by Matt Roberts

Origin
Among the Tremere, the study of magical zoology has become a dead art. The mystical and bizarre creatures that once inhabited the world have long since vanished, and those Warlocks whose occupation focused on their study have since resigned themselves to an existence locked away from the modern world.

They have become little more than animate retainers of ancient knowledge, kept around more as a matter of course than for any real belief that their secrets may one day prove of some use. Their position’s within the hierarchy of Clan Tremere have long since lost the power they once contained. Like the dusty and decayed remains of mythological creatures they surround themselves with, they are artifacts of a bygone era. And it is only among the minds and written works of these impotent masters that curious searchers can uncover possible origins for the Tremere’s demonic allies, the Gargoyles. There are essentially two theories on the subject, both steeped in Judeo-Christian myth.

The first maintains that gargoyles are the descendents of those angels who refused to take sides during the War in Heaven. After Lucifer and his allies were cast down, the Lord turned to those who had insisted on neutrality, and set them upon the Earth as mortals. Their time on Earth would either serve as an act of contrition, or as the final step before eternal damnation. Many supporters of this belief find it ironic that the descendents of these beings, the Gargoyles, have likely become fallen in the eyes of God due to the Tremere (they also tend to take some spiteful satisfaction from it).

The second conjecture about Gargoyle origins, however, skirts the line of heresy in the eyes of many Cainites. It is very likely, say these Warlocks, that the Gargoyles are one of the monster races spawned by Lilith. They hold the ritual used to impart vampirism to a Gargoyle as evidence of this, insisting it is only through this connection that the Curse could be spread.

On the other hand, support for this theory is seen by some Tremere as evidence of possible interest in the Lilith heresy, and is thus frowned upon by the Council of Seven. Due to the questionable nature of their positions and continued usefulness, most Tremere researchers who support this belief keep fairly quiet about their opinions.

History
Gargoyle history is separated into two sections by Tremere historians: before the first large-scale Tremere/Gargoyle alliance, and after. The former is markedly vague, composed more of rumor and legend than fact. The only accurately known truths are records dating back to the time when House Tremere was still a part of the Order of Hermes, describing deals made between individual magi and solitary Gargoyle clans.

Additionally, ancient mountain cities have been discovered (and kept hidden) by the Tremere. These locations (many of which appear to have pre-dated the Great Flood) contain structures covered with intricate carvings of Gargoyles, an advanced system of aqueducts, and complex buildings and pathways clearly built for inhabitants both able to walk and fly. This clashes with the state of the Gargoyle clans at the time of the Deal, which was at a Stone Age level of development. Clearly, at some point in the past the Gargoyles had a more advanced society, but at some point it descended into barbarism. No answer has yet to be found for the question of why this happened. Gargoyle history within Clan Tremere is better documented, and is segmented by three large-scale events: the Deal, the Betrayal, and the Desertion.

The Deal
As has been mentioned, relations between the Tremere and the Gargoyle race traditionally went no further than individual Chantries and Gargoyle clans. After House Tremere cursed itself with vampirism, Tremere leadership began an urgent search for any and all advantages it could find. While Thaumaturgy was the main result of this program, Tremere warlocks also begun seeking allies among the supernatural world. At the same time, many Gargoyle clans were beginning to feel the effects of humanity’s ever-increasing expansion.

More and more often, the two races would be forced into confrontation, which inevitably led to fighting due to the Gargoyles heightened instinct of territoriality. Overwhelmed by numbers and more advanced weaponry, most Gargoyle clans lost these battles, with the few survivors forced to flee. It was among these desperate groups that the Tremere found a most willing ear. Taking advantage of their need for sanctuary, the Tremere offered these remnants protection and a home. The bargain wasn’t entirely one-sided, as the Tremere were beginning to feel the sting of attacks made by those Clans whose territory they were spreading into. A deal was struck, and Clan Tremere gained the strength and abilities of Gargoyle allies.

