Open Nocturne - Danse Macabre

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LORE
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Reyn

Sleepyhead
Staff member
THE EMBRACE
NocturnE
AND THE DANCE OF THE
GREAT UNDEAD
The reflection, warped and disfigured in the murk of the Thames, is London's parallel society; demons for whom even the dignity of death was denied. They lie, they hunt, they dance, they claw their way to power from night, leaving chaos and misery in their wake. The myth of the moonlit unstoppable; they are Vampires.

Kindred
- as if a name that elicits such hospitality could hide the vile nature beneath. The origins of such a curse is a well explored topic within vampiric society, and a social taboo in modern nights. Regardless, the reality of such a sorry state of being cannot be denied.

When a vampire seeks to sire a childe whether out of loneliness, the need of a pawn, or perhaps regret from an accidental over-feeding, they proceed with an act known as the Embrace. The first step is to drain their desired human of all blood, and as they lay near death to feed them vitae from within themselves. Since this is typically - but not always - done through feeding upon their prospect, the Embrace is often considered an intimate act. Some say aside from the Kiss - the act of feeding upon a mortal - the Embrace is the greatest euphoria they will experience in either life.

Over the next few nights, the fledgling vampire will undergo an often painful transformation as their body dies, doing away with unnecessary organs until nothing is left functional except the heart and stomach. Kindred are immortal, but without vitae they will soon succumb to their ever present hunger. From there, they either wither away or embrace their predator nature - a darkness within the soul of every Kindred always fighting to overcome them .

Once the childe has turned and quelled the beast within, it is their sire’s duty to introduce and educate them in the reality and etiquette of Kindred society.
T
HE
Covenant
UNION OF THE HIGHEST UNHOLY
There
is not merely one type of vampire in the world. In fact, there are many; far more than even vampires themselves might be aware of. There are, of course, some unifying traits. All vampires are immortal, faster and stronger than humans, have sharp and hollow fangs, must feed on human blood. They share the same basic weaknesses as well; sunlight, starvation, and a stake through the heart. Whilst these traits are universal, there are certain specialisations a vampire might display that are determined by their bloodline- their Clan. Clans often stick to themselves, looking out for only their own, but there have been some attempts to make peace.

The Covenant exists as union of the five most influential vampire groups in London: Réquiem, Saturnine, Reveur, Ecclesia, and Vermes. Proposed by Réquiem as an attempt to forge some sort of solidarity, the Covenant is bound by a thin pact of honour; they are to keep peace on an administrative level, without plunging moonlit London into all-out war. So far, aside from a few small-scale conflicts, the creation of the Covenant has proved a success, though many take issue with its rule.
Eloquence
knows no grave. These are the calling words of Clan Réquiem, the Kindred who represent the apex of vampiric class, wealth, and most importantly - beauty. If a detail doesn’t align with their perfect vision, they excise it - whether it be a blemish or an empire, it matters not. It is their gilded hand that maintains the dignity of Kindred high society, and their iron fist that dominates anyone who dares question their authority.

Of all the bloodlines, it is those of Réquiem who have found their place most comfortably in the mortal world. They’d claim to call themselves the founders of civilization, but to do so would bring into question the Covenant’s stance on the origin of vampires - a topic they avoid like the plague.

Flaunting their status and wealth is key to the identity of the Réquiem, whether that be to lesser bloodlines, mortals, or even fledgling Kindred within their ranks. Typically, new blood in the clan is pulled from the artistic, the industrious, and the wealthy - although they are known to make ghouls of anyone they find aesthetically pleasing, displaying them in their domain as one would a Monet. To be desired by the Réquiem is a terrible fate, no matter the end; either you live eternally under their tyranny, or die slowly and painfully under their monstrous hedonism.
GIFT:
Impossibly elegant, the Réquiem are able to charm others into doing their vile bidding.
BANE:
Their corrupt flesh abhors the purity of silver; any wound carved by the metal will remain permanent, unhealed.
ODDITY:
Reflections and photographs reveal what lies behind the glamour of the Réquiem: twisted, repulsive monsters.
OBSESSION:
Their fixation on beauty is all-consuming; their bodies will reject any blood that comes from a source they find unappealing.
The
Saturnines are perhaps the most hated and distrusted bloodline in Kindred society - and that’s just how they like it. This reputation does not come without reason however, as the history of Clan Saturnine is written with deceit and blasphemy. Their vampiric nature stems not from a shared bloodline, but instead from an act of diablerie during the late Renaissance period. A group of occultists sought eternal life from an Antediluvian - the ancient progenitor of Clan Reveur. However, once they had devoured them the Saturnines realized what they wrought.

They had achieved immortality, at the cost of their mortal lives - and by extension the ability to use magic. These blaspheming mutants hid away in their remote castles, pondering their unlives and in time turning to experimentation. Through a century of experimentation upon the living they realized that in moments of intense suffering, the vitae of humans become flooded with what they call “pneuma”. By consuming blood rich with pneuma, Saturnines gain control over a dark reflection of the power they once held.

While the powers of the infernals are no longer available due to their undead nature, Saturnines shape blood and death into new forms. They hold many secrets from even other members of their clan, and reveal what they are capable of only when necessary to appease more influential clans.
GIFT:
The magic they were able to preserve allows the Saturnine to craft and control necromantic constructs from bone.
BANE:
Holy symbols are poison to them; seeing them leaves them disoriented, and touching them will burn the skin.
ODDITY:
Due to the origin of Pneuma, it is impossible for a Saturnine to feed subtly; the experience is always agonising for the victim.
OBSESSION:
They display obsessive-compulsive tendencies: intense paranoia, and a compulsion to count whatever's before them.
Dreamers
they once called themselves. Now look upon the state of Clan Reveur, delusional at best - deranged at worst. This was not always their fate however, in another age they were a founding clan of the high vampiric society, using their gift of clairvoyance and prophecy to inspire and rule. The Reveur owe this gift to their dual progenitors, twin Antediluvians known together as Geminae - embraced by the same sire. The brother was gifted with knowledge of all that is past and present, while his sister could see all futures.

