.
  For decades, he studied the venerable necromancies 
  chiseled into the walls of Enoch, and whispered into 
  the crypts of the Aralu, hoping for a reply. Roderigo 
  journeyed into the world of mortals frequently, 
  investigating various forms of blood sorcery. The 
  Tremere fascinated him, as did the blood sorceries 
  of the Tzimisce and Assamites, but the paranoia and 
  xenophobia of those clans prevented his acquisition of 
  any but the most elementary of their mysteries.
  The Giovanni, on the other hand, were a whole other 
  business. Roderigo learned long ago that patronage was 
  a quick route to obedience among the childer of Caine, 
  
  96 
  RODERIGO AL-DAKHIL
  and the easiest way was to aid an ambitious Kindred in 
  secret, without even that vampire knowing it. Roderigo 
  put these methods to tremendous benefit, recruiting 
  agents both on behalf of the True Hand and for himself.
  In his investigations of the Giovanni, Roderigo 
  discovered the ancient vampire named Apacia, an 
  outcast Cappadocian who was neither cast into their 
  founders’ prison nor consumed by the childer of 
  Augustus (though not for lack of trying). Her presence 
  in the Sabbat drew his attention, and he approached 
  her directly.
  Suspecting that his normal subtleties would do 
  nothing more than antagonize her, Roderigo instead 
  chose to approach her with an open proposal of alliance. 
  Fascinated with another Cainite necromancer not of 
  the blood of Augustus, she returned his overtures. The 
  two spent almost thirty years together in the 1600s, 
  she teaching him the deathspeaker-lore of the Scythian 
  peoples and the Cappadocian clan, and he subtly aiding 
  the Sabbat in whatever of its goals interested Apacia.
  In many ways, she reminded him of Reveka, though 
  with the feral sort of barbarian wisdom Reveka might 
  have developed if she’d existed long enough to cultivate 
  it. By the early 1700s, their goals and obligations took 
  them in separate directions, but the two remain bonded 
  by oaths and Vinculi, as loyal as elders of the blood of 
  Caine might ever be said to be.
  Upon his return to Enoch, Roderigo found himself in 
  a position of active knowledge of the Sabbat’s workings 
  that outstripped even the Del’Roh’s preferred agent 
  for such things, a Ventrue by the name of Karnof. It 
  made him a new enemy in the Black City, but Roderigo 
  publicly humiliated the Ventrue before the Del’Roh, 
  demonstrating his own knowledge of the workings of 
  the Sword of Caine. One of the Rawis, John Sidestorm, 
  also made a case on Roderigo’s behalf, citing the 
  Guarded Rubrics as a precedent for Karnof’s atonement: 
  He must seek the forgiveness of the aggrieved for one 
  thousand and one nights.
  In response, the Del’Roh ordered the hierarchy 
  shifted, and Karnof now answered to Roderigo. The 
  Sabbat’s status within the True Hand ceased to be one 
  of political identity. By the command of the Del’Roh, 
  the doings of the Sword of Caine were now an occult 
  matter, within the purview of the Liches.
  Although he remained in the Ancient City 
  almost exclusively, Roderigo has never allowed his 
  understanding of the Sabbat to fade to the risible levels 
  that Karnof did. Once a decade or so, he journeys into 
  the world of flesh to speak with his agents and see the 
  workings of the Sabbat himself.
  Padre Cráneo
  In the early 1900s, a hallucinogen-maddened pack 
  priest in Guadalajara, Mexico spotted a skull-masked 
  man among the nacreous caverns beneath the city 
  where the young Tzimisce’s pack held their Ritae. Over 
  time, various Sabbat have seen him lurking here and 
  there, and the tales about him have grown over time.
  The name for the skull-faced figure has stuck: Padre 
  Cráneo. Some packs have taken him as something of 
  a totemic figure, incorporating the mortal rites for La 
  Santisima Muerte into their Ritae, calling on Padre 
  Cráneo to help them in an upcoming crusade. Others 
  believe he was the herald of the Harbingers of Skulls, 
  and yet others believe he is an identity that Sabbat 
  elders in the Black Hand assume among themselves 
  like a costume. Others wonder if he isn’t perhaps a 
  member of the Inconnu, seeking to eradicate the most 
  monstrous of the Sabbat as an affront to the ideals the 
  Inconnu hold precious.
  For Roderigo’s part, he is happy to be all of these 
  things and more, so long as these urban legends serve 
  him well. He takes a fledgling’s delight in lending small 
  aid to those packs that revere him, or in haunting those 
  that fear him.
  When the Black City was destroyed, Roderigo was 
  one of the few among the upper echelons who managed 
  to escape. Some among the Tal’Mahe’Ra whisper that 
  he knew of the terrible storm, thanks to his alliance 
  with Apacia, who somehow foresaw the maelstrom’s 
  devastation. However it happened, Roderigo was 
  quick to gather those elements of the Tal’Mahe’Ra and 
  establish a new sanctuary for them in the world of flesh. 
  The tale had come full circle, and he offered the broken 
  sect his cabal’s sanctum in the mountains of northern 
  Spain, which had been abandoned for many centuries.
  Although he has gathered many of their agents 
  together, it cannot be properly said that Roderigo al-
  Dakhil continues the traditions of the Tal’Mahe’Ra. 
  The Aralu are gone, he assumes, and the Basalt Throne 
  no more. In their absence, he maintains the resources 
  and tactics of the True Hand, drawing on its agents 
  for their own ends, subsisting on the stripped flesh 
  of revenants bred to feed his hunger. He is something 
  of a lost creature, an elder in his own right with no 
  other power governing or commanding him. Some 
  
  97 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  of the former True Hand agents have claimed that he 
  is merely consolidating the Hand’s power to use for 
  himself… and they may be right.
  Sire: Mokhadaji Ranpur
  Clan: Nagaraja
  Nature: Judge
  Demeanor: Eye of the Storm
  Generation: 6th
  Embrace: 1354 AD
  Apparent Age: Late 30s
  Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 4
  Social: Charisma 4, Manipulation 5, Appearance 2
  Mental: Perception 5, Intelligence 4, Wits 6
  Talents: Alertness 4, Athletics (Running) 2, Awareness 4, 
  Brawl 3, Empathy 5, Intimidation 3, Leadership 5, 
  Subterfuge 4
  Skills: Etiquette 4, Melee 4, Performance 2, Stealth 
  (Urban) 5
  Knowledges: Academics 4, Finance 2, Investigation 5, 
  Law 3, Medicine 4, Occult 6, Politics (Sabbat) 4
  Disciplines: Auspex 5, Dominate 4, Fortitude 3, 
  Necromancy 6 (Sepulchre Path 5, Ash Path 5, Bone Path 3, 
  Cenotaph Path 5, Corpse in the Monster 5, Grave’s 
  Decay 5, Vitreous Path 5), Obfuscate 3, Thaumaturgy 3 (Path 
  of Blood 2, Elemental Mastery 2, Hands of Destruction 3, 
  Movement of the Mind 2, Path of Corruption 1)
  Necromantic Rituals: All Necromantic Rituals of up 
  to ••••• •.
  Thaumaturgical Rituals: Defense of the Sacred 
  Haven, Devil’s Touch, Domino of Life, Wake with 
  Evening’s Freshness; Blood Walk, Recure of the 
  Homeland; Clinging of the Insect, Incorporeal Passage
  Backgrounds: Resources 3, Rituals 5, Status (True 
  Hand) 4
  Virtues: Conviction 4, Self-Control 5, Courage 4
  Morality: Path of Bones 8
  Willpower: 6
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 30/6
  Image: Roderigo dresses in simple, dark clothing that 
  fits his small frame well. He is generally quite innocuous, 
  with slicked-back black hair and dark eyelashes. He is 
  given to donning a stark bone skull mask, however, 
  when he intends to be seen, to fearsome effect.
  Roleplaying Hints: Roderigo is calm, the very image 
  of the perfectly composed elder Kindred. He has a 
  haunted, melancholy air to him, and seems to bear 
  some measure of affection for the Sabbat, particularly 
  its wild younger members.
  Haven: His primary haven is in an old mage sanctum, 
  concealed through cunning sorcery and now blood 
  magic, in the mountains of northern Spain. Roderigo 
  maintains multiple havens in areas that attract and 
  hold his interest for any length of time. Currently, 
  those areas include Mexico City, Cadiz, London and 
  New York.
  Influence: Although he has no influence to speak of 
  in the mortal world, Roderigo was one of the Liches of 
  the Tal’Mahe’Ra and even now still wields tremendous 
  respect among the remaining True Hand agents. He 
  is also one of the only members of the True Hand’s 
  leadership to survive the destruction of the Ancient 
  City, as far as anyone knows.
  
  98 
  ANDREW SENECA
  
  99 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Born into slavery on a cotton plantation in Georgia, 
  Andrew knew nothing but hard labor and the 
  despair and exhaustion that slave owners deliberately 
  cultivated in their chattel in hopes of keeping them too 
  downtrodden to be trouble. He never knew his father, 
  but from the whispers of the other slaves, he guessed 
  that he was probably a by-blow of the master’s “private 
  time” in the slave quarters.
  Andrew’s mother worked hard for her boy, instilling 
  in him the sort of manners that white folk liked in 
  their slaves. His refined manners, combined with his 
  quiet bearing and pretty face, drew the attention of his 
  owners by the time he was fourteen. Shortly thereafter, 
  the owner of the plantation, Jackson Mills, brought 
  him into the house as his manservant.
  His life in the plantation house was easier than 
  out in the fields, that was for certain. But it was also 
  very lonely. He rarely had the opportunity to socialize 
  with the other slaves, and when he did, he found they 
  resented “the easy life of the house nigger.” Nonetheless, 
  he found ways to help his mother, and she was grateful.
  In time, he left the plantation with Mr. Mills on a trip 
  to Virginia, visiting the tobacco plantation of an old 
  friend of his master’s. While there, he remained in the 
  slave quarters at night. After that first night, he awoke 
  feverish and ill, and all the other slaves regarded him 
  with fear and pity. The next night, he remained awake 
  and saw a shrouded woman enter the slave quarters. 
  She approached him and was surprised to find him 
  awake. 
  “Is there something I can help you with, miss?” he 
  asked politely. She looked at him with surprise, and 
  laughed. She introduced herself as Miss San Valentin, 
  and she had the crisp accent of a Spaniard. She asked 
  him about his life and they stayed up into the small 
  hours, he sitting up against the headboard, she sitting 
  on the edge of his bed.
  The next night she came in, looked at him with that 
  terrifying green-eyed gaze of hers and commanded him 
  not to cry out or react with fear, and then she fell on 
  the man sleeping in the bed next to him. Fear churned 
  his gut as Andrew watched her sink tiny fangs into 
  the man’s throat and then gulp at the wound greedily. 
  She stopped before he died, and licked the blood and 
  wound away as though it had never been there.
  Every night for the next week, she came into the slave 
  quarters. Some nights, she came only to talk to Andrew. 
  She was fascinated with the young man’s pleasant wit 
  and perspective on slavery. His life was wholly unlike 
  anything she imagined, when she bothered to think of 
  the lot of slaves. For his part, Andrew grew more and 
  more fascinated with Monica San Valentin. 
  On the night before he and Mr. Mills were to return 
  to Georgia, she asked him if he wanted to come with 
  her, and to be like her. With only a little hesitation, he 
  said that he did, and she stole him away that night. He 
  dressed in his best clothes, and carried her luggage from 
  the carriage to the train.
  “That was your last chore as a slave, Andrew,” she told 
  him aboard her private car. She took all his blood that 
  night, which felt like being submerged in icy water, and 
  when he regained his senses he found himself suckling 
  at her neck. As he came to, he felt two sensations that 
  sat like great weights on him: a soul-deep hunger, and 
  the terrible feeling that he’d traded one kind of slavery 
  for another.
  Andrew realized a short time later that those two 
  things became intermixed with his Embrace, and he 
  could feed only among the slaves, craving the taste 
  of desperation and despair in their blood. Despite 
  constantly being haunted by his own slave origins, 
  Andrew learned quickly. Monica taught him to read by 
  year’s end, and he consumed book after book in her 
  library. 
  ANDREW SENECA
  Emissary of Lies
  
  100 
  ANDREW SENECA
  Although he learned readily enough, it wasn’t 
  until Andrew read On Benefits, the treatise by Seneca 
  that discusses the virtue of humanitas, particularly 
  with regard to treatment of slaves, that what he read 
  made an impact on him. For many nights thereafter, 
  while learning about the Traditions of the Camarilla, 
  its history and his lineage as a Ventrue, Andrew was 
  distracted.
  When she finally asked him what was wrong, he 
  confessed, admitting to her that he thought he was in 
  agreement with the ancient philosopher. Every part 
  of existence was slavery of some kind, and genuine 
  freedom was an illusion. Even the mighty Kindred were 
  beholden to the laws of the Camarilla, to Tradition of 
  clan and sect, and to the very Curse that defined them.
  He wept to realize that the young man who’d foolishly 
  given up his blood in hopes of freedom had bound 
  himself to another set of shackles. Monica consoled 
  him, explaining that what he’d found was a truism 
  of their clan. But those who understood this must do 
  everything in their effort to rise to the challenge of 
  being slave to as few as possible, and master to as many 
  as they might. This was an opportunity, she whispered, 
  for him to become master of not just his once-fellow 
  slaves, but of all the kine. In time, he might even rule 
  over the Kindred, if he were ruthless, clever and intent.
  Andrew took the name of the scholar as his surname, 
  considering the man’s philosophy to be as much as part 
  of who he was as his body and Blood. When Andrew 
  Seneca was presented to the Prince of Philadelphia, 
  how the Harpies tittered, each fascinated but trying to 
  pretend to be scandalized at the presentation of a black 
  man to the Prince’s court.
  In the next decade, however, he proved his worth 
  to sire, court, and Prince many times over. Seneca 
  was quick to appraise a situation and quick to react 
  appropriately. Unlike many childer, he didn’t rebel 
  against the demands of the Ventrue elders. To his 
  mind, even their bloodiest demands were steps on the 
  road toward mastery, compared to the dead-end path of 
  being another man’s property.
  By the 1820s, as the North inclined itself away from 
  slavery, he found his supply of vitae was beginning to 
  dwindle. In a short period, the needs of an increasingly 
  compassionate civic mind and a sort of ruthless business 
  mentality overlapped strangely, and it became clear that 
  slavery would soon end in Philadelphia and the rest of 
  the North. Wealthy owners moved their slaves South, 
  