The Betrayal
During the Inquisition, many Tremere Chantries found themselves popular targets. As it’s members were not only undead but also sorcerers, they frequently found themselves the focus of local legend. Inquisitors seized upon these rumors, and soon the Tremere themselves fighting for their existence before the fires of the Inquisition. A solution to this problem was needed, and soon.

Incredibly, the Tremere Gargoyles themselves were the ones to offer it. Clan Tremere began a campaign to spread rumors of the existence and location of demons walking upon the face of the earth. In essence, they sacrificed many of the remaining independent Gargoyle clans currently in existence to the Inquisition, both as a distraction and as a means of lowering the numbers of Inquisitors somewhat. The gambit worked, and allowed the Tremere time to prepare and take greater care in hiding their existence from their mortal neighbors. In the end, nearly a half of the remaining Gargoyle race was slaughtered. The rest found themselves alerted to the new danger posed by the Inquisition by helpful Tremere Gargoyles, and were offered sanctuary in the halls of the Tremere. Almost all those approached accepted this offer.

After joining, many eventually learned of who had manipulated the Inquisition to their homes, but by then it was too late, as they discovered another secret of the Tremere Gargoyles: a variation of the original ritual of vampirism used by House Tremere had been developed that would work on Gargoyles. Disguised as ritualized pacts and swearing of Oaths, all of the new additions were fed the blood of these vampiric Gargoyles, and forced into a Blood Bond. Those who had been promised sanctuary found themselves forced into slavery, betrayed by their own kind. And unfortunately, there was nothing they could do about it.

The Desertion
The third epoch of Gargoyle history is marked by the event known as the Desertion. After the pyres of the Inquisition had died down, but before the formation of the Camarilla, many of the new undead Gargoyles had become tired of their inability to rise beyond a specific point in the Tremere Hierarchy.

Believing themselves knowledgeable and powerful enough to no longer need the help of Clan Tremere, they began to conspire with one another, waiting for an appropriate opportunity to present itself. The Anarch Revolt proved to be exactly what they were waiting for. At the height of hostilities between elders and childer, a third of the Gargoyle population simply vanished. The sudden loss of their defenders severely weakened many Chantries, causing more than one to fall to the Anarch hordes. The Council of Seven’s reaction was quick and severe. All remaining vampire Gargoyles were given a choice: accept full Blood Bonding to one of the members of the Council, or be destroyed. All agreed to the Bond.

Since then, relations between the Gargoyle and Vampire members of Clan Tremere have remained fairly stable and static. Gargoyles have their own place within the structure of the organizational pyramid, determined by the Caste system that has formed over the years. Some are treated as trash, others as useful pawns, and a few are actually feared. Those who escaped (and their descendents) have learned how to survive in a world overrun by mankind, now preying upon those who once decimated their ancestors. For better or worse, the Gargoyle race has been permanently marked by the Tremere, and has established a place for itself among an unsuspecting world.

Gargoyles Within the Tremere
What positions a Gargoyle can have within the halls of the Tremere is determined by their Caste, of which there are three: the Bound, the Skilled, and the Cursed.

The Bound
The lowest rung on the Gargoyle social ladder, this Caste is composed of the descendents of those Gargoyles tricked during the Betrayal. They are fed the blood of a member of the Cursed caste once at birth, once on their first birthday, and a final time on their second birthday. They are used as servants, guards, shock troops, sacrifices, and occasionally as test subjects. They hold no power whatsoever within Clan Tremere, and most often are treated as little better than slaves. This is by far the largest Caste.

The Skilled
These Gargoyles are those that actually have some status among the Tremere, without being Embraced. They are basically on an equal level as most Neonates. They tend to fill positions as scouts, messengers, diplomats, security overseers, and minor sorcerers. Most answer directly to the highest ranking members of their home Chantry, and gain some authority while accomplishing tasks set before them by these elders. Members of this Caste almost never mate with members of the Bound. The Caste of any offspring from such an unusual union depends mainly on the wishes and status of the Skilled parent, and on the mothers Caste.