Their clan grew to great prominence through Europe - using their ability for prophecy to manipulate mortal and vampiric society alike to their whims. For centuries, they stood as the leading clan of the Triumvirate - until the arrival of the Cult of the Saturnine. Using infernal magic, they bound one of the Geminae - the brother, and consumed his soul in hopes of achieving eternal life.

This action devastated the clan, shattering the web of psychic knowledge shared between their brethren and leaving their minds broken. The death of her twin left the sister Geminae near her final death, yet even in torpor her mind still wanders - offering half truths and delusions to her childe. While now they still hold some power in the modern nights, many regard them in mocking pity - but the Reveur hear them and they smile for they know everything. In their ears are the whispers of their enemies' darkest secrets, the ones even they don’t understand.
GIFT:
Their minds connected, the Reveur are able to commune with themselves and see glimpses of prophecy.
BANE:
As they get hungrier, they are prone to bouts of narcolepsy, their bodies forcing them to dream more and more to preserve their energy.
ODDITY:
Madness, all-consuming madness; there is not one sane mind among the Reveur, by their very nature.
OBSESSION:
Few believe their prophecy- and that can sometimes include themselves. After all, what if this is yet another delusion?
Scorned
by the heavens, as all Kindred are, the stated drive of Clan Ecclesia is to repent and beg for its forgiveness; recognising their own curse, their own sin, and pushing it away. To be a vampire is to be a monster, and to be a monster is to be doomed, unless one can repress the madness that comes with such a state. As such, those with the Clan's blood tend not to embrace new humans, keeping their curse to themselves. Instead, their numbers come from fellow Kindred; lost souls cast out from other Clans, who found their way to salvation and are willing (or will be willing) to turn away from a life of sin and cruelty. Their doctrine is enforced by the Ordained with an iron fist, though many wish their rule should spread beyond the church walls.

Of all Clans, Ecclesia is the only one which can be argued to have a positive relationship with humans- at least, on the surface. Whilst members still have to feed, they're encouraged to treat humanity with respect. Their church is open to the public, both day and night, and sermons are given to all. Maintaining this public image of purity is of the utmost importance to Ecclesia, and they are willing to throw other Clans under the bus to achieve this end. Much of the congregation despises the Covenant, and there have been stirrings of a desire to leave and enact their own justice, free from the shackles of sin.

However, unbeknownst to the congregation, this piety is not spread equally across the Clan. The Ordained--those who carry the Ecclesian bloodline--are just as corrupt as those they preach against, using goodwill towards their peaceful indoctrinated to obfuscate their own misdeeds.
GIFT:
The Ordained possess sharp claws and wings capable of flight- retractable from their bodies, but ever-visible in their shadows.
BANE:
Proof of their false sainthood; holy water will melt through the Ordained like magma.
ODDITY:
Bound to the faith, they must return to holy ground in order to sleep.
OBSESSION:
A fixation on religion and moral justification, no matter how thin, consumes them. As such, they can never blaspheme.
While
many turn up their nose in disgust at the Vermes' preference for sewers and catacombs over ivory towers, Clan Vermes couldn’t care less. Of all the Kindred clans, you would certainly recognize a Vermes as a member of their clan - but that is only if you notice them in the first place. They are the unseen and in the shadows they find their purpose. Clan Vermes maintain their power and position through perfecting the art of espionage and subterfuge. These skills were born out of survival, as those embraced into the Vermes bloodline find themselves growing increasingly deformed as nights pass. Thus, moving through human society as a member of the Réquiem or Ecclesia might become increasingly difficult as a Vermes embrace their vampiric nature.

From even the earliest days of vampiric society, Clan Vermes were regarded as low-blooded and at times hunted by their more aristocratic brethren. Thus, they hid amongst the lower class of human society - masquerading as lepers and hiding in the dark corners of civilization. The catacombs of Rome brought them into mortal civilization, and it was hiding in these shadows that they began to watch and learn.

In the modern nights, Vermes use every tool of the modern world to gather information and maintain their concealment. They typically pull their childe from all manner of outcasts - fringe types, hackers, thieves, the homeless, and often embrace those whose vanity has made them cruel as a punishment.
GIFT:
Chameleon-like, they are able to hide their form within their surroundings.
BANE:
The Vermes have adapted so well to the dark, that any sort of bright light will burn and blind them.
ODDITY:
Their oddity is the most visible; their bodies are twisted and deformed by the embrace.
OBSESSION:
An overwhelming appetite for secrets and knowledge of the forbidden, redgardless of what they cost.
Punks,
malcontents, rabble-rousers, riff raff. Only some of the names thrown towards Clan Iratus - and each one worn with pride. Clan Iratus lead the Recreants, a loose coalition of outcast Kindred who - for reasons all their own, cannot live within the Covenant.

Since the age of antiquity, the Kindred known as Iratus have stood in defiance to organized vampire hierarchy. As the Triumvirate built Rome, Iratus formed the Visigoths and stood with Carthage to make themselves a major irritant until inevitably being scattered to the wind. And so, this cycle would repeat on and on. In more recent history, Iratus orchestrated the overthrow of the vampire dominated French aristocracy in the 18th century - in tandem with Vermes, while they’d prefer to keep their involvement in such matters covert.

Anyone looking for a place to go outside the Covenant who reflect their ideals of self-reliance, equality, and rejection of tyrants. Thus, they attract all manner of self proclaimed free thinkers and radicals from not only other bloodlines but mortal society as well. They pull their childe from a pool of fringe types, loners, and those with nowhere else to fit in.