  101 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  selling them to the plantations there that could always 
  use more manpower.
  After a discussion with Monica, he resolved to move 
  South as well. Andrew sent his retainers ahead to scout 
  out plantations that fit his needs while he tied up 
  affairs in Philadelphia. His sire released him formally in 
  the court of Philadelphia, and the Prince offered him 
  a letter of introduction to the Prince of Atlanta. Some 
  few in Philadelphia wished him well, primarily his sire 
  and the Prince, but others — usually those who were in 
  competition with him for the Prince’s favor — were glad 
  to see him leave.
  Andrew Seneca joined the Kindred of Atlanta at 
  court, rendering his introductions and presenting his 
  letter and lineage formally. His welcome was a frosty 
  one, and he was warned against being found in others’ 
  domains. He assured them that he would impinge on 
  no one’s territory and left. 
  For the next few decades, he was an infrequent 
  visitor to court, preferring to focus on his own efforts. 
  He chose a handful of plantations away from Atlanta 
  proper as his hunting grounds, feeding from among 
  their slave barracks. Several of them were in financial 
  trouble, and he assisted them, using his Disciplines 
  to acquire bank loans and other aid for them, making 
  ghouls of the owners.
  Seneca’s life became one of simplicity, affording him 
  the time to study the classics at his leisure, in extravagant 
  guest housing in one of several plantations he all but 
  owned by then. He took to studying law as well, and 
  from there politics. Occasionally the Prince of Atlanta 
  or the sneering elders of the city domain had something 
  they needed of him, and he always acquiesced to their 
  demands with grace, taking pride in exceeding their 
  requests of him in all things.
  By the time of the Emancipation Proclamation, 
  Andrew Seneca saw the signs boiling up against slavery 
  once more. It was infuriating. He’d worked so hard to 
  consolidate his position, and yet now the politics of the 
  kine threatened to strip him of his carefully cultivated 
  herds. He bent all of his efforts toward preventing the 
  end of slavery, joining in common cause with a great 
  number of his clan, to their surprise.
  Eventually, though, it all came to naught. With 
  the Civil War, the kine destroyed his efforts. He was 
  helpless to do anything to prevent the freeing of his 
  indentured vessels, and he was forced to flee to other 
  nations where slavery continued.
  For the next several decades, Seneca haunted 
  backwater domains often populated by thoroughly 
  antagonistic Kindred — or worse — just to maintain 
  a Herd from which he could feed. He made a point 
  of keeping his hand in politics wherever he was, 
  and observed the Americas from afar, watching the 
  aftereffects of slavery’s forced abolishment on the 
  psyche and laws of the United States.
  Finally fleeing violence in a South American 
  domain, Andrew Seneca returned to the United States 
  in the early 1900s, intending to enter torpor there. 
  Unfortunately, his wounds were grievous and his Beast 
  thoroughly enraged. He frenzied upon arriving in 
  Alabama, and awoke from his rage in the home of a 
  freeman family, their dwelling a hideous bloody ruin. 
  Fearful of having violated the traditions of the domain 
  even before he could present himself to the Prince, he 
  burned the home to the ground, affixing the flaming 
  cross of the newly formed Ku Klux Klan to their front 
  lawn to divert attention.
  He fled the city by cargo train, returning to Atlanta. 
  Along the way, he pondered what had happened, 
  including the fact that his body did not reject the blood 
  of that family. It was palatable to him. Perhaps it wasn’t 
  slavery exactly that characterized their blood to allow 
  him to feed — that family was certainly free, and had 
  been for more than a generation. But still, they dwelt in 
  a run-down shack, in a poverty-stricken neighborhood.
  Seneca was forced to reconsider his assumptions 
  about his feeding limitations. For a season, he explored 
  his limits, eventually finding that it wasn’t slaves, 
  specifically that he could feed on. There was something 
  in the blood of those poor, displaced peoples that 
  nurtured his Beast best. Desperation, and the 
  knowledge that the law considered one less-than — or 
  in the terminology of the day, “separate but” — equal.
  With this newly discovered freedom, Andrew settled 
  in to Kindred politics with gusto. Over the next few 
  decades, he served as Primogen in both Atlanta and 
  Birmingham, Alabama. He was a voice of stability, 
  abhorring violence except when strictly necessary, 
  preferring to use persuasion and alliances even on 
  those who presented themselves as enemies. 
  When the Civil Rights movement finally showed itself 
  as a lasting entity, Andrew Seneca found it alarming. His 
  political and legal influences hardly had to do anything 
  to keep such notions as full equality under wraps. The 
  kine tended their own prejudices well enough that he 
  had to do nothing but lend the occasional assistance 
  
  102 
  ANDREW SENECA
  from the shadows. As such things develop, when legal 
  recourses failed, the movement turned to protest and 
  activism.
  Seneca sent his servants to investigate this movement, 
  hoping to find a way to dissolve or otherwise hinder 
  it. What he discovered terrified him, a movement of 
  strong, intelligent individuals no longer content to 
  remain lesser-than. Bitterness and envy stirred within 
  him. Where were such people in his day? Who were 
  they to demand what he’d never had? 
  He told himself that he was merely acting to protect 
  his feeding grounds, but there was more to it. Seneca 
  worked subtly, implicating some of the movement’s 
  leaders in vice and scandal, discrediting them. But at 
  every turn, he ran into men who were special. Men like 
  one of the movement’s leaders, Martin Luther King, Jr., 
  whose will proved unassailable. The only time Seneca 
  met the man directly, the reverend King merely regarded 
  him with pity and shook his head sadly. Seneca felt his 
  Beast rise in something like Rötschreck, and he took 
  his leave to avoid an incident.
  Eventually, though, he met Theo Bell. A fellow former 
  slave, Bell was an Archon of the Brujah Justicar who was 
  investigating the presence of Anarchs employing the 
  Civil Rights movement as cover for their own activities. 
  The two formed an uneasy political alliance: Seneca 
  sought to destroy the Civil Rights movement, while 
  Bell tacitly supported it. Still, both worked against the 
  Anarchs throughout the South.
  Seneca dutifully reported the activities of Anarchs 
  who had attached themselves to the movement to 
  Bell, who disrupted both Anarchs and activists out of 
  necessity. In time, the two Kindred came to hate one 
  another, though the Princes of the American South 
  hailed them both for their efforts. Tonight, the pair 
  remain cordial in public, despite the fact that the fragile 
  alliance worsened over time into active hatred.
  In the end, though, it was for naught. As always, it 
  seemed, the kine insisted on directing their own destiny, 
  despite the best efforts of the Kindred. With the advent 
  of Civil Rights and their enshrinement as national law, 
  Seneca was forced to restructure his existence.
  In the modern nights, Andrew Seneca is a wanderer. 
  By rights, he could probably rule any of his now-
  expanded domains as Prince, but he fears that his 
  feeding restrictions make him too vulnerable to ever 
  place himself in such a role of power. 
  In order to satisfy those feeding restrictions, Seneca is 
  now involved in various forms of organized crime, farm 
  operations and manufacturing, all of which engage in 
  various forms of human trafficking and illegal slavery. 
  He is involved with brothels in which immigrants 
  are kept imprisoned, with border-town sweatshops, 
  and with farms in California, Texas, and Florida that 
  employ migrant workers who are practically kept as 
  slaves. He remains one step ahead of legal authorities 
  in such situations, and works constantly through his 
  influence and connections opposing anti-immigration 
  laws, as well as laws that would grant more rights and 
  protections to immigrant workers.
  Seneca moves from domain to domain, tending to 
  his needs, rarely staying for more than a year or so. He 
  is inevitably granted domain visitation rights by the 
  Prince of these places, as he is happy to help his hosts 
  with any issues he can. He is also an avowed enemy of 
  the Anarchs, forever bitter at their part in the success of 
  the Civil Rights movement. 
  Sire: Monica San Valentin
  Clan: Ventrue
  Nature: Sadist
  Demeanor: Director
  Generation: 8th
  Embrace: 1807
  Apparent Age: Early 20s
  Physical: Strength 3, Dexterity 3, Stamina 5
  Social: Charisma 4, Manipulation 4, Appearance 3
  Mental: Perception 2, Intelligence 3, Wits 4
  Talents: Alertness 3, Athletics 1, Awareness 2, Brawl 4, 
  Empathy 5, Expression 4, Intimidation 4, Leadership 3, 
  Streetwise 3, Subterfuge 4
  Skills: Etiquette 3, Firearms 2, Larceny 1, Melee 2, 
  Stealth 2, Survival 1
  Knowledges: Academics 2, Finance 2, Investigation 3, 
  Law 3, Politics 3
  Disciplines: Auspex 2, Dominate 4, Fortitude 4, 
  Obfuscate 2, Potence 1, Presence 4
  Backgrounds: Allies 3, Contacts 4, Herd 4, Influence 4, 
  Resources 5, Retainers 4, Status 4
  Virtues: Conscience 1, Self-Control 3, Courage 3
  Morality: Humanity 3
  Willpower: 8
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 15/3
  Image: Andrew is a tall, thin man of African-
  American heritage. He wears his hair shorn close to his 
  
  103 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  scalp, and has high cheekbones, beautiful, luminous 
  eyes and a gentle smile. He dresses in crisply tailored 
  business suits, with wire-rimmed glasses that give him 
  a genteel, professional air. He speaks with a cultured, 
  pleasantly deep voice.
  Roleplaying Hints: Andrew exudes calm, confidence, 
  and ability. But underneath, possibly deeper than he is 
  aware, he is angry. He has watched as the kine freed 
  those who were once like him, raising them up and 
  giving them things he was never given, and that has 
  left him a very bitter creature. His feeding tends to be 
  sadistic, evoking fear and suffering as though he would 
  make his vessels all pay for the indignities heaped on 
  him while he was alive.
  Allies & Contacts: Andrew maintains corporate, 
  labor, and municipal contacts and allies everywhere he 
  goes. He also maintains allies among human traffickers 
  in the areas that he frequents. A Kindred named Petro 
  Andryvyz keeps his apprised of affairs in the vampire 
  courts of the American southeast while Andrew travels.
  Herd: Unwilling prostitutes, migrant workers, 
  sweatshop employees — these modern-day slaves make 
  up the whole of Andrew’s herd. They are scattered 
  through his various operations in the United States, 
  and are all African-American. Although they are 
  accustomed to very rough treatment at Seneca’s hands, 
  they are treated better than the others in their situations 
  by their captors, as they maintain Andrew’s good favor.
  Influence: Andrew’s potential national influence is 
  fairly broad, but he restricts his manipulations to his 
  immediate interests: labor laws, immigration policy and 
  the like. 
  Retainers: Seneca maintains a handful of ghouls 
  in his service. His constant companion is Darius, a 
  manservant and bodyguard. The others are various 
  officials and legislators. 
  Status: Seneca’s influence in the Camarilla is the 
  result of long decades of securing the respect of clan 
  and sect. Most who know of him regard him as a steady, 
  predictable and reliable Kindred who plays the game 
  of prestation with aplomb. If he were to settle down in 
  any one locale, he would likely attain a position among 
  that domain’s Primogen, but he travels far too much 
  to do so — something that those who would rather he 
  didn’t take a spot on their Primogen council are only 
  too happy to accept.
  
  104 
  JAROMIR CERNY
  
  105 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  It has been more than twenty years since the iron 
  grip of the communists yielded in the historic Velvet 
  Revolution, a tide of political, cultural, and intellectual 
  change that set a precedent for peaceful regime change. 
  Seemingly overnight, a population controlled by fear 
  for more than four decades emerged from the darkness 
  and breathed the air of freedom. No more did they 
  have to look over their shoulders for government agents 
  watching their movements. No more did they have to 
  guard their words and fret about who might overhear 
  their conversations. And no more did they sit up at 
  night wondering when the black sedan might pull up 
  and disgorge its monsters, men who had forsaken their 
  souls in service to the Soviet nightmare. The bogeyman 
  had been vanquished by simply pulling away the curtain 
  of totalitarianism and allowing in the brilliance of the 
  modern age with its free press, uncensored arts, and 
  democratic elections. Or so it seemed.
  Some bogeymen are stronger than others, however. 
  Some are fiendish creatures not so easily slain, who 
  survive by dint of cunning and unnatural gifts that 
  permit them to not only endure turmoil, but to direct 
  its transformative power to their advantage. 
  The people of the Czech and Slovakia believe that it 
  was the beacon of freedom and the light of truth that 
  made their revolution a peaceful and successful one. 
  They believe that the dark times have fled, that the 
  monsters of old are gone, and that they are free to chart 
  their own path for the future of their nations. In the 
  shadows of Prague’s dim-lit streets, just beyond the light 
  spilling from popular cafes filled with the optimistic 
  voices of students, artists, and intellectuals, there is 
  an almost inaudible sound, an inhuman presence that 
  belies these notions and hints at the far more malignant 
  truth.
  Jaromir Cerny was the second son of a pair of 
  prominent actors best known for their sometimes 
  controversial performances on the Prague stage in the 
  late 1960s.In the political climate of the age, their work 
  in the arts put them squarely in the crosshairs of the 
  anti-reform minded wing of the Communist Party of 
  Czechoslovakia (KSC), which viewed the liberalization 
  efforts of Alexander Dubček, the party’s leader, as 
  a threat to the socialist agenda. The so-called Prague 
  Spring of back-and-forth political accusations and 
  maneuvering ended when finally, on August 20, 1968, 
  Warsaw Pact troops invaded in order to quell the 
  perceived threat to communism that was blamed largely 
  on the cultural and literary elites. The Cerny actors 
  joined their friends and peers in demonstrating against 
  the anti-reformists and stood with them to condemn 
  the occupying soldiers and their Soviet masters. It 
  came as a surprise to many, but these pacifistic tactics 
  worked and the Soviets backed down from their plans 
  to remove Dubček, preferring to simply provide him 
  “guidance” to ensure that his reforms would pose no 
  threat to the Soviet Bloc.
  In the ensuing years, Lukas and Renata Cerny 
  remained involved in the mostly intellectual movement 
  to end communist rule in Czechoslovakia. Thus, even 
  as a child Jaromir inherited their anticommunist 
  sentiment and became a mascot of sorts to many of 
  his parents’ friends, who were convinced that the boy’s 
  generation would succeed in ending their oppression 
  even if they could not.
  Spending a great deal of time in theaters, young 
  Jaromir followed in his parents’ footsteps and appeared 
  in plays across the city. At first most of his shows were 
  comedic or simple fare that drew no attention beyond 
  the theater crowd, but by his teens he had taken roles 
  in plays that were not so easily overlooked by the 
  government. 
  Dubček’s reforms had been rolled back by the mid-
  1970s and life quickly became difficult, especially for 
  those involved in the arts and the intellectual life. The 
  resurgence of censorship in particular under the regime 
  JAROMIR CERNY
  The Judas of Prague
  