The Cursed
No Gargoyles are born into the Cursed Caste. It is the composed of those Gargoyles who have undergone the ritual of vampirism, or been Embraced by another Cursed Gargoyle. Each is Blood Bound to a very high-ranking Tremere (many directly to a member of the Council of Seven).

Over the years, they have become a sort of secret police within the Clan, reporting any suspicious activity they learn of to their patron. Where other Castes look for threats from without, they look inwards for betrayal, demon-worship, and any plots targeting their masters. They are always drawn from members of the Skilled Caste, and are always deferred to by members of the lower Castes. They often have no single residence, instead travelling from Chantry to Chantry every few months.

Independents
After fleeing from Clan Tremere, most of the deserters immediately split up into smaller groups. While this lack of central organization was what made their ancestors vulnerable in the first place, it couldn’t be helped. Five monsters can hide better than twenty. Fortunately, their time spent with the Tremere has armed them with several advantages Gargoyles of the past did not have, including a working understanding of sorcery, greater insight in the way of mankind, and a healthy respect for cold, calculated cruelty. Most keep in touch with one another through the use of sorcery and messengers. There are several ways in which independent Gargoyle clans have managed to survive in the modern nights. Most are dependent on the unique resources available to them in their chosen region. However, there are two methods that have proven most successful over the years.

Returning to the Earth
The first solution is to find a large system of caves, and settle down. They should be difficult to travel through without the advantage of flight, ideally impossible without the use of modern caving tools. This serves the dual purpose of keeping food sources (chickens, dogs, drifters, runaways) from escaping, and also acts as added protection from Lupines (wolves aren’t well known for their spelunking skills).

Occasionally, nearby small towns are converted into worshippers, forming cults around the Gargoyles. The caverns can then be turned into a tourist attraction, allowing vampiric Gargoyles to feed without the dangers inherent of kidnapping, merely having to Dominate small groups of visitors.

The Sewer Rat Gambit
There is also an option open for the more hideous Gargoyle groups: finding a location devoid of Nosferatu, and setting up shop posing as members of that Clan. As long as you smell like shit and are ugly as sin, most Kindred don’t feel the need to question your origins too closely. It’s also sometimes possible for a small group of Gargoyles to join an established Nosferatu community. This hinges on whether or not the group can convince the Nosferatu leaders of their usefulness. However, there is the danger that the Nosferatu will just take what they want from the Gargoyles, and proceed to turn them over to the nearest Tremere.

Appearance
Gargoyle’s Appearance trait begins at 0, and can only have a maximum of 3. They range across the spectrum from grotesque to passably human (with the right clothing). Skin color tends to be in various shades of grey, green, and brown. Even the human looking ones have a fairly demonic appearance.

Unique Abilities (Kewl Powerz)
A couple inherent advantages Gargoyles might have.
- Flight: In urban areas, this should be highly restricted, and allowable only in emergencies.
- Claws: Non-retractable, but in all other ways the same as the Protean power Feral Claws.
- Numina: Allowing some Gargoyles to learn Hedge Magic probably shouldn’t be out of the question (at least for the Skilled Caste).
- Potence and Fortitude: Appropriate for members of the Bound Caste, due to Ghouling (perhaps even making them a sort of proto-Revenant family).
- Awareness. Like the Talent from Mage: the Ascension. Appropriate for those Gargoyles used as sentinels or bloodhounds by Clan Tremere. Roll Perception
+ Awareness to sense the supernatural.

Vampiric Gargoyles
Beginning Disciplines: Dominate, Auspex, Thaumaturgy
Weakness: Blood bound to a high ranking Tremere, or Hunted if Independent
Common Backgrounds: Generation, Mentor and Status for Tremere Gargoyles, Herd and Servants for Independents who gather a Cult around them.