While not officially part of the Covenant, they like to make an effort to irritate and “stir the shit” as they’d like to say. Without invitation, they plan to appear at the Soiree - and make quite the scene while they’re at it.
GIFT:
Their bodies can turn to smoke for a time, and quickly move across short distances.
BANE:
Banishing herbs, like garlic and wolfsbane, will repel an Iratus upon sensing it- and kill, if ingested.
ODDITY:
As the name implies, the Iratus are quick to anger; bloodlust sets in quickly and sharply, and their fuse is short even outside of that.
OBSESSION:
Danger, thrills, excitement; their boredom is like agony, and they'll do anything to keep it at bay.
Vile Summit
NIGHT OF THE ABYSSAL SOIRÉE
Once
every fifty years, the Covenant holds a formal meeting, the Summit, during which the heads of the relevant Clans gather together and discuss the state of things; politics, rules, conflicts, anything relevant to keeping their paper-thin peace. Perhaps to keep the rest of their members from scheming behind their backs, or perhaps because the Réquiem are incapable of escaping their desire for extravagance, the Summit is always held alongside a party; the Abyssal Soirée. It is a lavish affair, though that goes without saying. Music, dancing, blood, and a chance to socialise with other Kindred in a way that doesn't necessitate ripping their throats out. Though a relatively recent tradition, only on its third iteration, the Soirée has so far gone on without major incident.

This year, however, things seem to be different. The first sign that something was wrong, as usual, came from the maddened ramblings of the Reveur- but those could easily be dismissed by the other Clans as, well, the maddened ramblings of the Reveur. The second sign was the suspicious silence of the Iratus and the rest of the Recreants, who were acting suspiciously low-key in the lead-up. The the third, and most obvious sign, came when those very Recreants gatecrashed the Soirée- infiltrating the secret ballroom with the intention to party like the rest of their Kindred, sending a masked representative to the Summit whilst the rest of them enjoyed the festivities. Harmless, it seems.

Until someone ends up dead.

Whispers over music, rumours over laughter; tonight's Abyssal Soirée is cloaked in an air of uncertainty. Some say the Sword of Damocles has remained static for too long, that the tinderbox of the Covenant could be set ablaze by anything, anything at all. For now, however, they shall drink- and enjoy their undead peace whilst they can still fathom it.

tl;dr me and @Ghostly rip off vtm for fun and profit

feel free to ask for more lore/information- a lore tab is in the works as well at some point

initial rp will be set at the big vampire party but will open up to a more sandbox-esque situation if enough people are interested and if thats something people want to see from this

slam in the back of my dragula etc etc sheet template coming soon love you

feel free to add different sections to this as well, this is just a guideline

obligatory "code is optional im just insane"

Appearance:
Name:
Title/Nickname (OPTIONAL):
Current Age:
Age when Embraced:
Clan:
Backstory:


Count Jokeula
HE'S THE JOKER BABY


Name:
Joker, The
Current Age:
420
Age at Embrace:
69
Clan:
Reveur
Lorem
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Etiam vulputate id massa sit amet cursus. Phasellus vestibulum nibh augue, vitae tempus massa ultrices non. Nulla tempor finibus urna, quis lacinia quam blandit vel. Suspendisse vel accumsan velit, vel venenatis justo. Donec sodales semper turpis non tincidunt. Pellentesque porta eleifend sem fermentum ultricies. In sed arcu ipsum. Phasellus fermentum laoreet sapien, laoreet auctor turpis dapibus eget. Duis vitae justo risus.

Nam cursus leo lobortis, finibus leo at, egestas quam. Curabitur mattis bibendum egestas. Ut sed mauris lectus. Donec quam ex, sollicitudin a faucibus eu, auctor vel dui. Sed blandit erat et nibh condimentum eleifend. Nam gravida ex ut odio mattis semper. Suspendisse eros tellus, maximus sed nisi a, mollis aliquet purus. Maecenas mollis, ante ut dignissim gravida, mauris tortor aliquet nisi, sed egestas quam risus at diam. Nulla eget venenatis magna, eget venenatis velit. Mauris condimentum placerat sem id dictum. Integer purus mauris, sagittis a leo vel, pulvinar dapibus mi. Vivamus sagittis ex nec purus tempus, vel ultricies mauris congue. Cras mollis justo in elit congue porta a quis velit. Phasellus risus libero, accumsan in venenatis ac, blandit id ligula. Etiam neque mi, iaculis nec varius sit amet, varius sit amet ipsum. Morbi iaculis fermentum ultrices.

Aenean lacinia, arcu eu dictum molestie, nibh urna molestie nulla, non bibendum tortor elit efficitur lorem. Class aptent taciti sociosqu ad litora torquent per conubia nostra, per inceptos himenaeos. Ut aliquam orci ac neque ultricies, eget laoreet enim lacinia. Quisque non sodales ligula. Proin mattis tincidunt iaculis. Ut porttitor sem vel augue euismod aliquet. Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae; Vestibulum scelerisque dignissim sem, in imperdiet augue tincidunt eget. Sed commodo nulla tempor sapien ornare rutrum maximus sed nisi. Mauris eu lacus eget mi molestie finibus. Curabitur augue diam, consequat vitae fringilla quis, accumsan vel odio. Cras gravida augue at suscipit tristique.

Aenean ultrices ligula neque, mattis pellentesque nisi sollicitudin sit amet. Duis vehicula eros sed bibendum placerat. Etiam eget augue iaculis, pellentesque nisi in, maximus nisi. Curabitur maximus lorem vel nisl gravida porttitor. Fusce nec pellentesque augue, in pretium ligula. Etiam ac tellus lectus. Donec facilisis tincidunt posuere. Phasellus ornare dolor eget ipsum dapibus, at faucibus tortor convallis. Integer id tellus et tortor blandit tristique vitae non nunc. Vivamus lobortis velit mauris, ut laoreet ipsum blandit vel. Aenean mattis ex pretium lorem hendrerit, eu pharetra est tempus. Mauris ipsum diam, auctor at enim quis, suscipit hendrerit dolor.