  106 
  JAROMIR CERNY
  of Gustav Husak had a significant impact on the people 
  of Czechoslovakia, and nowhere was it felt more acutely 
  than in Prague, a city once famous for its theaters, 
  bookstores, and intelligentsia. Jaromir’s parents’ 
  continued involvement in dissident expression and 
  organizations led to their arrest after the final curtain 
  call of one of their more inflammatory performances in 
  the fall of 1976. They were escorted into a black sedan 
  and, like so many others they knew, were never seen 
  again.
  Thus occurred the most transformative event in 
  Jaromir’s life. After being robbed of his parents and 
  abandoned to face the world, the youth threw all his 
  passion and energy into the underground opposition 
  movement. When the historic Charter 77 manifesto 
  was drafted he, along with more than 240 other leading 
  thinkers, artists, and activists of the day — including 
  Vaclav Havel, a renowned playwright, poet, and 
  essayist — signed their names fully aware of the danger 
  this invited. Upon its publication on January 6, 1977 
  the signatories were immediately accused of treason 
  against the state and the government employed harsh 
  punishments against them. However, these punitive 
  actions were carried out as secretly as possible, for 
  the government had no wish to create martyrs of the 
  dissidents. This plan failed when some of the signatories 
  and their supporters organized and made public what 
  was happening. The communists ceased their pretense 
  and arrested the leaders of the Committee for the 
  Defense of the Unjustly Persecuted (VONS), tried them 
  in a kangaroo court, and sentenced them to prison.
  Jaromir had joined Havel and his compatriots in 
  VONS, but escaped a prison term. Despite his best 
  intentions, he found himself unable to resist the StB 
  secret police interrogators who abducted him from 
  his home in the middle of the night and questioned 
  him about his involvement in the Committee. He did 
  not later remember what happened that night, but for 
  weeks afterward was haunted by nightmares dominated 
  by a pair of piercing, inhuman eyes that seemed to 
  bore into his very soul and leave a legacy of physical 
  pain with the merest glance. Shortly after his release, 
  his “voluntary collaboration” with the regime was 
  vigorously publicized by the state-controlled media in a 
  largely successful effort to damn him in the eyes of his 
  fellow dissidents.
  During the 1980s, Jaromir was able to redeem some 
  measure of his reputation as a devoted dissident. He 
  assisted some of the samizdat publishers in producing 
  and distributing outlawed literature, and he was 
  actively involved in helping promote various musicians 
  whose music had been banned for being subversive. 
  Although such work allowed him to reclaim some 
  fraction of his former place among the revolutionaries, 
  he continued to be denied a position of leadership on 
  account of his tarnished past. Rather, he became an 
  important go-between and increasingly found a sense of 
  accomplishment from exercising a more indirect form 
  of influence. He avoided the limelight and instead 
  became adept at supporting — or manipulating —those 
  who were more suited to leading the movement.
  When the Berlin Wall fell on November 9, 1989, 
  Jaromir was fully prepared for what he knew would 
  soon be the transformation of the Czech intellectual 
  revolution into an overtly political and quite possibly 
  violent one. He occupied himself by helping to organize 
  for this inevitability, shuttling between meeting places as 
  the revolutionary movement prepared for the moment 
  it would take direct action against the Communist 
  regime. Throughout the summer, the movement had 
  gained momentum and now, as Czech citizens watched 
  in amazement while the Iron Curtain crumbled to the 
  ground, the time had come for the people of Bohemia, 
  Moravia, and Slovakia to rise up and reclaim their long-
  lost freedoms.
  On a snowy night shortly after leaving one such 
  meeting place, Jaromir found his passage from a narrow 
  alley cut off by a black sedan, a situation that gripped 
  him with fear as he recalled the similar abduction of 
  his parents years before. He considered turning and 
  running, but his will to do so evaporated when one of 
  the windows opened enough for him to see the two eyes 
  burning in the darkness of the car’s interior. 
  The same two eyes that had once haunted his dreams.
  He found himself unable to move and, like a sheep 
  to the slaughter, he entered the vehicle’s open door in 
  silent submission.
  Not unlike his arrest by the secret police, Jaromir 
  later recalled little about that car ride from the heart 
  of the city. It was only later, upon his departure, that 
  he learned that he had been driven northeast for nearly 
  an hour to Kokorin Castle, an impressive fortress rising 
  high above the surrounding countryside on a nearly 
  insurmountable outcropping of rock. Dominated 
  by a single tower, the castle had been purchased and 
  meticulously restored from near-complete ruin early 
  in the century by Vaclav Spacek, an aristocrat from 
  Starburk. Spacek spent much of his vast fortune 
  transforming the crumbling remains overlooking 
  the Kokorin Valley back into the formidable castle it 
  
  107 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  had been at its height of power in the 13th and 14th 
  centuries. 
  The car stopped outside the heavy castle gate and 
  Jaromir was escorted by the person with the burning 
  eyes the rest of the way. The castle lacked electricity and 
  other modern amenities, which Jaromir assumed for a 
  time was simply due to the castle’s official designation 
  as a historic site. However, by the time he arrived in 
  the great hall, a magnificent place dominated by 
  iron chandeliers and large glazed windows offering 
  a breathtaking view of the broad valley far below, he 
  was not so sure. Everything about the castle seemed 
  too anachronistic, too real, even for a museum-quality 
  restoration, especially given the lack of priority the 
  socialist regime gave to such matters.
  His escort finally introduced himself as comrade 
  Stepan Sebirov, a ranking member of the StB. He 
  informed Jaromir that he stood upon a precipice, both 
  literally and figuratively, and that before the sun rose 
  and bathed the ancient hall in its fiery light his fate 
  would be decided. However, to Jaromir’s surprise and 
  confusion, Sebirov told him that it was not he who 
  would decide the young man’s fate, but rather another, 
  a person he simply referred to as the “lord of the castle.” 
  For the next hour Jaromir waited, trembling, watching 
  the snow dance outside the dark windows, obscuring 
  any sign that he had not actually been transported 
  into the barbaric past. He had no sense of time, as his 
  wristwatch had been confiscated at the castle gate by 
  a silent and very disturbing character whose fingers 
  seemed too long and who sniffed at Jaromir as if he 
  could actually detect such things by scent alone. Sebirov 
  stood, barely moving, the entire time, his gaze withering 
  any possible thought in his prisoner’s mind of trying to 
  escape.
  Finally, the antique door to the hall opened and 
  a figure out of a dark and twisted fairy tale entered, 
  almost gliding across the floorboards, and came to 
  stand before the terrified revolutionary. The “lord of 
  the castle” was dressed in a full-length ermine cloak that 
  opened in the front enough for Jaromir to see that the 
  entire wardrobe was as outdated as the castle itself, yet 
  notably rich, as he spied numerous jewels and precious 
  metals decorating the heavy fabrics, furs, and leather. 
  The wearer was a tall individual whose features were 
  more suited to a nightmare than a real person. Its skin 
  was sunken and deathly pale, yet hideously criss-crossed 
  here and there with black veins that stood out in an 
  alien fashion. Its hair was long and dark, standing out in 
  starkest contrast to its face. Its mouth was small, twisted 
  into a cruel smile, and its ears seemed oddly…long. But 
  it was its eyes that made the greatest impression, eyes 
  that were as the mouth of a volcano compared to the 
  bonfire  intensity of Sebirov’s. 
  When the creature — for this was surely not a man, at 
  least no more — spoke, any last doubts as to the reality of 
  the situation fell away and Jaromir’s heart surrendered 
  to the horror before him. Its graceful, aristocratic tenor 
  made its message that much more malignant, even as it 
  incredibly welcomed Jaromir to its castle and told him 
  that he was an honored guest, despite the manner by 
  which he had come to the place. It told Jaromir that 
  its name was Janek Ritka, Voivode of Kokorin, and 
  that, despite all public appearances to the contrary, 
  it had been the castle’s occupant and its only real 
  owner since it was first granted the deed by Emperor 
  Sigismund in the first half of the 15th century. Under 
  the circumstances, Jaromir had no doubts whatsoever 
  that what he heard was the truth, no matter how mad it 
  may have otherwise sounded. 
  Janek was one of the Damned, an elder of the Old 
  Clan Tzimisce who had survived the Inquisition, the 
  Anarch Revolt, and the formation of the blasphemous 
  Sabbat, among the last of its fiendish lineage to maintain 
  the strict traditions of the past and safeguard them from 
  the constant threat of revolution and obsolescence. 
  Not only had Janek succeeded in standing firm in the 
  face of threats endemic to Kindred society, but had 
  managed to hold onto its personal demesne despite the 
  political and cultural instability that had tormented the 
  traditional lands of Bohemia for the past six centuries. 
  The Old Clan had long been rife with infighting, given 
  its solitary, feudal outlook, and Janek’s interests had 
  too long been distracted by a rivalry with the rival Fiend 
  Michal Albertus Staniewski.
  Despite that deathless grudge, Janek’s tenacity proved 
  particularly important in the twentieth century, when 
  the pace and the nature of change in its homeland 
  became far more dramatic. The First and Second 
  World Wars both posed dire threats to Janek’s haven 
  at Kokorin, if not to its very existence. The Nazi 
  occupation and subsequent rapine of the region and 
  its people was astonishing in its utter inhumanity and 
  coldly mechanical execution. For decades Janek, like 
  many of its kind, was convinced warring Methuselahs 
  or possibly even the Antediluvians themselves, had 
  executed the penultimate move in the Jyhad that 
  foretold the Final Nights of prophecy. 
  But Janek’s domain did not fall to the Germans. 
  Instead, Janek called upon the gromnik of earth, wind 
  
  108 
  JAROMIR CERNY
  and sky, to keep the Panzers and Messerschmitts from 
  what belonged to it. Cornered, and with many of its 
  mortal thralls deported, killed, or otherwise unable to 
  come to their master’s aid, the fiend turned to Koldunic 
  Sorcery to save itself and its domain. Janek had once 
  used the vorozhei’s arts extensively to establish protective 
  power and to stave off the most dedicated attacks of 
  its vampiric foes. However, Janek came to believe that 
  too much reliance on these dark arts would enslave 
  its soul to a demonic presence that rumor suggested 
  had already taken possession of most of his fellow 
  Tzimisce, changing them into something even more 
  unwholesome than the unliving fiends they already 
  were. With no other options, Janek felt the risk was 
  worth it. When the war ended and Czechoslovakia was 
  again a free and independent nation, the Voivode of 
  Kokorin smirked in its tower.
  When the Communists seized control of the nation, 
  the canny Tzimisce moved quickly to gain influence 
  over those kine and institutions that were necessary 
  for it to protect itself. The oppressive nature of the 
  socialist regime made it unusually easy for the medieval 
  aristocrat to accomplish this, as fear and secrecy were 
  already fast becoming the trademark means of control in 
  the reconstituted state. Because all property ostensibly 
  belonged to the government, it was a relatively simple 
  matter for the Fiend to have its haven proclaimed off-
  limits to interlopers and to use the Communist military 
  to protect it from worldly dangers.
  In a similar fashion, Janek gained extensive control 
  over certain elements within the KSC and, more 
  importantly, within the much-feared StB. Its agents 
  allowed the Fiend a great deal of sway over policies 
  and actions that might harm or benefit it personally 
  and allowed the Tzimisce to have a de facto voice in 
  the politics of its Dom. Janek’s network of spies, 
  bureaucrats, and thugs rivaled that of other Kindred, 
  even as the city of Prague and most other heavily 
  populated parts of the country technically belonged to 
  Camarilla Princes and their quislings.
  Janek had no desire for esteem among the Kindred, 
  the great majority of whom it viewed as so far beneath 
  its station as to be unworthy of its attention. Janek had 
  been Voivode for more than six centuries and neither 
  the Camarilla nor the Sabbat had anything to offer it.
  Even so, Janek had not survived for so long by being 
  a fool. It recognized the sway other Kindred held over 
  the kine, and ruled the domain from its castle. It 
  meticulously avoided the games of prestation contrived 
  to ensnare it and swiftly destroyed those Camarilla and 
  marauding Sabbat that trespassed into its domain. The 
  Prince of Prague, the idealistic Toreador Vasily, agreed 
  to a formal “understanding” that the Kindred would 
  avoid the Kokorin Valley and steer clear of certain other 
  territories that Janek considered close to its unbeating 
  heart. In exchange, the Tzimisce elder gave its word that 
  it would abstain from Camarilla’s affairs and domains 
  and that it would not, should it ever come to pass, offer 
  aid or comfort to the Sabbat.
  The unprecedented historic events leading up to the 
  eve of democratic revolution in Czechoslovakia had 
  surprised Janek with how quickly they unfolded. The 
  Fiend had long cultivated spies and other agents among 
  the dissident movement that had provided it the tools 
  to monitor a rising threat to the Communist regime 
  that provided it so much. But the astonishing rapidity 
  and shocking impetus of the wave of democratic change 
  that was roaring across the Soviet Bloc caught the old 
  Tzimisce off-guard. Spurred to action, like a manic 
  puppeteer, it directed its minions as best it could in 
  order to protect its interests in the Voivodate. It became 
  clear to Janek that despite its iron grasp over its remote 
  domain, it was faced with something that it lacked the 
  ability to prevent.
  The elder Fiend already knew of Jaromir, given his 
  celebrity as a dissident, when it summoned the young 
  actor to the castle. Janek had learned more from its 
  most trusted thrall, Stepan Sebirov, the patriarch of 
  the Sebirov boyar family that had faithfully served the 
  Voivode of Kokorin since the earliest nights of their 
  monstrous existence. Sebirov’s position within the 
  StB had enabled him to gain whatever intelligence his 
  domitor desired, and what he provided his master had 
  convinced Janek of the rebel’s value.
  Kneeling on the cold floor of the great hall, sure that 
  he would not live to see the sunrise, Jaromir listened 
  in fearful confusion as the monster that stood before 
  him offered him a choice. He could return to Prague 
  and with Sebirov’s help convince certain key members 
  of the revolutionary movement to pledge their loyalty 
  to him. Once accomplished, he would coordinate 
  their efforts so that, if the government they espoused 
  represented the people of Bohemia, Janek and all he 
  possessed would be protected — and obeyed. The other 
  option went unspoken.
  In that moment Jaromir, for all his love of democracy 
  and his desire to avenge his parents, realized that 
  from the perspective of this creature, what form a 
  government took mattered little. All that mattered were 
  the individuals who pulled the strings, and whether 
  