Uses in a Vampire Game
A major reason for incorporating the above changes would be to increase the number of possible roles for Gargoyles (both as PC’s and NPC’s) within Clan Tremere. Paranoia should be a common Theme when involving them: whether slave or pawn, they are always watching, and always ready to report what they have seen.

A Tremere PC might find himself the subject of a Cursed inquisitors questioning, asked about past deeds she thought had gone unseen. Spiritual Corruption is also something you might want to play up, as well. Stories involving Independent Gargoyles work well to highlight themes of Revenge, Survival, and pure Monstrousness.

They also can be used as an unusual antagonist a Coterie might encounter in the least expected places. Finally, it might be fun to run one or two stories as a Dark Parody of the cartoon, using all the above Themes.

by Brittany Adams

She was met outside of Moncada’s office by her appointed bodyguards, then led upstairs to her suite. She could barely suppress a small chuckle as the men took up positions on each side of her door. Surely, they weren’t crazy enough to think that she couldn’t escape if she really wanted to. She stepped into the sitting room of her opulent quarters and nodded with satisfaction as she looked around. This may well be her last night of existence, but she was still nobility, and Moncada made sure to provide her with all of the amenities befitting her station.

Alexis walked into the bedchamber and closed the door, then sat down on the bed and slipped into another meditative trance. More than anything, she wanted the Voice to either confirm or deny the path she had chosen to take with this trial. However, as it was earlier, her inner pleas were met with silence. She stayed in her trance for hours, waiting and hoping, but she was finally forced to give up as dawn stained the horizon.

The next night, Alexis entered the grand ballroom of the estate with her back straight and her head held high. The room was filled with rows of chairs, and at the front, the stage usually reserved for musical groups contained a row of seven chairs behind a long table, each of them filled with those who would be her judges. She recognized most of them by their faces, but knew only a few by name. She didn’t turn her head to look at the crowd that had gathered in the room, but she did notice that off to the side sat Archbishop Faddei of Austria, the one that had promoted her to Bishop so many years ago.

She stopped in the center of the cleared space in front of the platform and looked up at those before her. Her eyes and face were unreadable as she kept a tight grip on her emotions. Any slip up now could be fatal. Always the epitome of etiquette, she dipped a respectful curtsey to the panel and remained silent, for the accused in a blood court does not speak unless spoken to.

Archbishop Moncada opened a file in front of him and glanced over the papers contained within. He waited a few moments to create suspense then folded his hands on top of the file and looked at Alexis.

"Contessa Alexis Dread, childer of Lord Blackthorin Dread, a petition has been brought before us with accusations that you have failed at various duties and that you are no longer worthy of being Lasombra. What say you to these charges?"

Out of all the times she had attended these tribunals, she had only seen one other time when the accused was granted the right to face the judges, but she knew the expected response.

"The charges are false, Your Excellency."

The Archbishop nodded and continued, "You have been charged with failing to lead the pack, Res Divina Nigrum, the simplest of tasks for one of your abilities. What say you?"

Again, Alexis responded with the expected answer, "The charge is false, Your Excellency."

"Explain."

She chose her words very carefully as she took the first step down the road which she hoped would let her walk from this room at the end of the night.

"I was set up to fail by my sire and his former concubine. They subverted the pack members and pitted them against me. Lord Dread admitted to me after the pack was disbanded that it was impossible for me to lead them successfully under such circumstances."

She watched emotionlessly as the judges made notes of her explanation.

Moncada looked down at the file, frowning slightly as he took a pen and crossed items off of his list, items which were apparently too trivial for him to bring up. After a few minutes, he stopped and looked down at Alexis.

"You have also been accused of failing to perform the duties of an Archbishop and therefore, you were stripped of your title. What say you?"

This was the part of the trial that she knew would decide her fate. She mentally steeled herself as she made her reply.

"The charge is false, Your Excellency."

"Explain."

She allowed a bit of anger to creep into her voice as she recited the speech she had memorized as her answer to this charge.