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[class="CHARACTERSubtitle"]HE'S THE JOKER BABY[/class]

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[class="CHARACTERAccentText"]Name:[/class] Joker, The
[class="CHARACTERAccentText"]Current Age:[/class] 420
[class="CHARACTERAccentText"]Age at Embrace:[/class] 69
[class="CHARACTERAccentText"]Clan:[/class] Reveur[/class][class="CHARACTERProse"][class="CHARACTERBody"][class="CHARACTERAccentText"]Lorem[/class] ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Proin elit turpis, bibendum ut nibh eu, ullamcorper tincidunt mi. Pellentesque porttitor magna tincidunt dapibus porttitor. Quisque maximus vehicula vehicula. Morbi ultrices arcu sit amet quam fermentum pharetra. Aenean eu eros condimentum, commodo turpis vitae, dignissim magna. Ut interdum lacinia augue. Phasellus eget euismod mi. Donec faucibus vitae leo at imperdiet. Nulla velit tellus, lobortis nec fringilla pulvinar, semper nec justo. Duis ultricies cursus nisi. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Interdum et malesuada fames ac ante ipsum primis in faucibus. Maecenas ornare, neque quis pulvinar congue, turpis risus cursus tortor, sed luctus orci purus sed nulla. Donec aliquet viverra magna, sed molestie sem ornare id.

Etiam vulputate id massa sit amet cursus. Phasellus vestibulum nibh augue, vitae tempus massa ultrices non. Nulla tempor finibus urna, quis lacinia quam blandit vel. Suspendisse vel accumsan velit, vel venenatis justo. Donec sodales semper turpis non tincidunt. Pellentesque porta eleifend sem fermentum ultricies. In sed arcu ipsum. Phasellus fermentum laoreet sapien, laoreet auctor turpis dapibus eget. Duis vitae justo risus.

Nam cursus leo lobortis, finibus leo at, egestas quam. Curabitur mattis bibendum egestas. Ut sed mauris lectus. Donec quam ex, sollicitudin a faucibus eu, auctor vel dui. Sed blandit erat et nibh condimentum eleifend. Nam gravida ex ut odio mattis semper. Suspendisse eros tellus, maximus sed nisi a, mollis aliquet purus. Maecenas mollis, ante ut dignissim gravida, mauris tortor aliquet nisi, sed egestas quam risus at diam. Nulla eget venenatis magna, eget venenatis velit. Mauris condimentum placerat sem id dictum. Integer purus mauris, sagittis a leo vel, pulvinar dapibus mi. Vivamus sagittis ex nec purus tempus, vel ultricies mauris congue. Cras mollis justo in elit congue porta a quis velit. Phasellus risus libero, accumsan in venenatis ac, blandit id ligula. Etiam neque mi, iaculis nec varius sit amet, varius sit amet ipsum. Morbi iaculis fermentum ultrices.

Aenean lacinia, arcu eu dictum molestie, nibh urna molestie nulla, non bibendum tortor elit efficitur lorem. Class aptent taciti sociosqu ad litora torquent per conubia nostra, per inceptos himenaeos. Ut aliquam orci ac neque ultricies, eget laoreet enim lacinia. Quisque non sodales ligula. Proin mattis tincidunt iaculis. Ut porttitor sem vel augue euismod aliquet. Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae; Vestibulum scelerisque dignissim sem, in imperdiet augue tincidunt eget. Sed commodo nulla tempor sapien ornare rutrum maximus sed nisi. Mauris eu lacus eget mi molestie finibus. Curabitur augue diam, consequat vitae fringilla quis, accumsan vel odio. Cras gravida augue at suscipit tristique.

Aenean ultrices ligula neque, mattis pellentesque nisi sollicitudin sit amet. Duis vehicula eros sed bibendum placerat. Etiam eget augue iaculis, pellentesque nisi in, maximus nisi. Curabitur maximus lorem vel nisl gravida porttitor. Fusce nec pellentesque augue, in pretium ligula. Etiam ac tellus lectus. Donec facilisis tincidunt posuere. Phasellus ornare dolor eget ipsum dapibus, at faucibus tortor convallis. Integer id tellus et tortor blandit tristique vitae non nunc. Vivamus lobortis velit mauris, ut laoreet ipsum blandit vel. Aenean mattis ex pretium lorem hendrerit, eu pharetra est tempus. Mauris ipsum diam, auctor at enim quis, suscipit hendrerit dolor.
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The Itinerant
A Friend of Rats

NAME: Mallory Claribel Strauss
...at least, that's what the ID in her backpack says.

EMBRACED AT: 19?
If the math checks out.

CURRENT AGE: Definitely not 19.
It's been a few years, at least. Maybe decades.

CLAN: Reveur
That's what the tunnel-people told her, though she's probably forgotten by now.

"Seven minutes til one. Seven... no, six minutes til one. Six minutes."

The girl sat in the corner of a seat near the back of the train, hunched over her day-glo digital Casio watch, eyes watching the seconds tick by intently. The seconds were moving all the same on her four other watches - but she liked the way they looked on this one. Like little worms wriggling into place.

What was she waiting for, exactly? She was - late for something. She'd fallen asleep for the past few hours, and now she was late for something.

Something important.

Well, it couldn't be that important if she'd forgotten, could it? Looking up, she stared at the only other passenger in the car, a man in a teal polo hunched against the window. He was looking back at her already, and winked when she met his eyes. She didn't know him, did she? No, probably not. She was good with faces, and most of the faces she knew down here were scrunched and ugly. She liked them. They were friendly enough. Turning away from the man, she glanced at the train schedule overhead.

Red Line. Next Stop - St. Paul's.