  109 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  they called themselves monarchists, imperialists, 
  nationalists, communists, or democrats, they were still 
  just chattel ruled by the same fears and desires. As the 
  Voivode’s eyes fixed their awful gaze on his cowering 
  form in that hellish castle, as he faced his own very 
  personal awful choice while staring the Devil in the 
  eyes, Jaromir felt his idealism flayed away. It was a time 
  for pragmatism, not hope or aspiration.
  Jaromir made his decision, and though his fear 
  of never seeing the sun rise again proved to be well-
  founded, it did not spell his end. Janek Embraced him 
  and, after a necessarily hasty introduction to being 
  Damned, sent him back to Prague to do his sire’s 
  bidding. When he exited the black sedan on the corner 
  of Jan Palach Square ten nights later, it seemed a lifetime 
  had passed. The Velvet Revolution was underway, with 
  mass strikes paralyzing the city and open calls for the 
  dissolution of the Communist government sounding 
  from every quarter. 
  With the help of Sebirov and the rest of the creatures 
  comprising Janek’s motley cabinet, Jaromir wasted no 
  time. He had been provided a crash course in how to 
  administer the Blood Bond, crude though it would be, 
  and the pair undertook a lightning-fast campaign of 
  “convincing” a host of targets of their new purpose. 
  The pair was exceedingly successful in their mission, 
  given the uncertainty of the moment. They found 
  their targets — dedicated democratic revolutionaries, 
  journalists, academics, artists, and student leaders — 
  and made plain to them that their passion for societal 
  change relied upon an unholy addiction to the blood 
  and will of their new master. With each draught of vitae 
  given, with each soul bound in anachronistic servitude, 
  Jaromir felt his own humanity slipping away. 
  The undead coup nearly failed on November 24, 
  when Vaclav Havel’s speech of the week before was 
  publicly broadcast on television. So amazed was Jaromir 
  by how quickly things were happening, things he could 
  never have imagined a month before, that he foolishly 
  slaked his thirst while within a part of the city claimed 
  by a territorial Malkavian. He barely evaded capture by 
  the Prince’s Hound and only avoided further trouble 
  through Sebirov’s intervention, a boon he still owes to 
  his resentful blood-sibling.
  However blunt and crude their master’s strategy was, 
  it worked. By the time President Gustav Hasek swore 
  in a new government in the second week of December, 
  one no longer controlled by the Communist Party, 
  Jaromir had amassed more than a dozen blood-bound 
  thralls. These ghouls were instrumental in helping 
  Sebirov’s StB agents ensure that the revolution did 
  not devolve into civil war and later guaranteeing that 
  Janek’s holdings and assets remained unmolested. 
  More than two decades later, Jaromir still serves his 
  master’s whim in the Magic City. The idealism that he 
  once believed defined him has been replaced by a far 
  more pragmatic instinct that has grown out of his need 
  to compete for control of the city’s most useful pawns 
  and the power they possess. Prince Vasily was outraged 
  at the fledgling Tzimisce’s intrusive campaign during 
  the Velvet Revolution and scribed a grievance to Janek, 
  requesting that it punish its rogue childe. Furthermore, 
  the Prince forbade Jaromir from entering Prague, 
  enumerating his violations of the Traditions and the 
  pact between Janek Ritka and the Camarilla of Prague 
  to justify this exile. 
  Jaromir has paid no heed to these threats and Janek 
  finds them laughable. The old Fiend’s prestige and the 
  fear the ancient Voivode of Kokorin is capable of stirring 
  has meant that so far, despite a series of additional 
  violations of Prince Vasily’s will, not to mention a much 
  longer list of lesser crimes against individual Kindred, 
  the young Tzimisce has avoided any real retribution 
  from the Camarilla. This immunity wears increasingly 
  thin among the Kindred of Prague, however. Already 
  a number of Kindred seek to convince the Prince that 
  Jaromir can be eliminated without bringing down the 
  wrath of Janek, now that the fledgling — for fledgling he 
  is, having never been granted his release, as is the way of 
  the hoary Old Clan — has served the purpose to which 
  he had been Embraced. Vasily has been entertaining 
  these arguments and may soon decide to act on them, 
  but until he does, Jaromir tests the patience of the Ivory 
  Tower.
  Even if the Camarilla chooses to seek his head, 
  Jaromir has an ace up his sleeve that even his sire would 
  be hard-pressed to defeat. In part due to his access to 
  spying equipment on account of his close partnership 
  with Sebirov, Jaromir has become quite adept at the 
  use of modern technology, particularly computers. His 
  activity on the Internet now outstrips his face-to-face 
  interaction, and rarely does a night go by that he is 
  not discovering secrets, distributing misinformation, 
  increasing his wealth, or plundering someone’s fortune. 
  In fact, even if the Prince declares a Blood Hunt upon 
  him, Jaromir believes he has garnered enough currency 
  to buy off the Camarilla’s slayers. His plan then would 
  be to flee the domain to head… anywhere, really, 
  offering token allegiance to whatever sect claimed the 
  domain and establishing an identity no longer under 
  the yoke of his foul sire.
  
  110 
  JAROMIR CERNY
  Sire: Janek Ritka
  Clan: Old Clan Tzimisce
  Nature: Competitor
  Demeanor: Idealist
  Generation: 8th
  Embrace: 1989
  Apparent Age: 20s
  Physical: Strength 3, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2
  Social: Charisma 4, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2
  Mental: Perception 5, Intelligence 4, Wits 3
  Talents: Alertness 4, Empathy 3, Expression 4, 
  Streetwise 2, Subterfuge 2
  Skills: Drive 2, Firearms 1, Performance 3, Stealth 2
  Knowledges: Academics 1, Computer 4, Politics 3, 
  Technology 4
  Disciplines: Animalism 2, Auspex 4, Dominate 3, 
  Obfuscate 2
  Backgrounds: Contacts 3, Haven 2, Influence 4, 
  Resources 2, Retainers 2
  Virtues: Conscience 2, Self-Control 4, Courage 2
  Morality: Humanity 5
  Willpower: 5
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 15/3
  Image: Jaromir appears in one of two distinct guises. 
  In his most common and most socially accessible 
  aspects, he looks like a stereotypical Gen-Y technology 
  geek in his dark hoodie, blue jeans, sneakers, and 
  backpack. Clean-shaven, with tousled black hair and a 
  slender build, he is usually mistaken for a student. His 
  experience on stage serves him well and permits him 
  to easily transform himself to better suit his audience 
  and his intent. Upon occasion, however, he appears 
  ungendered, alien, and not even altogether organic. 
  Like an ikon to a brutish and forgotten spirit — or 
  demon — of the land, his features become coarse and 
  otherworldly, a creature forged for a more primitive time. 
  Those who don’t know his background assume that, 
  like many Tzimisce, Jaromir has simply manipulated 
  his appearance with Vicissitude. In truth, Jaromir has 
  no idea why he sometimes rises from the day-sleep in 
  this form. In his more paranoid moments, he suspects 
  that it’s a psychological trial imposed on him by the 
  old Fiend, or perhaps by the jealous Sebirov, though 
  he has no idea how they’d accomplish it. On the other 
  hand, he has heard of the brood known as Gargoyles, 
  and wonders if something in their makeup still calls to 
  the Tzimisce blood from which the wretched Tremere 
  supposedly crafted them.
  Roleplaying Hints: You enjoy nothing anymore, 
  though you are adept at pulling strings from the 
  shadows, pitting enemy against enemy, and fomenting a 
  sense of loyalty among those who taste your blood even 
  as the petty Kindred of Prague seek your destruction. 
  You still miss the relatively naïve struggle for democracy 
  against the Iron Curtain of communism, and every so 
  often your idealism makes itself known in symbolic but 
  dangerous ways, such as turning free a blood-thrall or 
  Embracing and releasing a childe to make what she will 
  of her new condition. In a way, you hope the Camarilla 
  does come for you, for it might actually bring you to the 
  justice you deserve for betraying what had been your 
  cause in your days among the living. 
  Haven: The Tzimisce fledgling maintains a small 
  apartment in the heart of the city that brims with 
  computer and audio/video equipment, including a 
  variety of security devices and applications. He relocates 
  his haven at least once a year in order to avoid his enemies 
  and makes it a point to never invite anyone as a guest.
  Influence: Jaromir has a great deal of influence 
  over 77, a hacker collective that he founded in 2009, 
  which he uses to carry out the lion’s share of his online 
  operations. The hackers of 77 are, however, more adept 
  at their craft than Jaroslav, and while he formed the 
  confederation to serve him, it’s only a matter of time 
  before they discover what their patron actually is and 
  react in a way he can’t possibly predict. Unbeknownst 
  to Jaromir, a Toreador on the East Coast of the US 
  named Michael Dillon has connections to the 77 
  collective, and while he remains unaware that Jaromir 
  is the group’s patron, he’s discovered a few telltale 
  informational lacunae that indicate the presence of a 
  Kindred.
  
  111 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  
  112 
  COLM OLLIVER
  Wrong place, wrong time, wrong decision. A 
  combination of events led to Colm Olliver’s ouster 
  from the domain of Birmingham, not the least of which 
  was his own refusal to heed both the Traditions and the 
  mortal laws of the domain.
  The Embrace that brought Colm Olliver into the 
  world of the Damned was a fluke. A pack of Sabbat 
  made it all the way to Birmingham from Bristol, where 
  its members decided to bolster their ranks and throw 
  a few shovelheads at the Sheriff of Bristol’s Hounds. 
  One of the pack’s Cainites grabbed Olliver, put the 
  bite on him, pointed him southward, and told him to 
  kill any other vampires he saw. In the throes of frenzy, 
  Colm did all of this and more, taking down two of the 
  unsuspecting Hounds as well as four police and almost 
  a score of innocent bystanders.
  Unfortunately for Olliver, this all happened on the 
  night of the Birmingham pub bombings. The police, 
  already facing the chaos of the domestic terrorist attack, 
  reacted to the news of their fallen comrades and civilians 
  as a related terrorist event. Riot police finally managed 
  to subdue the enraged Kindred, who had exhausted 
  himself at the end of his frenzy. Olliver sank into torpor 
  as he was being hauled to Winson Green Prison. The 
  violence of being dragged out of the police van and into 
  the prison roused him from his shallow torpor and he 
  frenzied again, killing two more police and slaking his 
  thirst on their blood. While the attentions of the police 
  at the prison were otherwise occupied by the so-called 
  “Birmingham Six,” Olliver escaped into the night with 
  police blood on his hands.
  Shortly thereafter, England passed the Prevention of 
  Terrorism Act. Under the law, Olliver’s actions were 
  classified as terrorist activity, even though he’d had 
  nothing to do with the actions of the Birmingham Six 
  — who were themselves later exonerated — in support of 
  the pub bombings. On the lam from mortal authorities, 
  Olliver chose to leave his Birmingham stalking grounds, 
  where the local Kindred were becoming unpleasantly 
  aware of him. After all, he’d had no introduction to 
  what he’d become or the society of the night. He was 
  simply a rogue Kindred, presumably Caitiff or some 
  debased elder’s by-blow, in a very traditional domain. 
  Olliver knew that something else was out there, hunting 
  him, and before the Sheriff had a chance to bring him 
  before the Prince, he vanished into the darkness.
  Olliver came to understand his situation quickly. He 
  deduced the vagaries of the Kindred condition and, 
  piecing together the fragments of his frenzied memory, 
  he realized that his options were limited. There was no 
  way he could get out of the country. With the swift 
  passage of the Prevention of Terrorism Act, Scotland 
  and Ireland’s borders were heavily guarded, and the 
  English Channel was too great a risk in the dark. 
  London seemed to have the numbers and the urban 
  chaos required to hide an accidental dissident, at least 
  to a Kindred who couldn’t stay in his home domain.
  So London it was, and Olliver’s understanding of 
  the Kindred state increased exponentially during the 
  journey. He traveled by stolen car, by stowing away 
  aboard passenger trains, and by traveling on foot when 
  no faster method presented itself, all the while leaving 
  a trail of ravaged vessels and traumatized onlookers. 
  Along this trail of horror, Olliver learned the vagaries 
  of placating the Beast and avoiding the Red Fear. He 
  gained first-hand knowledge of, the impotence of 
  God’s dominion, and the inaccuracy of so many of 
  the popular culture banes of vampirism. Being undead 
  came with more than enough drawbacks, but the 
  benefits it offered made him feel like a fucking god — 
  the midnight king of Hibernia, Albion, and even that 
  shit-swamp Caledonia, if he wanted it!
  Reality intruded as Olliver approached the London 
  domain. The mortal agents of Lady Anne Bowesely had 
  followed the news of Olliver’s trajectory and had braced 
  themselves for the inevitable arrival of the rampaging 
  COLM OLLIVER
  Autarkis at Large
  
  113 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  hell-monger that the police reports and tabloids had 
  indicated was heading their way. A network of ghouls, 
  vigilantes, and “private security freelancers,” each 
  unknowing that others had been summoned to aid the 
  effort, converged upon the London-bound farm truck 
  carrying him into the city. Olliver had no idea he had 
  been anticipated, but when a dozen interlopers who 
  seemed to know fact from fiction when it came to the 
  Kindred’s banes, he woke from the daysleep that had so 
  recently overtaken him to find them hammering a stake 
  into his heart.
  Das Ungeheuer Darin
  When he came to, it was no longer 1976. Three years 
  had passed before someone had seen fit to remove the 
  stake that held him in deathless stasis.
  The Prince of London, not wanting to connect 
  herself to Olliver’s lurid person, had tasked one of 
  her Primogen with the extirpation of the rising Caitiff 
  menace, which happened to include (and indicate) 
  Olliver in particular. Shit rolls downhill, and this 
  particular odious task tumbled down the Kindred 
  pecking order until it unfortunately ended up in 
  the hands of a coterie of young Gangrel who had no 
  especial enthusiasm for Anne Bowesely’s reign. The 
  Gangrel unstaked Colm rather than risk their own 
  Humanity in an act of murder-for-favor and promptly 
  fled the domain for Manchester.
  Political fallout was characteristically severe. How 
  could this simple task, Lady Anne raged, result in such 
  a debacle? Neonates shrugged their shoulders. Ancillae 
  shrugged their shoulders and kicked the concern back 
  up to the elder level. Elders blamed each other, and 
  hid behind an impenetrable snarl of prestation that left 
  it unclear exactly who was supposed to carry out the 
  death sentence. The result was a blemish for not only 
  the Camarilla as an organization, but for the system of 
  obligation that let such a high-profile duty fall through 
  the cracks. Two Harpies found themselves relegated 
  to the Whitechapel hunting grounds, a Primogen saw 
  his clan banned from Elysium for a month, and the 
  Tremere lost the patronage of the Prince and had their 
  claim to domain revoked — in a territory that held a 
  crucial chantry. Amid the whole mess, Olliver was 
  pardoned in absentia, with the vain elders hoping that 
  the sooner the whole affair was swept under the rug, 
  the better. Death sentence? What death sentence?
  The trouble he had caused the elders brought Olliver 
  to the eventual attention of London’s Anarchs, who 
  gathered at Carfax Abbey, a deconsecrated church 
  converted into a nightclub. A Brujah attached to the 
  scene, Ian Corso, recognized Olliver from the tabloid 
  stories, and that was all it took for Olliver to become 
  royalty at the Abbey.
  To his surprise, these vampires weren’t fucking asshole 
  ponces who prided themselves on what gigantic cocks 
  they could be to one another. Instead, Carfax Abbey 
  was home to a movement that actually hated that part 
  of vampire society. The whole lace-and-makeup thing 
  was a little rich, but Olliver soon found a home in the 
  company of the scene’s rougher element. This rowdy 
  faction had connections to other countercultures, all of 
  which were at least initially receptive to a new Kindred 
  who had given such an audacious (if accidental) finger 
  to Queen Anne herself. It was here that Colm first felt 
  the forbidden rush of suborning his Humanity. A few 
  of the scene’s members were actually slumming Sabbat 
  infernalists, who taught him a bit of their forbidden 
  blood magic in exchange for sharing the Vaulderie with 
  them. Olliver laughed off their overblown ritual, but 
  took their witchcraft with him.
  The relationship that developed between Colm 
  Olliver and the Anarchs proved to be a tumultuous 
  one. While both certainly resented the rigid structures 
  of the Camarilla and the equally relentless dogmas 
  of the Sabbat, the Anarchs of Carfax Abbey aimed 
  to rebuild London’s political landscape into one that 
  offered more opportunity for younger Kindred. More 
  than anything else, Olliver thrilled to the vast quantities 
  of vitae that Carfax Abbey’s blood dolls readily yielded 
  to him, often without his even having to ask them.
  Olliver had no such lofty ambitions. Indeed, his 
  outlook ran more toward that of a particularly selfish 
  Autarkis. He fell in love with the outlook espoused 
  in one of the quotations bandied about around the 
  Anarch rallies:
  “No one holds command over me. No man. No god. 
  No Prince. What is a claim of age for ones who are 
  immortal? What is a claim of power for ones who defy 
  death? Call your damnable hunt. We shall see who I 
  drag screaming to hell with me.”
  The Anarchs just wanted to replace Princes with 
  other Princes more sympathetic in outlook to their 
  own. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Anarch 
  politics even used the same kinds of outdated fantasy-
  fetish terms to honor their heroes. Baron instead of 
  Prince? What does the word matter if you’re still kissing 
  his ass, Olliver reasoned.
  