"In a fit of insanity, the Cardinal stripped all title holding Sabbat in the area of Meridian of their titles. Immediately afterward, he disappeared so that none could challenge his decision. As a result, the city was retaken by the Camarilla, and our sect members there have been left in total disarray and confusion without proper leadership."

She noticed the stunned expressions on the faces of the judges as they conversed in whispers up on the stage. Behind her, she could hear the crowd mumbling to each other in disbelief at her pronouncement. However, Moncada remained calm. His only outward sign of surprise was a raised eyebrow as he spoke.

"That Cardinal is your sire, Alexis. You would betray him?"

Alexis nodded, "Former Cardinal. He forfeited his title when he vanished. I caught a glimpse of him in the arms of a known Camarilla woman as I was leaving to come here. It is my opinion that he has betrayed not only me, but our entire Clan and Sect." She paused for a moment then continued, "I feel that he has followed the same path as the traitor, Giangaleazzo." She added the last statement as a well-rehearsed afterthought, knowing Moncada’s towering fury at Giangaleazzo for his treason.

She could barely suppress a grin as her statement had its desired effect. Moncada’s hands clenched into fists and he frowned darkly. He spoke with the other judges, and in a matter of minutes, a verdict was reached.

"Contessa Alexis Dread, in light of these revelations, it is our judgement that these allegations are false. You are free to go."

She nodded and started to turn to leave, but then she paused and turned back, "If I may ask, who brought the petition against me?"

Moncada glanced over to Archbishop Faddei, and his look told her all she needed to know. She frowned at the one she had once called ally and her eyes flashed angrily. Suddenly, she heard a long silent, yet familiar, voice in the back of her mind.
"Do it. Kill him. Do it."
Alexis didn’t even think, she just reacted. Before Faddei could make a move, she had taken the scarab brooch from her gown. She squeezed the head of the scarab and two wing-shaped blades shot out from the sides, then snapped together to form one semi-circular blade. In an instant, she crossed the few feet that seperated her from her enemy, and the blade was slammed into his chest, piercing his heart. She growled and jammed the blade in harder, then twisted it.

Faddei’s eyes widened as the poison on the blade spread throughout his body. Alexis used shadow tendrils to hold him in place as his unlife ended. She released him and pulled the blade from his chest, causing him to collapse onto the floor in a heap. She carefully cleaned the small dagger off on his shirt, then let go of the scarab’s head. The blades shot back into place and she pinned the brooch back onto her gown as she turned and faced Moncada. "He will no longer waste this court’s precious time, Your Excellency."

The Archbishop nodded approvingly and smiled, "Would you like the right of Amaranth on that one?"

Alexis shook her head, "No, thank you. The sting of the scarab is poison. However, I would take his title since he will be unable to perform his duties."

A couple of the judges laughed out loud while the rest simply smiled and grinned. Moncada controlled his laughter enough to answer her.

"Spoken like a true Lasombra. Yes, you may have his title, a title which should never have been taken from you in the first place."

"My thanks, Your Excellency. Now, I must take my leave and plan my return to the United States." She nodded to each of the judges, then turned and made her way back to her suite, her mind racing with plots and intrigues… now with the help of her Inner Voice.

by Hastur the 7th

The Quagmir is a clan of kindred, like the nosferatu, that cannot show themselves too humanity. There founder. Unknown too this day, diablerized a vampire elder. The prince of the city, a malkavian, ordered the vampire bound and tossed into a nearby swamp. After a few days in the swamp, the vampire pulled himself from the slimy mess. But he had become a hideous, slime drenched corpse! Horrified by the change, he went and killed the prince and went on a murderous rampage. Creating other vampires of kind. The lower generations look more human like. But they still stink.

Nickname: swamp things.

Sect: Quagmirs exclusively inhabit the sabbat. A lot of bad blood exists between the quagmir and the malkavians. For obvious reasons.

Appearance: Quagmirs of generation 8 or less look like bad smelling slime drenched corpses. Quagmir of lower generation look like normal people except they have green hair and rotten teeth. Both types smell bad.