Maybe that's what she was late for. Arriving at the station. They were all arriving somewhere, sooner or later, and the station was certainly a good sort of place to arrive into. By the time she looked away from the sign, the man who'd winked at her was standing beside her.

"Alright, princess?"

She stared at him for a few more seconds. No - she did know him. Not from before, but from - after. She'd know him for a while later. Get to know him very well - even hold him when he cried. Unfortunately, however, something terrible was going to happen to him.

"Something terrible is going to happen to you," she said. He blinked.

"That a threat, princess? Or a promise?"

He grinned.

She grinned too. She'd remembered what she was late for, now.

Dinner.

 
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THE REPENTANT
Everything Beautiful In Its Time


Name:
Clara Ashgrove
Current Age:
171
Age at Embrace:
18
Clan:
Réquiem -- Ecclesia
Once,
I was beautiful. Beyond compare, as they told me. I was spoken of in households across the town. Men wrote poems about me. Some of them were even well done. This was my youth, my girlhood. My parents, in an act I shall thank them for eternally, delayed my debut for several years. My countenance had no hint of failing early, and a few extra years would do a great deal to improve my deportment -- especially as I had no interest in marriage.

I should not have minded delaying it further, but it came to a time when there was concern over whether my brother should get into mishap over those repeated conversations of "Sir, my sister is not out yet." He was quite protective of me, and my parents began to worry it should come to fisticuffs.

So, upon my eighteenth birthday, I was to have my debut after all. I had three proposals by the end of it - and two before, which my mother assured me was quite gauche. The only fortunate thing that could be said about it was that it was also the night that I met Her.

Naturally, we became bosom friends. It was less than six months later when she invited me to London with her. My parents agreed under the delighted sense that I should have access to meeting suitors of higher quality than in ----shire, and I agreed as I was beginning to consider quite seriously entering the convent, if only to eschew these wretched unwanted proposals.

I had daydreamed, of course, of going elsewhere with Her, though these thoughts usually revolved more around retiring from society and living in a cottage near the sea, but She assured me that London would be a far better option. And so that spring I went, with Her as my chaperone, to see what surprises London might have in store for me.

It turned out that there was one that I had not at all expected. And after that, of course - well, I was not what I once was. The young suitors were much less of an offense when I knew what She would do with them. I still had no interest in young men, but I found my own way. London was full of lovely people at the time, of course, and there were many among my set who were looking for escape. Who was I to decline them?

Oh, not quickly. I preferred to take things slowly, a little bit at a time. One would be surprised what passed for consumption in those days - but we knew so little of medicine. And the final moment - ah, that was beautiful.

For many years, it continued thus. Times changed, as they always had, but we were eternal, She and I. Sometimes together, sometimes within our adjacent circles, but always where we went there was beauty and brilliance and death.

Until, of course, our falling out.

I will never forget the flash of silver. The light that glinted off the knife was almost worse than what followed. It was the knowing, I think - knowing what was to follow and being able to do nothing about it, held down as I was. Three slashes - from forehead to jaw, though the left eye; across the bridge of the nose just to the corner of the lips, and crosswise through the both of them. A scarlet letter -She was always prone to acts of literary weight. I will not - can not - describe the pain. I am sure the screaming was exquisite, if one is in to that sort of thing.

She left me the other eye, though we both know it was so I would be sure to see what She had made of me.

I could have groveled and sought a place among the others, but they would never want to look upon me after what She had done. Perhaps it was the delirium, but I supposed if I was to serve on my knees, it would be better that it were in a house of God than a house of the demimonde.

Thus did I begin another life once again. I turned from what I had once been, from the dazzling beauty and the depths of depravity. For my sins, I must atone. Penitent, I am wrought anew. The blood and body of the Lord compels me, bright-burning on my tongue. It sickens me, every time, but I hold it within myself for as long as I am able, and the sickness itself is deserved, for even through my confessions and communions, my sin is still upon me.

It lies upon us all, of course. Some more so than others, though that is for the Lord to judge. Absolution is not mine to offer, nor to have.

But dry your tears. We must put a brave look upon our faces, when we come upon those things that horrify us. You have nothing to fear. Your sins are not so great. Do you understand?

There, now. Hush.

You're prettier when you smile.
 

The Morose
Once upon a time, it was you


Name:
Missy Beauchamp
Current Age:
111
Age at Embrace:
14
Clan:
Saturnine
You know, I used to love you
. I really did. You were my whole world, and you shone just as bright as the sun you stole away from me. I never once complained about what you did, or when you killed Father. He was a monster, and you saved me. You gave me the power to be so much more than just a child, helpless and defenseless.

When you disappeared for a week, I thought you had left me behind with him. I thought you’d finally had enough of trying to protect me from his rage. After all, I depended on you so much. I would have gotten fed up with myself, too. I was so weak-willed and so very fragile. You went to great lengths to always throw yourself in front of me, to make yourself a target when he was angry. And he was always so angry.

I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.

Then you came home, and you were different. I noticed it immediately, but Father, he did not. He also didn’t notice when I fell ill in my room for a week, as you made me so much more than I was before. It was a curse that you bestowed upon me, but it was also a blessing. It meant freedom for both of us, an escape that we otherwise would not have achieved. You would have eventually left to marry, and then I would have been at his mercy until someone took pity on me and convinced him to marry me off as well.

Father was angry the night that I fully woke from death. He had come to bang on my door, and for once, you didn’t usher me away to hide in the closet or beneath the bed. Instead, you took my hand and you asked me a question. I remember being so hungry I could barely think, but I will remember that question forever. “Will you kill him, or shall I, Missy?”

I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.

A lot of what happened after that, I don’t remember. I just remember coming to with blood on my white dress and meat in my hands, and Father’s corpse on the ground between us. I haven’t worn white since that day, though not out of some silly thing like mourning his death. No, it was because he had always made me wear white, and I wanted to never see that color ever again.