  114 
  COLM OLLIVER
  Tearing Down the Tower
  Over the course of the next decade-plus, the Anarchs 
  rebelled openly against Prince Anne Bowesley’s praxis 
  in particular and Camarilla dominance more generally. 
  As punk, goth, krautrock, new wave, oi, protest reggae, 
  and other musical genres colored the political and 
  cultural scene of Carfax Abbey and London’s Anarch 
  Movement, The Camarilla tightened its grip over the 
  Traditions, cracking down on the Anarch Movement 
  under the guise of protectionism against Sabbat 
  encroachment. The Kindred had their own Iron Lady 
  in the form of Queen Anne and her parliament of 
  Primogen. The Camarilla pronounced death sentences 
  on those self-identified Anarchs who chose to Embrace 
  (and their childer), but stopped short of declaring a 
  unilateral Blood Hunt against the Anarch Movement. In 
  response, the Anarchs redoubled their rhetoric against 
  the Queen, winning little sympathy among the largely 
  conservative Kindred power structure in London. With 
  little few options left to them, the Anarchs waged open 
  Jyhad against the Camarilla, their ostensible parent 
  sect, and struck down a series of “pretender Primogen” 
  among the Ventrue, Toreador, Tremere, and Malkavian 
  clans. Olliver participated in several of these conflicts, 
  not out of sympathy with Anarch philosophy, but out 
  of hatred for Queen Anne herself. 
  By the summer of 1982, Olliver and the Anarchs 
  had disavowed themselves of each other, though their 
  relationship wasn’t as hostile as the attitudes each of 
  them harbored against the Camarilla and Sabbat. In 
  this case, it simply worked out that the enemy of both 
  of their enemies didn’t happen to be an ally. Carfax 
  Abbey ceased to be a haven for him, though he was free 
  to attend as he chose. It simply represented a time, a 
  mindset, and a philosophical standpoint that he felt he 
  had left behind. When the Tremere Justicar Gabrielle 
  di Righetti showed up at the door of Carfax Abbey to 
  formally censure club impresario Hortense Holden and 
  her confidant Ian Corso, Olliver and the Movement 
  had already formally parted ways. 
  After the split, Olliver entered the darkest phase of his 
  unlife. Hated, lost, and exhausted, Olliver succumbed 
  to a fugue that must have been nurtured by the roaring 
  of his Beast. He simply does not recall the years from 
  1984-1997. When he returned to his senses, he felt that 
  nothing had changed. The “no-future” mantra of the 
  postpunk 1980s had morphed into the millennialism 
  of the 1990s and would adopt a new slogan for the 
  same anxiety and nihilism. Even Queen Anne still 
  held the Princedom in London, while Carfax Abbey 
  continued to harbor the same bitter Anarchs and their 
  screed, stinking of the same stale, spilled lager and 
  smoke-machine chemical runoff. The only thing that’s 
  changed is that Ian Corso looks as ravaged as punk 
  icons Penny Rimbaud or Vini Reilly these nights.
  After Olliver regained his sense of self, he decided 
  that he simply had to leave London, as it had nothing 
  to offer him. With a suicide’s sense of finality, he 
  planned a gesture that would graphically underscore 
  his disgust with the Ivory Tower and its despotism. 
  At the time, London had suffered a spate of terrorist 
  bombing attempts, and Olliver intended to strike a 
  similar message against the Camarilla’s blood-cult of 
  demagoguery while the Kindred of the city were gripped 
  with the same climate of fear that held the mortals. 
  Over the span of a week, in early November of 2009, 
  Olliver placed over a score of nail bombs throughout 
  London, in targets such as Underground stations, 
  shopping centers, banks, and nightclubs — including 
  Carfax Abbey. Each of the targets had some connection 
  to a Kindred who exerted influence over the locale, 
  from the Nosferatu warrens beneath the Underground 
  to the Ventrue-favored skyscrapers of the Bishopsgate 
  financial interests.
  Some of Olliver’s bombs exploded, causing the 
  desired effect. Various mortal and Kindred agencies 
  and Kindred found others. In the cases of those that 
  discharged their improvised payloads, the Camarilla 
  of London conspired to cover up the acts of domestic 
  terror or to tie them to radical organizations among the 
  kine. Among the Kindred community, response ranged 
  from the incredulous to the wrathful. Hortense Holden 
  from Carfax Abbey lamented the act as “depravity 
  brought on by an obviously eroding Humanitas” while 
  even the insider Malkavians of the Camarilla courts 
  howled for retribution. The result was inevitable, of 
  course: Colm Olliver had finally earned a Blood Hunt.
  Olliver considers himself a freedom fighter, primarily 
  for his own freedom rather than any greater political 
  sentiment, which is why he splintered from the 
  Anarchs. Under Queen Anne’s decree, Olliver is a 
  terrorist. Similarly, Olliver remains wanted by British 
  Special Branch and the Metropolitan Police Service 
  for his mortal law violations that have no statutes of 
  limitations. In response to his Kindred infamy, he’s 
  under Lextalionis in both London and Birmingham, 
  and has pledged never to return to either unless it’s 
  to stake and devour their Princes. (Obviously, he has 
  no direct knowledge of the events surrounding the 
  disappearance of Prince Mithras or the fate of the 
  
  115 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  diablerist Monty Coven.) The Camarilla has considered 
  adding him to the Red List, but prevailing sentiment is 
  that sooner or later, he’ll manage to destroy himself, 
  and no specific clan has stepped forward to pursue any 
  possible trophy placed on him.
  Colm’s terrorist past has placed him in numerous 
  worldwide security databases, however, and those 
  Kindred with access to such classified information 
  may well be watching him. In particular, an American 
  clanmate of Colm’s, Godfrey Burns, has kept apprised 
  of Olliver’s movements through a dark web copy of 
  a CIA database. Surely, others watch the renegade’s 
  activities as well, with Colm none the wiser.
  Tonight, Olliver flirts with the idea of joining the 
  Anarch domains (but not the Movement) in northern 
  Italy or California. Whatever his decision, he must hide 
  the route he takes out of England from both mortal 
  authorities and Kindred toadies, and will likely end 
  up passing through several interim domains before 
  arriving at his final destination. And if he has to pledge 
  more boons along the way to take his fight to a different 
  front, what of it? That is, if he manages to make it out 
  of Queen Anne’s London with his head still attached 
  to his shoulders.
  Sire: Fat Ciaran
  Clan: Brujah
  Nature: Child
  Demeanor: Deviant
  Generation: 11th
  Embrace: 1974
  Apparent Age: early 40s
  Physical: Strength 4, Dexterity 2, Stamina 5
  Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2
  Mental: Perception 3, Intelligence 2, Wits 2
  Talents: Alertness 2, Athletics 1, Brawl 2, Intimidation 3, 
  Streetwise 2, Subterfuge 2
  Skills: Crafts (butcher) 3, Drive 1, Firearms 2, Larceny 2, 
  Stealth 1, Survival 2
  Knowledges: Academics 1, Politics 1, Science 2, 
  Technology 2
  Disciplines: Celerity 2, Potence 4, Thaumaturgy 2 
  (Path of Corruption 2)
  Thaumaturgical Rituals: Bind the Accusing Tongue
  Backgrounds: Allies 1, Alternate Identity 1, Contacts 1
  Virtues: Conscience 1, Self-Control 3, Courage 3
  Morality: Humanity 4
  Willpower: 5
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 12/1
  Image: A rough-and-tumble butcher from an 
  industrial northern suburb, Olliver has been scarred 
  by an impoverished youth and outlaw unlife, and he 
  looks it. He’s not big, but he’s a hellfighter, a knuckle-
  cracking Mick with black hair and a scarred-over eye. 
  Having been on the lam since his Embrace, Olliver’s 
  a bit ragged around the edges, having no time to settle 
  into a domain and get comfortable. He has a hostile, 
  vicious look about him, which he relies upon to scare 
  others away from contact.
  Roleplaying Hints: You’re angry with everything 
  because nothing ever works out for anyone except the 
  people who already have everything they need. You give 
  people a chance in the infinitesimal hope that they 
  might see things as they truly are: that mortals want 
  to be taken advantage of and that Kindred should be 
  able to do what they want without having to answer 
  to someone pretending to be superior to the other 
  monsters. Eventually, though, everyone fails that test. 
  You just want to find that one Lick who knows the 
  truth.
  Haven: Olliver makes his haven wherever he finds it, 
  bullying his way into “crash space” where he can find it 
  or breaking and entering if nothing else presents itself. 
  He’s not above evicting a rightful tenant, and home 
  invasion is one of the many mortal-law crimes on his 
  lengthy rap sheet. 
  Influence: Practically nil. Olliver’s Allies and 
  Contacts are those last few lingering connections to 
  his time among the Carfax Abbey Anarchs who feel 
  a sense of duty even after the bombing. Even these 
  will probably atrophy to nothing once he manages to 
  escape England, and whether he’s able to cultivate new 
  relationships with other connections along the way… 
  well, it’s unlikely. The future probably holds a great 
  deal of loneliness and bitter regret for him.
  Colm has made the acquaintance of a strip club 
  owner in Boston, a Setite named Ryan McGrath, who 
  might have the ability to smuggle him into the country. 
  But whether either or both of them are using each 
  other remains to be seen.
  
  116 
  ESPERANZA LUCIFER
  
  117 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  Few Kindred are renowned beyond the limits of the 
  city in which they have made their haven. The interests 
  of the Damned are almost universally personal and 
  rarely furthered by activity that exceeds the geographic 
  boundary of their own domains. In fact, despite a 
  salacious social construct that elevates its saints and 
  bogeymen to artificial heights, most Kindred spend 
  the bulk of their existence in local pursuits. Pursuing 
  a secret, acquiring information, creating a work of 
  art, mastering a Discipline, enjoying a literary or 
  cinematic work, or simply overseeing one’s nightly 
  affairs takes time. Even setting aside the never-ending 
  hunt for blood, most Kindred simply have no interest 
  in involving themselves in the affairs of other Kindred 
  who don’t threaten their domains. Even the vaunted 
  Primogen and Princes much prefer to remain big fish in 
  their respective small ponds than small fish in a much 
  larger ocean. Recognition and fame only invite a host 
  of political and supernatural entanglements that offer 
  far more trouble than benefit. Worse, celebrity among 
  the undead is the surest way to draw the attention of 
  hunters, Kindred or otherwise.
  Some few among the Damned have risen to notoriety, 
  however. Besides the semi-mythical Antediluvians 
  and a host of legendary Methuselahs, for the most 
  part these Kindred are elders whose achievements 
  were instrumental in shaping the modern society of 
  vampires. Hardestadt, for example, whether admired or 
  reviled, is known across the globe by many Kindred for 
  his role in the founding of the Camarilla. On the other 
  hand, Francisco Domingo de Polonia, the one-time 
  Sabbat Archbishop of New York City, achieved fame 
  primarily due to the global importance of his domain. 
  In addition, certain Justicars and a few of those they 
  hunt have also become known throughout the world’s 
  Elysiums. Still, besides their names, little else of these 
  figures is known, even by Kindred of a scholarly nature.
  Ultimately, only a handful of Kindred have achieved 
  anything akin to true fame, becoming legends by virtue 
  of their deeds and misdeeds. One of these, a rogue 
  whose exploits have been recounted by the Damned 
  from Los Angeles to St. Petersburg is Esperanza Lucifer, 
  the Devil of the Deep. 
  According to some accounts, Esperanza was the 
  daughter of a Spanish naval commander who fought the 
  mostly French and English buccaneers who patrolled 
  the waters off the coast of Hispaniola. Others claim 
  that she was actually a prostitute, brought to the island 
  of Tortuga by the French to sate the rampant lusts of 
  the local pirates. A few voices say she was both: a lord’s 
  daughter captured and forced into prostitution by her 
  captors. Whatever the truth, all tales agree that she was 
  quite young and quite beautiful, with long, fair tresses 
  and eyes of the deepest blue, like the sea.
  Aristocrat or harlot, Esperanza fell in love with a 
  veteran captain employed by the Dutch West India 
  Company, one Hendrick Jacobszoon, a rather rough-
  around-the-edges fellow who adopted the surname 
  Lucifer to enhance his image among friend and foe 
  alike. How the affair began is the unclear, but in 1627 
  the two were together when Hendrick’s ship had a 
  fateful encounter with a pair of Spanish ships sailing 
  from Honduras. 
  The three Dutch West India Company ships dared 
  not let the opportunity pass, and so set upon the 
  Spanish ships, succeeding in capturing one, while the 
  other escaped their barbarous clutches. The fighting 
  was fierce and Hendrick was injured by a bullet in 
  the action. Ignoring pain, he fought as if possessed , 
  winning the day as well as an untold fortune in guilders. 
  He was unable to enjoy the spoils, however. Later that 
  day, in his own cabin with Esperanza at his side, he 
  breathed his last.
  ESPERANZA LUCIFER
  The Devil’s Darling
  