Haven: as one would guess. Quagmir prefer swamps, sewers, toxic waste dumps and landfills as havens, these places help hide their terrible stench.

Backgrounds: most quagmir are outcasts and shiftless bum’s, a few are rich people that offer their elders a lucrative lifestyle for a time.

Char creation: most quagmir have high strength. Almost none have high social attributes. Common backgrounds include herd, mentor, and resources.

Clan disciplines: potence, dominate, vicssitude

Weakness: all quagmir of 8t generation or higher have an appearance of zero. No quagmir has any social attribute above three. All quagmir automatically botch seduction roles due too there smell.

Organization: all quagmir are lone wolves. They abandon their childer upon embracing them. Leaving them too fend for themselves.

Bloodlines: a small group of these wretched vampires live in the camarilla, but these are few and far between.

Quote: whew! What’s that smell? Oh wait, it’s only me! Hahaha!

Stereotypes

Assamite: there are advantages too smelling like shit. Remember that.

"I am not touching that one!"

Brujah: don’t push me buddy! Ill kick your ass

"Get your smelly fuckin ass outta my haven!"

Followers of set: something here stinks worse than even we do!

" How sad, they so want too fit in, and what applications this has…."

Gangrel: we don’t share havens, so our paths don’t cross often.

"Quagmirs? What the hell is a quagmir?"

Giovanni: look at them, they aren’t the only ones with money you know

"If you’re so damn rich, then you can afford a bath!"

Lasombra: they’re our bosses. They accept us.

"Their idiots. But they do good work. I like em!"

Malkavians: they are the sick bastards that did this too us. We will make them pay!

"Yeah, we got one thing too say too that: DINGLE KNOCKER! HAHAHAHA!

Nosferatu: our brothers. They know the pain of ugliness and bad smelling.

"We feel your pain. Come visit anytime!"

Ravnos: illusionists. Bet even they cant cover this smell up!

"Ill say! Phew! What died in here?"

Toreador: how beautiful, how happy they must be, how I envy them.

"You have a lot too envy. Now please go wash up!"

Tzimisce: their pissed because we know there flesh crafting skills.

"We will find out who taught them too you. Then you will pay."

Tremere: gee, people hate you more than us! What is up with that?

"I thought I told you too leave."

Ventrue: damn Richies. Let this happen too us.

"Why do you blame us. It’s your own fault your clan is like this!

Caitiff: they don’t smell! That’s just not fair!

Camarilla: its there fault this happened! Why did they let this happen!

Sabbat: Bunch of crazies, but at least they don’t turn us away. Unlike some people!

by DeeLacy

Bryon walks through the rain as he often does, the cold winter rain, along the path he has walked so many times before. Deja vu…

Elizabeth is in her home, compulsively smoothing the furniture and setting pillows to just the right angle, as she waits for Bryon to arrive. There is black drapery over all her furniture, and black veils on the mirrors, mourning for Gregory Dorn. She can’t get his image out of her head. Gone, ash. And Spencer, too, but… Gregory….

The bell rings. "Come in," she calls.

Bryon knocks softly on the door. Elizabeth can hear him at the door, and see the door from where she stands… she estimates where his head is… and projects the thought…. I said, come in.

Bryon opens the door and steps in, not looking at his sire yet but carefully removing his jacket.

"Yes, take that off, you’re dripping," she says.

He hangs his coat on the coat rack and straightens himself. "Hello, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth smiles at him. "Good of you to come. Bryon darling." She smiles, but there is unmistakable tension at the corners of her mouth. She is deeply unhappy… not angry… sorrowful.

Bryon smirks uncomfortably. "Yes, thanks. It’s been a while."

"Come sit… tell me what you’ve been doing all this while," she invites. Bryon looks a bit suspicious, but drifts over to the sofa. He keeps his eyes firmly on her now, whereas before he wouldn’t look at her. Elizabeth sits down next to him and slips her hand into his, giving it a light squeeze. Her other hand rests against the black fabric she’s draped over the sofa, fingers brushing it softly.