We stayed close to the city after that, and everything was wonderful. We were together, and that was all I ever cared about, you know. When it was just us, we never had to worry about others. We always had each other’s back. And when we began to learn how to make things out of the dead, when we began to learn together, that was one of the best times of my life.

I wasn’t bothered by the thirst and the hunger. I wasn’t bothered by the screams or the blood or the flesh. I wasn’t bothered by any of the changes to us.

I was bothered by her.

We’d made it sixty years when you found her. I was so furious with you, that I couldn’t even begin to express it in words. We had made a promise. You had made a promise. You had promised me that we would always be together, just the two of us. And then you broke that promise. You wanted to add her. You said she could be like my older sister, that we could all be happy together. But I didn’t want that. I only ever wanted you.

You made it so hard for me, you know that, right? Because I really did love you. I still do. You shone like the sun you stole away from me. You gave me the power to be so much more than what I was. You cared for me and took care of me for sixty years. I thought the world of you. You were a constant in my life.

I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.

But you also made me do the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Driving that stake through your back is the most unforgivable thing I’ve ever done. My hands shook so badly when I did it, you know. And I’d never cried so hard as I did then. Watching your body as it decayed away was the most terrible experience of my life.

Please forgive me, my brother, for what I have done.
 

The Surrogate
Dirge of the Musekiller; Hatred Cast in Porcelain


Name:
Beatrice Eva Carlisle
Current Age:
129
Age at Embrace:
24
Clan:
Requiem
Softer,
I'd tell you, but never how much. You had this awful habit of pressing too hard when you were upset; hands like great concrete slabs, rail-spike fingers carving the ivory, as if I had lain myself atop the keys like a carcass before a butcher. You were a master of many things, but restraint was never of them. Now, emotion, I didn't even have to suggest, not even once- I could hear your cries in every note, every rest, the tension I felt in your shoulders released- ah, that sledgehammer poise worked wonderfully, when it was called for. Though, sometimes I would look at you from across the grand piano, eyes locked by silver chains, and I'd search for hours for the same cries that I could hear... leaving me ever unsatisfied. They were there, of course- but they did not match my own, not quite. Not yet.

Start over, I'd tell you, and the next time you'd play louder- defiant, almost, in your intensity. Were you not bound to that stool, I believe you would've thrown it at me. It's a pity I compose with subtlety. I'd ask, over and over, where it's gone- what happened to that talented young pianist I found in the practice room beneath the hall? Upon that stage? Hiding in the back of that party? And every time, every one, you'd tell me I already knew the answer. Of course I do. That wasn't the point of the question. Start over, again- softer, this time- actually pay attention to what I wrote down, please, it doesn't have to be difficult, you're only making it harder for yourself. Unlike us, you are not cursed to do this forever, so start over. Start over. Start over.

I'm sorry, I'd tell you, when you were just on the edge of sleep, unaware that I knew you could hear me.

Be thankful, I'd tell you, when you complained of my porcelain hand against your neck, so cold it made your arms seize. Be thankful your hands are warm, unmarred, mobile and attached to your arms- unlike mine. It's almost grotesque, how much I enjoy it when you ask me what happened. Each time, I recounted the tale in ever-greater detail, shivering at every word of what was done- something I don't have to hide from you, unlike the rest. Vengeance, I told you, was what this clan was built on- that's why I was punished so severely. They were scared I wouldn't stop at him, so they took everything from me- everything. The Scarred Right Hand took both of mine. She took my life. I would stand there, in my misery, and I'd watch for the pity to show in your face- and the disgust which followed. That's why I enjoyed it. I was like a child picking at a scab, showing the resultant wound to her peers and pretending it was fresh. Perhaps you could fix me, it whispered. Perhaps, if you play well enough, you could make me whole again. Perhaps, then, I'd let you go.

They hate it, I'd tell you- their compliments are as thin as my patience, they're just playing nice, as is the way of the Requiem. I was lying. Did you know I was lying? They were obsessed, just as I was. It never sounded right when I played my own work- but through your hands? Through your hands, it sings. I don't tell you that you're the reason they keep me around, despite my past disgrace. I tell you that the beauty they cling to is that of my prosthetics, ornate and delicate, not my surrogate hands. Not you. My work, finally recognised, but through someone else. Someone undeserving.

Louder, I'd tell you. Faster. Where's that energy gone? That passion? We've been working on this for so long- the performance is tomorrow, we can't be playing like this to a crowd like that! I used to have to threaten you, to get you to play this quiet- where is that now? I knew you were tired. I knew how much sleep a human needs, but I never once cared- you knew that. You could sleep before the performance, if we got this right- if not, you could sleep when you were dead. Dead- and grateful for it!

I know, I'd tell you, when you professed your hatred for me. Sometimes, it took a while to coax out. Other times, you'd tell me immediately, as soon as I even looked at you. In truth, it didn't matter how long it took for you to muster the courage to express yourself through words- I've been observing it in your hands since the very beginning. It helps, you know. It helps the way we play, the way our songs carry to an audience. You can hear it too, can't you? How much progress we've made? How much better we sound? We're almost there, I can taste it- almost to my standards. I told you to keep that hatred, to never let it go, but I didn't need to. You'd keep it as safe as I kept mine.

I love you, I'd tell you, because it was the last thing you'd ever want to hear. You're performing tomorrow- remember what I said. I love you. I finally love you.

I'm sorry, I'd tell you, once the curtain fell and the cheers died down. We played so well, up there- I've long since been redeemed in the eyes of my Kindred, but this made me adored. I think you knew what was coming. Most of you never tried to fight it, but some of you did- kicking and screaming, hoping your gracelessness would be enough to disgust me out of what I had to do. My sole muse, I'd call you- this whole time, I'd call you. Perhaps I was under the illusion that you'd be the last, the one I'd choose to keep forever. After a while, that fantasy wore away. I can't keep you around for long- not without going mad. Were you to become a Requiem, I'd be rendered useless- obsolete. You can never take my place. We'd go to the practice room, and I'd force you to play- one last piece, one last time, anything you wanted. To be desired by a Requiem, I'd tell you, means naught but misery- I know that better than anyone.