  118 
  ESPERANZA LUCIFER
  Terrified at being left alone with Hendrick’s 
  bloodthirsty crew now that her protector was gone, 
  Esperanza racked her brain for a way of avoiding what 
  seemed an obvious and unwholesome fate. She hatched 
  a scheme that called upon all the imagination, courage, 
  self-control, and willpower she could muster, along with 
  a hearty helping of rum. Emboldened by drink and 
  what she saw as her only possible recourse, clad in some 
  of the accoutrements of her now-deceased lover, armed 
  with his pistol and rapier, the young girl vanished in 
  the blood-stained cabin and the new captain of the ship 
  stepped onto the deck.
  The crew was flabbergasted at Esperanza’s daring and 
  thought it a joke, laughing at the woman’s audacity. The 
  humor died when one of the pirates dared to grab her 
  and found six inches of steel in his stomach, courtesy of 
  the self-anointed Captain Esperanza Lucifer. The action 
  gave her enough room to quickly tell the crew of how, 
  unless they accepted her command, they would suffer 
  at the hands of the Spanish. She surprised even herself 
  with her rhetorical gifts at that moment and feared it 
  might not prove enough for the hungry, drunken crew, 
  but many were exhausted, wounded, and in no more 
  mood for violence. They had their gold and they wanted 
  little more than to return to port to enjoy their share 
  of the plunder. Until they made port, most reasoned, 
  the sailors might as well give her the service she wanted.
  Esperanza’s initial plan to flee upon making land did 
  not come to pass. Perhaps she had nowhere to go, or 
  she was more worried about her fate away from the crew 
  than with them. Or, she simply realized the potential 
  offered by being a pirate captain. Again, it matters little 
  to most Kindred what her thinking was at the time. 
  What is of importance is what happened a few years 
  later when, for a second time on the high seas, she 
  faced a truly life-altering decision.
  Word of Captain Lucifer’s “mutiny” was widespread, 
  especially in Tortuga and among those seafarers who 
  frequented that infamous port city. She became one of 
  the most wanted pirates when the Spanish recaptured 
  the town in 1654, yet she proved exceptionally capable 
  of evading capture. But all man’s works must come to 
  an end, and her own ship (which she had rechristened 
  the Devil’s Darling) finally met a force that it could not 
  outgun or outrun. 
  Esperanza’s foe was not another ship, but rather 
  a mysterious visitor who appeared on deck one 
  particularly stormy night: a master of the briny waves, 
  who proved unbeatable. A Lasombra of great age 
  — some claim a Methuselah, even — rose from the 
  depths of the churning sea, inexorably drawn to the 
  charismatic pirate captain. Under cover of unnatural 
  darkness and torrential rains, the shadowy vampire 
  entered Esperanza’s cabin and introduced itself. Those 
  who tell the tale hotly debate its name and even gender, 
  but it was undeniably potent. One version of the story 
  even claims that the Lasombra was the Antediluvian’s 
  spawn and that it had lain in torpor beneath the sea 
  floor since the Great Deluge, rising only when it tasted 
  a tide-borne drop of the fiery Captain Lucifer’s blood. 
  The Ancient had fed on nearly half the crew before 
  entering the  captain’s private bedchamber in order to 
  quench its ungodly hunger, so that when it did enter 
  and present itself to the half-asleep woman, it was able 
  to do so with a demeanor of civility. The incalculable 
  power of its presence and the unbelievable words it 
  spoke left Esperanza incapable of responding. When 
  she finally did, the legend says she agreed to become like 
  her visitor only so long as she was permitted to keep her 
  ship and crew, which had apparently become her life’s 
  purpose. The Lasombra gave its word that she would be 
  able to do as she pleased, then it unleashed the forces 
  of the ocean’s blackest depths and she drowned in the 
  darkness of its Embrace.
  Of course, a few stories relate Esperanza’s activities 
  or whereabouts for the next decade. Some among the 
  Night Clan assumed that she accompanied her sire 
  for at least some of this time, learning the ways of the 
  Damned and doing his bidding, whatever that may have 
  been. Suffice to say that in 1666 the Devil’s Darling 
  was again in action and once more making quite the 
  name for itself and its Damned captain. By this time, 
  however, though the ship was involved in a number 
  of well-known acts of traditional piracy, its real target 
  was of far more interest to the Kindred. Esperanza’s 
  primary concern had become the destruction of 
  those Lasombra who did not cleave to the Sabbat, the 
  antitribu traitors who had joined Montano’s cause and 
  threw their support behind the Camarilla and its staid 
  ways. Yet other stories attribute more mercenary acts 
  to the Devil’s Darling, including the smuggling of the 
  Lasombra antitribu Methuselah Aludian Thex to the 
  New World. For cause or currency, the Devil’s Darling 
  was a significant force in Kindred maritime power.
  Throughout the Caribbean and the Atlantic the 
  Devil’s Darling hunted these wayward Lasombra, many 
  of whom had themselves taken to piracy. Perhaps it 
  goes without saying that many of her most recounted 
  battles took place under the light of the moon, though 
  her crew, rumored to be ghouls or revenants possessed 
  
  119 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  of some small measure of supernatural ability, certainly 
  took advantage of daylight to capture enemy vessels and 
  more easily dispatch their captain’s enemies. As the 
  stories of Esperanza’s adventures grew even in her own 
  time, the Camarilla made some effort to put an end to 
  her business, more to protect their financial interests 
  than the Lasombra fugitives she hounded. 
  It is said that, like her sire, Esperanza came to possess 
  an unusually formidable mastery of Obtenebration, 
  one that seemed fittingly adapted to her environs. In 
  particular, one popular tale tells of how she found 
  herself along with another ship cut off from an escape 
  route near Cuba by a half-dozen warships backed by 
  Camarilla interests. As her second ship listed under 
  cannon-fire and her own seemed poised for a similar fate, 
  Captain Lucifer called upon the very void of the ocean 
  depths and from it summoned the mythical Kraken, a 
  nightmarish monstrosity whose umbrageous tentacles 
  rose up from the swelling waves and pulled each of the 
  enemy ships to their watery doom. The crews on board 
  were drained of their vitae, exsanguinated by the hellish 
  thing before being sent to Davy Jones’ Locker. 
  Some suggest that Esperanza consumed the souls 
  of her foes when she could, sometimes engaging in 
  diablerie and sometimes indulging something even 
  worse, if such a practice exists. This tall tale, and 
  many others, ensured that the Devil’s Darling, as both 
  Esperanza’s ship and later the captain herself were 
  named, would not be easily forgotten and would go 
  down in the history of the Kindred as entertainment 
  at the least, if not actual fact. Even some of her pack, 
  who served as officers both on her flagship and other 
  vessels of her buccaneer fleet, gained some acclaim of 
  their own. A particularly repulsive Tzimisce known as 
  Abbatoir, who led the ritae for the Devil’s Darlings and 
  is said to have committed diablerie no less than four 
  times, was put down in 1708 near the Florida Keys by a 
  Gangrel of some esteem. Another member of the pack, 
  a Toreador antitribu named Mogrovejo destroyed a trio 
  of Ventrue, including a childe of London’s Prince, who 
  were traveling to England from the Americas in 1811.
  While the great age of piracy finally ended in the 
  mid-1700s, the name of Esperanza Lucifer proved far 
  more durable. Rather than fade away into the shadows 
  along with tales of swashbuckling avarice and dramatic 
  sea battles, the Devil’s Darling continued to make her 
  presence felt in ways that her fellow Kindred could not 
  ignore. 
  In 1812 Esperanza threw her support behind the just-
  announced war on Britain by the United States. Quiet 
  for a time, she recruited a crew for her fleet in Baltimore 
  and terrorized ships of the Royal Navy, technically as 
  a privateer under the flag of the U.S. Naturally, the 
  targets chosen were often those ships believed to be 
  transporting Camarilla Kindred, for the Devil’s Darling 
  had by now largely turned her aggressions toward that 
  sect as a whole rather than merely her clan’s antitribu, 
  who were likely too few in number to reasonably pursue. 
  With Lucifer’s ships in play, the Sabbat had a very real 
  impact, with no less than two dozen Kindred meeting 
  their Final Death in the cold waters of the Atlantic.
  What is not known to many Kindred storytellers is 
  that by the late 1700s, Esperanza was becoming quite 
  tired of plying the sea lanes for victims. She doubted she 
  would find many more traitorous Lasombra and she felt 
  the heavy bonds of the ennui that plagues so many of 
  the Cainite race, which had progressively extinguished 
  all but a few embers of her previous passions. Whether 
  the heaviness of her sire’s Ancient blood in her dead 
  heart, her own detachment from Humanity that was 
  part and parcel of her Sabbat identity, or something 
  else from deep below the waves, she grew weary of her 
  existence. She so rarely participated in the Vaulderie 
  that even her Vinculi to her packmates had become 
  little more than faint tethers, and were unable to stand 
  the growing might of the dark current that called to her 
  and made her days sleepless.
  In 1802, she surrendered to the call of the deep. 
  While her pack performed the Blood Feast on the deck 
  of her flagship, courtesy of a helpless merchant ship 
  that had appeared on the horizon, she summoned from 
  the abyss the same unholy monster that her sire had 
  learned to command, an entity of shadow and evil from 
  elsewhere. She called it to her and then, making her own 
  escape in a rowboat, she released the abyss-thing upon 
  her pack. None but her survived the calamity. Relying 
  upon her own wits and now quite impressive gifts, she 
  made her way to Baltimore and hid among the noisy 
  throngs of the city’s busy harbor.
  For a time, Esperanza stayed clear of the affairs of the 
  Damned. She made use of her kine contacts in order to 
  access part of her fortune, which she had spread among 
  various institutions and locales throughout the coastal 
  domains of the Atlantic, but otherwise kept to herself 
  and ceased using her infamous name. Part of her 
  regretted what she had done to her fellow Sabbat, but 
  not enough to make any atonement. She was no longer 
  Captain Esperanza Lucifer, but simply a vampire who 
  sought some semblance of solace and solitude that could 
  not be found while bound to others. In her loneliness, 
  
  120 
  ESPERANZA LUCIFER
  she would return to the ocean, or wherever she must 
  go, to find her sire. She labored without a knowledge 
  why her Ancient sire Embraced her, wanting to be by its 
  side among the darkest shadows of the world.
  Vanity intervened. A small part of the Devil’s Darling 
  still did not want to see her legend die, and she came to 
  the decision that before embarking on her journey she 
  would Embrace a childe and bestow upon her progeny 
  the identity and legacy she had spent centuries building. 
  Just as the War of 1812 ignited, Esperanza found her 
  replacement. Like herself, Mary was barely more than 
  a girl when she received a visitor in the black of night. 
  The Devil’s Darling extended an offer to enter the 
  shadows for eternity. A laborer’s girl with no obvious 
  merit, Mary nonetheless had a certain confidence about 
  her that Esperanza was drawn to, as well as an unusual 
  lack of fear. She learned quickly under her mentor’s 
  tutelage, and when the Devil’s Darling appeared off the 
  coast and word spread that she was seeking a crew, the 
  Damned perked up as readily as the kine. Naturally, 
  the living assumed that the ship and its eponymous 
  captain were not the originals — how could they be, 
  over a century after their first tales of infamy? However, 
  the Cainites were not so sure and when the captain 
  introduced herself to a group of Sabbat by the light of a 
  bonfire on a Maryland beach, they were convinced that 
  this was indeed the legendary Captain Lucifer.
  To ensure her childe survived her first years, the real 
  Esperanza remained at her side, claiming to be her 
  fledgling’s childe and taking her name, Mary, as her 
  own. In this way the elder Lasombra was able to teach 
  the “new” Esperanza all she needed to know to both 
  command a fleet of ships and a pack of wild-eyed Sabbat 
  Cainites. A few years later, while in the Caribbean at a 
  place where “Mary” felt strongest the call of her own 
  sire’s Blood, she bid her childe farewell and vanished 
  into the ocean, sinking beneath the waves and leaving 
  only one Esperanza to the Sabbat.
  Esperanza (the younger) proved nearly as capable as 
  her predecessor, though her interest in the seafaring 
  unlife waned and by the mid-1800s she had abandoned 
  her legacy and made her way on land. Some members 
  of her pack remained with her when she turned her 
  back on the ocean, but the Devil’s Darlings never 
  truly disbanded. Instead, the pack served its sect by 
  supporting a series of actions against the Camarilla 
  in the Americas. From Florida to Boston, Esperanza’s 
  reputation grew as her pack ran the length of the East 
  Coast striking at its enemies and plundering their 
  precious vitae. The pack ranged in size from as many as 
  a dozen vampires to as few as four, but, bound by their 
  Vinculi, they were always a force to be reckoned with.
  For the next two centuries, Esperanza Lucifer led her 
  band of marauding Sabbat in an inchoate, yet effective 
  crusade on many Camarilla domains. In truth, there 
  was nothing random or unplanned in what they did. 
  While most packmates were unaware of it, Esperanza 
  and those closest to her had actually been very precise 
  in deciding what the pack would and would not do. 
  The destruction of the arrogant Camarilla Kindred 
  was surely a worthwhile goal, but this inner circle 
  had another, more overriding aim: a transition from 
  nomadic unlife to that of a founded pack. Even as they 
  harangued the Camarilla and its close ties to the kine 
  and their money, the Devil’s Darlings adopted the same 
  practices as their nemeses in order to grow the great 
  wealth Esperanza had from her sire. She hadn’t wasted 
  the intervening centuries. Rather, Esperanza had 
  studied economics and understood their importance, 
  even to the unliving, and she felt that without real 
  financial assets the Sabbat would eventually find itself 
  outmaneuvered. With money she could purchase loyal 
  agents among the kine, and she could protect herself 
  from her growing list of enemies’ moves against her.
  Even as her pack massacred the kine and stormed 
  the havens of their elders in the name of the Sabbat, 
  she took advantage of the mayhem to seize whatever 
  assets she could: cash, unsecured stocks, bearer bond 
  certificates, property deeds, and whatever else she could 
  get her hands on. To make use of these, she employed 
  a small network of accountants, lawyers, businessmen, 
  and bureaucrats, all isolated from one another, but 
  nonetheless pawns ready to cross ethical boundaries 
  in return for a small cut of the illicit gains. Indeed, 
  the Devil’s Daughter emulated her Camarilla foes in 
  whatever way best served her purposes.
  As the 20th century became the 21st, Esperanza, like 
  her sire before her, became aware of a bizarre homeward 
  urge, a calling from her blood to that of her predecessor 
  and her grandsire. In an increasingly complex world 
  that whispered of the Final Nights on the winds, she 
  decided that she too would step out of the limelight 
  and seek the patron of her bloodline. For the past few 
  years, she has actively sought her own replacement, the 
  next Captain Esperanza Lucifer, to pass on the legacy 
  she feels she has no right to let wither. Once she finds 
  the next Devil’s Darling, she will instruct her as she 
  had been, albeit at the head of a Sabbat pack and not 
  aboard a ship, and she will then release the childe as 
  her incarnation. She knows that this means that she 
  