So play, my dear- go down singing, go down beautiful. Please, don't cry. This isn't a punishment- please, don't think of this as a punishment. I'm giving you the reward you've been begging for this whole time.

I'm sparing you the encore.
 
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The Irreverent
Welcome to the desecration, baby


Name:
Marcus Atkins
Current Age:
23
Age at Embrace:
18
Clan:
Iratus
I'm a rat.
Not a snitch, God knows I’d rather snort garlic powder than spill someone’s secrets. It’s not out of any sense of loyalty, just because I’d kill someone if they spilled mine. No, I’m a rat in the sense that I get into places and situations I’m not really supposed to.

Oh it’s truly a touching story. Daddy left when I was too young to remember him, Mommy married a jackass. Soon as I turned sixteen, said jackass decided he was tired of me mooching off him, and I was either gonna pay him for the roof over my head or be kicked out. Dear old Mom just stood there while her son packed a bag and stormed off.

Alistair was the only other person I had left, but he was just a kid like me. He helped where he could, mainly by busking on the street with an old guitar his dad had lying around. He was good, and the money we made helped more than I could do on my own. Then he was gone. Just disappeared one day, no goodbye or anything. The last thing I had going for me, fucking shattered. I wound up under a bridge that night, drinking my sorrows away with the resident bum there, some guy called Ripley. He was a good listening ear, but he was pretty sure he knew what happened to Alistair, that he was taken by some assholes called “Requiem”.

Now I didn’t know who they were at the time, but I was pissed. I was gonna get him back, and there was no way in Hell I was gonna be stopped. Ripley offered to help, and before I knew it he had latched himself onto my neck. It hurt like hell, and I’m pretty sure I passed out more than once. I don’t know how long it lasted, but once the pain finally subsided I was filled with hunger and fire, ready to get Alistair back.

He was dead.

Ripley had been piss-drunk when he bit me, and apparently anyone taken by Requiem is never heard from again. So I ran, again, away from Ripley, away from everything, shouting into the night for Alistair, shouting myself hoarse. Instead of finding my friend, however, I found myself outside a bar. Not just any bar, but jackass’s favorite. And as luck would have it, he had just begun to stumble home. It was only then that I realized I was starving. He tasted like oil, greasy and acrid. But I could finally think clearly. Fuck Ripley, but more importantly fuck Requiem. I was gonna find the one who took Alistair and I was gonna make him pay.

But what does all that have to do with what I’m doing right now? Why am I spilling my life story to this guy who doesn’t understand half of what I’m saying? He’s certainly not Requiem, hell he doesn’t even know what I am. All he knows is this homeless-looking guy broke into his house, past his security, and is rambling on while he’s bound and gagged. But he’s afraid. Sure, an adrenaline high is one thing. But drinking someone while adrenaline is coursing through their veins? That’s a whole new level of high. I chuck my phone onto the nearby table, rough guitars and a growling voice bleeding through the speakers. I look down at the trussed-up suit, his eyes wide in fear. I grin at him, a tongue running over my fangs as he finally realizes what’s about to happen, as the rough voice slides into the chorus, a voice worn down by years of drugs and alcohol and life and living that I sure as shit can’t have anymore. But I can sure as shit do this.

C’mon baby, eat the rich.

 

The Madame
The Eternal Diva


Name:
Victoria Whitely
Current Age:
I thought it was rude to ask
Age at Embrace:
30
Clan:
Requiem
What
my pets will never understand is, what I went through to get where they are. They do not see how much love and nurturing I give them. I hear them whispering about my methods, and how harsh they find them. I do not ask for much in return, for cultivating their medocrity into something worth listening to. I only ask for what I need - and what I deserve. They could not handle the hours I put into perfecting my art when I was their age, the cruel teachers who would never settle for anything less than perfect. The way my voice ached from exersion. The men who never took me seriously, and only saw me as a prop to further their own careers (Who now wilt away to obscurity in their graves I might add). I was a Soprano in Opera houses all over the world, I was Violetta, Leonora, Pamina and even the Queen of the Night. I was adored, by aundiences. Even now when I step out onto the empty stage, and look out into the vast desolate auditorium I can hear echoes of past applause. The thump of hands coming together pounding in my ears, the rush of adrenaline when I know it's all for me. The bouquets that would await me in my dressing room, velvety red roses, delicate lilies and brilliantly coloured hyacinths. The donors who took me out to lunch, to hear about me and my talent. People would write about my beauty, elegance and desirability.

Those times are long past. Such talent would make it impossible to keep up the charade for long. Now I nurture new talent in my little jewlery box, and I take out my jewels nightly to perform for your pleasure. They get their reward, my love and attention, their punishment is my neglect and rejection. Only the beautiful and talented survive in my house. My girls get everything they require - and more. For the price of their talent and their donations to my health. They often ask me why I bring them into my home. I tell them how hard I found it being on my own, my own sire unfortunately had an accident involving a stake and his heart. He fell out of favour with the clan and I can only assume someone saw it as their opportunity to dispose of him. For the betterment of the clan.

Although I of course think his loss is felt every night, and I am oh so very sad.
 

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The Stitchress
Lady of bone and flesh


Name:
Charlotte von Hahn
Current Age:
327
Age at Embrace:
32
Clan:
Saturnine
It was always the teeth
that they got wrong. Ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, but the teeth, the number was never correct. Oh, arms and legs she knew how to sew them back together, bones she knew how to align, but when the teeth were wrong, what was there to do?

Sew new ones in, or break them all?

She had seen his teeth three times now, so she was certain the number was wrong. She had counted, one, two, three, so she knew and she wanted to fix it.

The blood was thick on the table and under her nails. Almost as thick as the screaming in the air, if she was looking to be poetic. Words never come together quite so easily as meat did. Her tutor might have found some shame in that. His teeth were also wrong, so who really ended up ahead? Ha.

Screaming again, oh, she left her schaple in his hip. How unfortunate, it seemed she had gotten distracted again. With a tut Charlotte drew the blade back, letting blood dribble free from the wound. A new servant needed fine parts, and this one’s blood was just about prepared.

A new jaw, perhaps?

Things shuffled in the gloom, some clicked and creaked while others thumped and squelched, and Charlotte ran the schaple between her lips.

He would make for a fine hunter, once he had all his teeth.

 


The Idol
Make sure to get my good side, chump.

NAME: Vernon Iago Prince
You've probably seen it before-- I'm a big deal "across the pond", as they say. Do they... say that, here?

EMBRACED AT: 33.
The "prime of your life". Worse ages to be stuck at, I guess.

CURRENT AGE: ... 33.
I'm what you might call recently-acquired talent.

CLAN: Vermes
Could you not fucking tell, dipshit?

Studio applause.

"First off, Vernon, I want to just say-- you're braver than all of us for what you're going through, right now, and I want to thank you personally for coming out to the show for tonight. Can we-- get him a round of applause for this, I mean, seriously--"

The cheer of the studio audience was, for the most part, ecstatic. Small little whistles and cheers from the crowd prompted a thankful wave from the show's guest-- Vernon Prince, a Hollywood darling whose meteoric rise to stardom was owed to a series of successful box-office blockbusters. The new Tom Cruise, they were calling him-- a man's man, through and through. With hits like Lever-Action Lover, Blood in the Chamber, and Fearmonger: Los Angeles, how couldn't they love him?

Smile for the camera. Just don't flash your teeth.

"Well, Jimmy, it's been--" A short cough, and a rumble in the back of his mouth. Vernon cleared his throat, muttered an excuse me, and continued-- his fully-bandaged head offering little insight as to his expression. It was stoic, though, no doubt-- he was the strong, silent type, after all, and that was all they needed to know. "-- it's been difficult, as I'm sure you could guess, but the-- the outpour of support from fans, family, and friends has just been... God, it's been reaffirming. I just-- I feel validated, still."

"Hey-- of course, right? I mean, it's been a few months and I wanted to-- I talked to you before the show, as you know, and I wanted to know what you were comfortable talking about, and--"

"Yeah, of course, of course. And we agreed--"

"-- right, whatever you were comfortable with, and you were surprisingly just... open about it, which I-- I'm in awe of, honestly, I don't know how you've remained so strong this whole time--"

The delicate dance. What they'd agreed upon before the show. Selling the story that this dumb fucking asshole didn't even realize was a complete fabrication.

"Well, the accident took-- it took a lot to bring me back, you know? They said I was dead for 3 minutes, and I just..." A pause, there, to let the audience give a small little rustle for the broadcast to pick up. "... well, it's not all great underneath the bandages, let me tell you, but-- I'm getting there. Baby steps," Vernon held out his hands as if to steady himself, emphasizing the uncertainty of it all-- and trying not to have his talons shred through the gauze every time his fingers moved. "But hey. 'Least I won't be looking as bad as you, still."

"HAHAH!" A slap on the knee from the host, and a little chuckle from the audience. His interviewer did a little double-take over the shoulder, acting out a small bit, and adopted an expression of distress for a few moments. "What are you trying to say, Vernon, I--" An adjustment of the hair. Selling the joke. What a fucking tool. Vernon gave a laugh-- the razor-sharp point of fangs hidden from the cameras-- and leaned back, giving a dismissive wave. "I'm just joking! I'm just joking. C'mon."

"I know, I know. Now-- before we cut to break, I know that I've been wondering-- as have a lot of people here, I imagine-- Stakeout. What's the status of the series? We've heard little... whispers of a remake here and there, and I know that you've been pushing for the rights to get picked up again on social media--"

"Yeah, yeah, I... okay. So, I wanted to talk about that, actually," Vernon began, letting his hands fall onto his lap as he crossed a leg and spread both out. Settling in. Stakeout was probably his most famous series-- a gritty action-thriller about a Los Angeles detective combatting corruption, only to find out that the entire hierarchy is dominated by vampires. Installment after installment had him fighting the living dead and saving the love interest-- and Vernon was well-known in the series for insisting that he did his own stunts. The end result was a surprisingly good franchise that was shot practically, and earned Prince's status as an action star.

"Well, recently, we got the rights picked up. By..." Applause was already filtering in-- Vernon continued. "-- A24. We're making a sort of independent, smaller-budget installment-- a reboot, of sorts-- and it's very conscious of what it is, I think. We're getting a new director in, and I think it's in extremely good hands. We're going for a sort of... deconstruction of the vampire mythos, I think-- playing into the tormented romantic angle we saw with older monster movies, making them sympathetic, making them... real, you know?"

Enthused reactions from the audience. "And we might see Christopher Redwynn--" The name of the protagonist that Vernon played, of course. "-- in a different sort of role than you'd be expecting. I think you guys are gonna love it. It's a way to keep the franchise fresh, I think, and introduce it to a new generation."

The host gave an approving nod, then looked to the cameras. "After this break, we're gonna have a clip from... The Stakeout, in theaters October 31st! Stick around, don't go anywhere!"

More cheering from the audience. Vernon gave a cheerful wave, then stood up once the cameras turned off, moving past Jimmy's desk without a word and pushing towards the wing. A youthful PA came up, nervous, and gave a thumbs up.

"Vernon, you were great-- just-- so brave, and--"

"Shut the fuck up and tell Jimmy fucking Fallon I'm leaving."
 
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