  121 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  will also have to dispose of her pack so that none know 
  the truth, and to this end she has also been working 
  hard, seeking to weaken her Vinculi in order to do the 
  Devil’s work, though it has come at great cost to her 
  morality.
  Soon, a new Esperanza Lucifer shall step onto the 
  stage and, without missing a beat, take over the role 
  made so fearsome by those Lasombra who came before 
  her. 
  Sire: “Mary”
  Clan: Lasombra
  Nature: Capitalist
  Demeanor: Bon Vivant
  Generation: 5th
  Embrace: 1812
  Apparent Age: Late teens
  Physical: Strength 3, Dexterity 5, Stamina 4
  Social: Charisma 5, Manipulation 3, Appearance 4
  Mental: Perception 2, Intelligence 3, Wits 4
  Talents: Awareness 2, Brawl 4, Intimidation 2, 
  Leadership 4, Subterfuge 2
  Skills: Firearms 3, Melee 4, Stealth 2
  Knowledges: Finance 3, Politics 2, Technology 2
  Disciplines: Chimerstry 1, Dominate 5, Fortitude 2, 
  Obtenebration 5, Potence 2
  Backgrounds: Contacts 3, Fame 1, Resources 6, 
  Retainers 2, Rituals 3, Status (Sabbat) 2
  Virtues: Conviction 2, Instinct 3, Courage 4
  Morality: Path of Night 3
  Willpower: 5
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 40/8
  Image: Esperanza appears as a very attractive nightclub 
  patron, with long brown hair and deep blue-green eyes. 
  She has a thing for leather pants and corsets, as well 
  as motorcycle jackets, and she always wears a ribbon 
  around her neck. She carries herself with a cavalier air 
  and is always ready for the next challenge, whatever it 
  may be. She protects the secret of her identity jealously 
  and usually keeps at least one pistol on her person, if 
  not a more formidable arsenal.
  Roleplaying Hints: You are a legend in every sense 
  of the word. Act like it. You love to regale others with 
  tales of your exploits, or at least those attributed to you, 
  all the while sizing up your listeners and considering 
  how you can use them to your advantage. Beneath your 
  hellion’s facade, you are tired and hope to soon let 
  another assume the role given you by your sire. Ride 
  the wave until then, but when the time comes, yield to 
  it, for you will finally be able to rest among the darkness 
  that, in a voice suppressed by the sea, calls to you in 
  your sleep.
  Haven: Because she is always moving around, 
  Esperanza uses a number of different havens along 
  both sides of the Atlantic’s coasts, most of which her 
  own packmates do not know about. Most of these are as 
  opulent as one might expect of an immensely wealthy 
  Magister’s lineage, but many are also unassuming and 
  pragmatic. When with her pack she usually repurposes 
  an existing structure, like an automotive garage or 
  neglected office building. She uses only enough of her 
  fortune to ensure her safety, keeping the rest hidden 
  from even her closest fellow Sabbat.
  Influence: Esperanza has a surprising volume 
  of financial assets spread wisely among a variety of 
  industries and interests. She usually uses proxies to 
  manage this empire, but will involve herself directly 
  when she feels it necessary. Were she to consolidate all 
  her resources and influence in a single city, she would 
  likely rival a Camarilla Prince, but that would put a 
  big red target on her back. By doing as she does she 
  avoids becoming too real for her enemies, something 
  that would destroy the legend that has taken so long 
  to build.
  
  122 
  APACIA
  
  123 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  She is called the Queen of Tombs by those who know 
  of her legend in the Sabbat. Nominally a Bishop, Apacia 
  the Scythian is a motorcycle-riding hellion frequently 
  chosen to lead crusades against the enemies of the 
  Sword of Caine when others have made the attempt 
  and failed.
  More than a few licks have made the mistake of 
  assuming the tattooed motorcycle gang leader is young, 
  due to her comfort with certain elements of modern 
  society. That can be a deadly mistake, as Apacia was 
  born a slave to Ygratt, a warrior of the Paralatae (the 
  people Herodotus called the Scythians) in the Eurasian 
  steppes , some five centuries before the birth of the 
  Christos.
  Apacia’s mother was blind, as was the custom for 
  slaves of the Scythians, and her owner fathered Apacia 
  on her. Ygratt claimed the girl as his kin when she 
  was born, intending on later selling her into slavery 
  should his household’s fortunes wane. As such, she was 
  permitted to keep her sight. 
  Apacia grew up in the house of her father, servant 
  to his wife. She helped her mistress with the myriad 
  duties the wife of a warrior might need done, keeping 
  their home clean and fine. She also tended to the lady’s 
  needs, such as the woman’s personal cleansing with 
  the plaster made of cedar, cypress, and frankincense 
  woods. Once she grew strong enough, she also bore 
  the responsibility for cleaning her father’s weapons and 
  armor, making them ready for when he might need 
  them.
  Ygratt’s wife bore him no children, so as Apacia grew 
  old enough, he trained her in arms, an education she 
  took to eagerly. The Scythians accorded their warrior-
  women the full respect of their male counterparts. 
  They were known for their ferocity; indeed, the peoples 
  of the Hellenes carried stories of these women back to 
  their own lands, as the Amazons.
  Her first battle came at the age of fourteen, and 
  Apacia slew her first man. Her proud father led her 
  through the customary celebration of a warrior’s first 
  kill: She drank of her fallen foe’s blood and cut off his 
  head, flaying it and making of it her soldier’s cup. She 
  hung the cured skin of his head from her bridle-rein.
  The Paralatae defended the ancient tombs of the 
  Scythian kings. When a king died, the wise men 
  mummified his body, filling it with chopped cypress, 
  frankincense, parsley seed and anise seed and covering 
  the body in wax upon a funereal wagon. This wagon was 
  taken to the steads of all the Scythian clans, that they 
  might see his remains and honor them. The Paralatae 
  were the last to see him, for they also guarded the tombs 
  of the kings. 
  When Apacia was fifteen, the Enaree, the women-like 
  men who were soothsayers, braided their linden-bark 
  fetishes and foresaw that Apacia was to be a queen of 
  tombs, a guardian of the dead. Although it meant that 
  she may never march to war again, it was a position of 
  great honor, and she accepted the prophecy, swearing 
  to ever defend the noble dead, and drinking of the 
  earthen bowl filled with wine and a few drops of her 
  blood to signify the oath.
  Embrace
  Although she’d been elevated in status, chosen to 
  defend the tombs of the kings from scavengers seeking 
  to take the treasures with which the great men of the 
  Scythians were buried, Apacia found her duties dull. 
  She continued to train to pass the time. It was this 
  bored, restless young warrior women that the black-
  garbed Malenchaenos found.
  As dawn neared, the sound of grating stone woke 
  Apacia and she found him pushing back the stone of 
  the tomb of Arilannos. She drew her blade, but he 
  bound her will and forced her to drink his blood. He 
  then took for himself the tomb of the king Arilannos, 
  APACIA
  The Queen of Tombs
  
  124 
  APACIA
  bidding her to guard his sleep. By night, he fed from 
  her tribe and spoke to the soothsayers, learning their 
  funereal rites and the tenets of their ancestor worship.
  Occasionally the pale Malenchaenos wandered to the 
  other tribes, bidding Apacia to guard his tomb while 
  he was away. Deep in the tomb, he wrote, making his 
  strange signs on the page in ink wrought from black 
  walnuts and olive oil, and she was fascinated. He 
  offered to teach her, but she refused — her people had 
  no use for writing.
  This continued for three years, until Malenchaenos 
  heeded a call he would not make known to Apacia. 
  Before he departed, however, he Embraced the tomb-
  guardian, bidding her to defend his haven while 
  he was gone. His absence lasted for only a few years, 
  during which Apacia learned the arts of the dead from 
  the whispering of her ancestors. The greatest of the 
  Scythian kings taught her not just occult secrets, but 
  also the tactics and battle-skill they wielded in life.
  Then came the war with King Darius of the Persians.
  The first engagement with the Persians did not go 
  well, ending in the almost-complete destruction of 
  the Auchatae, the tribe whose land the Persians first 
  invaded. When the king of the Scythians came to the 
  tombs of his ancestors to pray for guidance, Apacia 
  revealed herself to him.
  Claiming that she spoke on behalf of the ancestors, 
  she urged him to do what the Persians would not 
  anticipate. The warrior tribe must not engage the 
  Persians at all. The Scythian people held neither towns 
  nor castles to defend. They need not fight the wars of 
  wall-builders. With her guidance, the Scythian king led 
  the Persians on a harrowing chase through the lands 
  they knew far better than the invaders, attacking in 
  small groups and fading away again.
  The Scythians never engaged the Persians in outright 
  battle. Apacia herself led several night-time skirmishes, 
  demonstrating a terrifying warcraft and the lust for 
  blood that her Embrace inflicted upon her. Shortly, the 
  rumors of the terrible Corpse Queen of the Scythians 
  passed among the Persians.
  One night, when she led an attack, she encountered 
  another master of the dead among the forces of 
  Darius. The two withdrew while the mortals fought. 
  In discussion with him, she explained that her tribes 
  would not stand and fight, but would whittle away at 
  the Persians generation after generation if they were 
  forced to. The necromancer assured her that the 
  Persians wished merely to pass through the Scythian 
  lands to tend to other, further-off enemies. The two 
  parted having imbibed draughts of each other’s vitae, 
  and the Persians left the Scythian lands behind them 
  shortly thereafter.
  Wandering Warrior
  In time, Apacia left her people behind and took 
  up wandering Europe and North Africa, exploring its 
  many peoples. It was during this wandering that she 
  first met others of her clan, whom the Malenchaenos 
  had named “Cappadocian.” Apacia seemed a strange 
  barbarian cousin to them, though one who was clearly 
  quite potent, for all her youth.
  During 
  these 
  years, 
  Apacia 
  served 
  several 
  Cappadocians as a guardian, thanks to her skill at arms. 
  She remarked in a black humor that she was as good a 
  Cappadocian as any, but that her true skills with the 
  dead were simply in making them. During this period, 
  she attempted to study the Path of Bones, but found its 
  philosophies repulsive and esoteric, resulting only in a 
  quick and terrifying erosion of her humanitas, and an 
  unwillingly intimate relationship with her Beast.
  Her reputation among the Cappadocians grew, and 
  even the Lamia, whose blood oath was the defense 
  of the clan of death, came to regard her with respect. 
  These years she spent in near-constant conflict. She 
  was over four hundred years old when she saw her sire 
  again, sent by the Monk of Cappadocia himself for a 
  special project.
  Atop the mountain known as Argaeos was a holding of 
  a vampiric cult known to worship Osiris. Cappadocius 
  desired this stronghold for his own clan, and doubly 
  desired the archives the cult had collected regarding the 
  secrets of the Underworld. Although Apacia was not 
  the oldest or most potent in blood of those gathered 
  for the clan’s first and only military campaign, she 
  was easily the most martially capable. Apacia led the 
  assault against the vampiric cult of Osiris, and won the 
  holding, which came to be called Erciyes. Cappadocius 
  showered her with honors, and she remained in Erciyes 
  for several mortal generations, marshaling its defenses.
  During this time, the clan discovered the fascinating 
  cultus of a dying-and-resurrected messiah from Judea. 
  They invited scholars of this new mystery cult to Erciyes, 
  interviewing and learning from them.
  One of these scholars was a man named Rudori. 
  Formerly a military tactician who retired to a life of 
  contemplation of Christianity’s teachings, Rudori and 
  Apacia spent much time together, discussing military 
  feats of the past and sharing such secrets with one 
  
  125 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  another. In time, she Embraced him, though he had 
  seen five or more decades of mortal life by then.
  Before long, however, the denizens of Erciyes came 
  to resent Apacia’s disinterest in their studies and 
  philosophies. Indeed, many of them considered her 
  an embarrassment to the clan’s blood, as she remained 
  stubbornly illiterate. Those who reproached her for 
  her ignorance received a face full of her contempt 
  in their obsession with the written word. Those who 
  pushed the issue found themselves on the wrong side 
  of Apacia’s martial prowess, treated to the thrashing of 
  their unlives.
  In time, the elders of the clan asked her to leave 
  Erciyes, claiming that her savagery was disruptive. 
  She and Rudori departed then and traveled for a few 
  years before finding their way to Kaymakli. Rudori’s 
  scholarly tendencies let him fit in quite well there, 
  and though Apacia continued to bear the honors 
  of the Cappadocians of Kaymakli for her age and 
  accomplishments, she hated it there. Melancholy 
  and ill-tempered, Apacia found a resting place in the 
  great underground city, slipping into a torpor of many 
  decades.
  A Return to Barbarism
  When Aapcia rose again, Rome had all but fallen 
  apart. She found that nearly the whole of her blood clan 
  had taken up reverence of the Christ Risen, following 
  the lead of Cappadocius, who had woken from his own 
  recent torpor with visions of godhead. She journeyed 
  to Rome to pay homage to her sire, who’d found a 
  place for himself in the upper echelons of the Roman 
  Cappadocians. 
  She liked the city of Rome no better than she liked 
  Kaymakli or Erciyes, however, and remained there 
  for less than a year before striking out again. Her 
  travels took her home this time, and she returned to 
  her ancient charge, the tombs of her peoples’ kings. 
  The Scythian people all but forgotten, she found the 
  countryside lonely and quiet.
  Nonetheless, she remained there, taking up haven in 
  her ancient tomb there. She found the ghosts of her 
  ancestors still extant, though nearly mad with longing 
  for the ancient rites of the Scythians. She performed 
  these rites from half-forgotten memories, and though 
  she knew they weren’t fully correct, the ancestors 
  seemed to rest more easily.
  By the time word reached her of Rome’s fall beneath 
  the onslaught of the tribes, she was ready to see the 
  world again. She traveled first to Rome, to see if she 
  could find word of her sire. He was gone, as were 
  the rest of her clanmates there, though she suspected 
  that a few had retreated into the tombs revered by the 
  Messianics as the resting places of their Lord’s disciples 
  beneath the city.
  While there, she encountered her childe Rudori 
  once more, and he urged her to take up the written 
  word and the cross for her soul. She teased him for his 
  soft, bookish ways and left, with a goal. She’d heard 
  impressive stories of the battle-prowess of the tribes 
  who had sacked impregnable Rome, and she wished to 
  see them for herself.
  For the next few centuries, Apacia traveled among the 
  people whom she considered the descendants of the 
  Scythians, starting with the various Gothic tribes and 
  then making her way further and further east, finding 
  a new tribe and remaining with them until she heard 
  their legends of other tribes to the east, tribes who 
  always seemed to match her memory of the Scythians. 
  Wherever she traveled, she posed as the avatar of some 
  warrior queen or a rageful ancestor, choosing the tombs 
  of royalty as her havens.
  In Russia, Apacia came to be revered as a queen by 
  several tribes of people called the Avars, in the frigid 
  Khanate of Sibir. These people won her heart, for she 
  saw in them the echoes of her own ancient peoples. 
  To the Avar warriors who exalted her, she taught the 
  nomad warrior traditions of the Scythians, and they 
  thrived for generations.
  Once more, however, Apacia’s chosen people faced 
  invaders. This time the armies of Kubrat the Bulgar 
  threatened, and again she found supernatural forces 
  hiding among the enemy. But these were no other 
  Kindred. Instead, they were werewolves of a silvery 
  hue and regal bearing. In battle with them she slew 
  many, but they overwhelmed her and left her grievously 
  injured. She fled into the icy wastes of Sibir, interring 
  herself in the tombs of a warrior-queen whose people 
  preceded the Avar folk.
  A Legacy of Ashes
  Apacia might never have risen from that torpor had 
  the Mongol grave-robbers who invaded her tomb-haven 
  not fallen to fighting among one another. The blood 
  they shed woke her Beast and she rose from the funereal 
  bier, a hungry revenant with ice-white flesh. When she 
  returned to her senses, she was gorged on the hot blood 
  of the steppe tribes and she stumbled into the midnight 
  snows to see what had become of the world.
  
  126 
  APACIA
  It was the early 13th century, and the descendants of 
  Kubrat had themselves been conquered by the Mongols 
  perhaps a generation before. She traveled south and 
  west to Kaymakli, seeking her childe. Disoriented 
  and unsure, Apacia avoided the main travel routes, 
  remaining in the wilderness until she came upon 
  Kaymakli.
  Instead of a small, comfortable town dug into the 
  earth, Kaymakli was a great tomb. On the sealed 
  stone, Apacia found the great and terrible curse of 
  Cappadocius wrought into the spiritual borders of the 
  place. She could not enter it, but when she slumbered 
  beside the great seal, she woke the next night with 
  the unshakable knowledge that not only was her sire 
  trapped within it, but that her childe was as well.
  She raged at it then, and used her might to try to 
  destroy it, all for naught. In a fury, Apacia set out to 
  find her clan, seeking out nearby Derinkuyu. The young 
  Cappadocians there told her of the Feast of Folly, of 
  Cappadocius’ demands of his clan and how those who 
  failed to meet his merits were imprisoned on the other 
  side of the stone seal of Kaymakli.
  The Queen of Tombs sought the Monk of Cappadocia 
  in Erciyes, demanding that he should free her sire and 
  childe, but to no avail. Cappadocius slumbered, and 
  his favored childe Japheth refused her access to him. 
  Moreover, he intimated that not only did Rudori and 
  the Malenchaenos deserve their fate, but that she ought 
  to have been beside them.
  He renounced her claim to the Blood then, calling 
  her “infitiore.” Although she was not Japheth’s equal 
  in age or potency of the blood, she was a dedicated 
  warrior where he was not, and she broke him against 
  the marble walls of the temple, allowing her precious 
  time to escape his judgment against her. She could not 
  flee Erciyes, for dawn fast approached, but she found 
  an ally in Japheth’s brother, Augustus.
  Augustus and his childer granted her sanctuary, 
  hiding her through the day and smuggling her out at 
  night. He sympathized with her, finding the Feast of 
  Folly hideous and inhuman. The Giovanni assisted her 
  flight from Japheth’s wrath, hiding her in Venice for 
  several months.
  During this time, Augustus and she spoke often. In 
  time, he revealed to her his plan to replace Cappadocius 
  as the clan progenitor through the act of diablerie. 
  He promised her that if his Conspiracy of Isaac were 
  successful, he would free those wrongfully trapped in 
  Kaymakli.
  Kinslayer
  Apacia agreed and assisted him in planning the 
  coup. When the time came, she provided the violence 
  needful for Augustus’ plans to succeed. She slaughtered 
  her own clanmates where necessary to open the routes 
  for Augustus to reach Cappadocius, and she did so 
  without remorse or hesitation. Her Beast came closer 
  to the surface during those bloody, ashen nights than 
  any other time in her existence.
  In the end, however, the Giovanni betrayed her, 
  attempting to destroy her as a lingering Cappadocian. 
  She fled, but not before laying waste to many coteries 
  of Giovanni gabelloti sent to end her. She traveled across 
  Europe seeking allies against the Giovanni, without 
  success, while Augustus’ clan ceased to try to end her 
  themselves, and instead hired assassins to send against 
  her.
  Apacia fled once more to her “mother tomb,” the 
  tomb she’d claimed as her first haven, among the 
  tombs of Scythian kings. Here she entered a deep and 
  mournful torpor in which the screams of her clanmates 
  echoed in her dreams. She woke, ravenous, less than a 
  century later, slaking her thirst on a patrol of Ottoman 
  Turks. Still wary of the Giovanni, she traveled east 
  into Wallachia, pretending to be a much younger 
  Brujah vampire. Her puissance was quite evident, and 
  she served as bodyguard to more than one territorial 
  vampire lord of the Land Beyond the Forest.
  It was in such a situation that she first truly 
  encountered the Sabbat. Ieremia the Porcelain Lady, 
  a Tzimisce of middling power, had been aggressively 
  “petitioned” by fellow Fiends. Members of the nascent 
  Sabbat, they demanded that she join their cause. The 
  paranoid Ieremia refused them, and Apacia met these 
  Sabbat in battle. Forced from Ieremia’s side by a pair 
  of Lasombra brutes, Apacia was not present to witness 
  Ieremia’s destruction. 
  When she returned to the top of Ieremia’s hold and 
  found her mistress to be so much ash on the wind, with 
  her heart’s blood staining the teeth of her assailants, 
  Apacia slew the vampire responsible for the Tzimisce 
  lady’s diablerie and then “surrendered.” She told them 
  that her duty to Ieremia was discharged, and asked that 
  they cease the slaughter that she might ask them some 
  questions.
  The much-younger Sabbat vampires — now reduced 
  to a mere quarter of their original number, thanks to 
  Apacia’s terrible martial prowess — agreed hesitantly. 
  They discussed the philosophies of the Sword of Caine 
  
  127 
  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
  through the rest of the night, surrounded by Ieremia’s 
  ashes blowing on the night winds. By the time the sun 
  peeked past the Carpathian peaks on the horizon, the 
  two parties agreed. The Sabbat would take her to the 
  closest diocese, that she might undergo the ritae that 
  might make her one of them.
  The elder Tzimisce there recognized Apacia’s age 
  by the strange Scythian tattoos that covered her body. 
  Hedging their bets, they sent for a Priscus to meet and 
  induct her. That was how Apacia met Sasha Vykos, a 
  young firebrand Tzimisce who was enchanted not only 
  with her graceful savagery, but her ethnic tattoos as 
  well. 
  The two spoke at length that night, and for several 
  nights after that. Apacia found something familiar 
  in Vykos, something wise and otherworldly, like the 
  Enaree soothsayers of her old tribe. His fiery passion 
  for the Sabbat cause was infectious, and she told him all 
  of her history. In the end, the two undertook a journey 
  to her mother tomb, to give her the Creation Rites in 
  the place where she was Embraced.
  On that pilgrimage, however, the two shared blood 
  both in the form of Vinculum and as lovers. Something 
  foul passed from Vykos to the much-older Apacia, an evil 
  borne in the blood of those Tzimisce who themselves 
  practice the abomination of Vicissitude. From those 
  nights onward, the tattoos that had been Apacia’s last 
  link to her Scythian tribe took on a significance of 
  their own. The marks of the serpent that adorned her 
  upon occasion subsumed her, bringing her after a short 
  and bloody chrysalis into a serpentine creature herself. 
  Vykos never saw this — indeed, Apacia was so mortified 
  by it, not understanding its connection to the primal 
  curse-gift of Vicissitude that she took unexplained leave 
  of her brief paramour to hide in shame. 
  The Queen of Tombs
  Despite her newfound horror, Apacia made a place 
  for herself in the Sabbat quickly and easily. Her blood-
  borne fascination with burial customs and graves served 
  her well in the nascent death-cult, and her itinerant 
  tendencies fit well with the nature of Sabbat nomadic 
  packs. Indeed, she became the obvious choice as war-
  leader for crusades of such Sabbat, many of whom 
  come to respect her.
  In the modern nights, Apacia serves as a Bishop 
  of the sect, though were she so inclined, she could 
  probably rise to greater heights. She is the favored war-
  leader sent to oversee multiple packs in crusades where 
  another, lesser leader has already failed, or is in danger 
  of doing so. Apacia is disdainful in roles of leadership 
  for too long — once the demands of the job become 
  more administrative and ceremonial, she tends to 
  vanish again, wondering how the true warrior cultures 
  have faded from the world and been replaced by such 
  puling whelps. 
  The only time that Apacia is known to actively 
  volunteer for such endeavors is when the crusade has 
  named as its enemy the Giovanni. She continues to 
  harbor an ancient, seething wrath for Augustus’ childer 
  and can be counted on to not only slaughter as many 
  of them as she can find, but to lend aid in protecting 
  against their ghostly minions.
  In the 1960s, Apacia became fascinated with an 
  American nomadic culture that resonated with her 
  own origins: motorcycle gangs. Upon first encountering 
  them, something about the leather-wearing, nomadic 
  gangs sparked a sense of familiarity. To Apacia, these 
  are the Scythians of the modern nights, and she has 
  embraced the culture whole-heartedly.
  Apacia has gathered to herself a sizeable, national-
  level motorcycle gang called the Skiths, who use a 
  tattooed skull as their emblem. They are on par with 
  the Hell’s Angels and the Pagans in terms of national 
  scale of criminal operations, and closely watched by 
  organized crime task forces in law enforcement and the 
  FBI.
  Interspersed in the membership of the Skiths are  
  nomadic Sabbat packs who consider themselves loyal 
  to Apacia first and foremost above any other Sabbat 
  authority, though she rarely takes an active hand in 
  their activities. It is only when she has been tapped to 
  direct a crusade that she calls on them, and they arrive 
  with her at the new crusade site, a leather-clad, tattooed 
  cavalry on roaring Harleys. Indeed, she has established 
  herself as the patron of an inner-circle blood cult of the 
  Skiths, and even shown them her serpentine form in 
  order to strike fear or admiration into them.
  Recently, Apacia dropped entirely off everyone’s radar 
  for several years. So complete was this disappearance 
  that one of her packs investigated and found her 
  motorcycle and belongings abandoned in an out-of-
  the-way valley in the Appalachians. Rumors began to 
  circulate that she’d fallen into torpor somewhere, or 
  been destroyed.
  When she returned, however, it was accompanied 
  by a few of the strange vampires who called themselves 
  Harbingers of Skulls. She introduced them first to her 
  old confidant Priscus Vykos and sponsored them in 
  
  128 
  APACIA
  their petition to join the Sabbat. She has since become 
  their biggest supporter, even taking on a more active 
  role in Sabbat politics in the name of aiding them.
  Sire: The Malenchaenos
  Clan: Cappadocian
  Nature: Survivor
  Demeanor: Pedagogue
  Generation: 6th
  Embrace: Sometime between 500 and 550 BCE
  Apparent Age: late teens
  Physical: Strength 5, Dexterity 7, Stamina 7
  Social: Charisma 5, Manipulation 3, Appearance 3
  Mental: Perception 4, Intelligence 3, Wits 4
  Talents: Alertness 5, Athletics 6, Awareness 3, Brawl 6, 
  Empathy 4, Expression 3, Intimidation 5, Leadership 4, 
  Streetwise 3, Subterfuge2
  Skills: Animal Ken 3, Crafts 2, Drive (Motorcycle) 4, 
  Firearms 3, Melee 6, Stealth 4, Survival 5
  Knowledges: Investigation 3, Law 2, Occult 5, Politics 3
  Disciplines: Animalism 3, Auspex 4, Celerity 4, 
  Fortitude 6, Necromancy 5 (Sepulchre Path 4, Ash 
  Path 4, Corpse in the Monster 5, Grave’s Decay 5), 
  Obfuscate 3, Potence 5, Presence 2
  Necromancy Rituals: All rituals of • to •••; 
  Bastone Diabolico, Peek Past the Shroud; Esilio
  Backgrounds: Allies 4, Contacts 3, Herd 4, Influence 3, 
  Resources 4, Retainers 4, Rituals 3, Status 4
  Virtues: Conscience 1, Self-Control 3, Courage 5
  Morality: Humanity 2
  Willpower: 8
  Blood Pool/Max per Turn: 30/6
  Image: Apacia is a tall, strong girl, appearing as a 
  blonde of about five foot, nine inches in height. She wears 
  motorcycle leathers with ripped-up jeans and t-shirts 
  and tall motorcycle boots. Her arms are usually bare, 
  and show off the extensive tattooing she was given as a 
  Scythian warrior, which extends across her collarbone, 
  up her neck and across the left half of her face.
  When she indulges the great nigrimancies that are the 
  legacy of her clan, however, she takes on the aspect of 
  a snake. Her appendages become serpentine, her face 
  an ophidian mask. The tattoos that crisscross her now 
  scaled skin writhe of their own volition and her slitted 
  eyes glint brassy as they drink the light around them.
  Roleplaying Hints: Apacia is a quiet young woman 
  who speaks English with a clipped accent that most 
  listeners assume is Russian or something similarly 
  Eastern European. Those who meet her for the first 
  time assume that she’s just someone’s daughter playing 
  at being tough. For her part, Apacia doesn’t hesitate 
  to take advantage of those who underestimate her. She 
  finds motorcycle gang culture comfortable, a modern 
  analog of the nomadic Scythian culture she grew up in. 
  Haven: Apacia usually finds shelter from the sun in 
  one of the many safehouses associated with the Skiths, 
  homes of former members or the lovers of one or more 
  current riders. Some are even clubhouses maintained 
  by someone who also serves as a local drug dealer or 
  pimp. When outside of such territories, Apacia is quite 
  good at finding shelter nonetheless, hiding out in 
  basements or abandoned buildings. When staying in 
  one place for a while, she usually prefers to find space 
  in a mausoleum or cemetery. 
  Allies & Contacts: The people Apacia knows are 
  usually on the level of organized crime. Her allies 
  are well connected among other motorcycle gangs 
  or organized criminals. She tends to eschew Mafia 
  connections, due to the occasional Giovanni influence 
  one finds among La Cosa Nostra. Her contacts tend 
  to be the various hangers-on and useful sorts who find 
  their way into criminal circles: thieves, fences, crooked 
  cops, and the like.
  Herd & Retainers: Apacia has an extensive Herd, 
  with a few vessels in most of the major areas where 
  the Skiths operate. These are usually members of the 
  gang itself. Because Apacia chooses to feed primarily 
  from those she considers strong fighters, it’s a mark of 
  distinction in the gang to act as one of Apacia’s vessels. 
  Her Retainers and cult members tend to be the leaders 
  of local gangs, charismatic and intelligent criminal 
  leaders who greatly benefit from the power of her vitae.
  Influence: Apacia’s influence in the world of 
  American crime is not to be dismissed. Her Skiths 
  are the third- or fourth-largest motorcycle gang in the 
  United States, Canada, and Mexico, and that carries 
  a great deal of weight with gangs, drug dealers, and 
  contraband smugglers across the nation.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Storyteller [multi]/World of Darkness (WoD) [multi]/Vampire/Vampire (oWoD)/Vampire 20th Anniversary/V20 - Children of the Revolution.pdf