"Well… I’ve been running around the city mostly… drinking. I have spoken to the ‘anarchs’ on a couple of occasions…" Bryon is nervous beyond the usual, as he looks down curiously at the black covering the furniture.

"What happened when you met with the anarchs?" Elizabeth asks, scanning Bryon’s surface thoughts as he answers. She sees blood-red rain, and two unfamiliar girls’ faces, one whose name is floating in his thoughts but she can’t quite hear it. She sees the handsome Anarch who has been blood hunted, and his Nosferatu ally.

"They talked a bit about what they had done. About makin’ a stand, the usual. But they did something, it seems." Bryon looks at Elizabeth, at her hair. "How are you?"

Elizabeth shakes her head slightly. "They did something? What do you mean? They’ve done… several things."

"They got Ms. Semingsworth." Bryon swallows once, thinking of the catatonic state the Ventrue primogen has been in ever since she and her ghoul were rescued from their anarch captors.

Elizabeth nods, a lock of hair falling in her eyes. She brushes it aside. "And they caused a havoc in a children’s rest home…." Bryon looked surprised. "You did not hear that? It was in the news… as an incident caused by PCP."

"I don’t think they took credit for that in front of me… I don’t remember at least."

"Ah. And then… they seem to have got… more serious. They captured and destroyed, on camera, two of our clan, and a Ventrue and a Tremere. Did they claim that in front of you?"

Bryon looks confused. "No…" He swallows again, in slow-motion. "No. I… haven’t heard of that."

Elizabeth looks away, feeling almost unable to control her sadness, as she speaks. "They killed Gregory." For a long moment she is lost in thought of her fellow Toreador elder, his deep brown eyes, his beauty, his depthless creative mind; of the love she held for him, unrequited for decades, the memory of their short time of mutual passion so long ago.

Bryon’s fingers twitch. Elizabeth holds perfectly still as red tears slide down her marble cheeks. Bryon blinks rapidly, then takes off his glasses. "I’m really… sorry. I… how?"

"The dawn," whispers Elizabeth.

Bryon sighs, and seems to not know what to do with himself. He looks around, at the floor. Elizabeth stays still… after a few moments her tears dry, leaving a faint red trail on each cheek. "Can I help somehow, maybe? I dunno what else to say." Bryon moves a little closer to her on the couch.

Elizabeth feels his movement, and squeezes his hand again, still held in hers. "You can… if you found out enough to help us against the anarchs?"

Bryon grits his teeth. "I told them what you wanted, what you said."

"And their answer, was clearly, no."

"They’re not going to give up. No."

"They have done too much for forgiveness, now," Elizabeth says. "Too much for amnesty. Too much even for banishment. They will be executed. Two have been already." Bryon nods. Elizabeth continues, "They could have ransomed their captives; they could have tried to use them to win their goals; that was not their desire, was it?"

"I don’t think they care that much. Casualties in the war."

"They were fooling you all along… using you, your idealism." Bryon looks at her as she speaks. "I know you, Bryon. This is not what you would choose. This… slaughter…."

Bryon is silent, staring at her a little. "No. It isn’t. But… there isn’t much of an alternative. The Gangrel want to live in the woods… I don’t want that." He paused. "I’m rambling. I can’t stop them."

"Do you prefer their war to our peace?" Elizabeth asks. Bryon looks up at the ceiling. She continues, "Is it the better alternative?"

"I could say the peace was tyranny and you could say the opposite. Discussion feels futile to me right now. And I say you’re right, so don’t bother. All I can do is try to understand. From one side or the other," Bryon sighs.

"Well, you are right. It is tyranny. The alternative is never-ending bloodshed… the choice is to be ruled, or to die. If one can continue to exist… one can find a space in that existence… goals, meaning… a sense of purpose."

"It’s fucking hard."

"Yes, it is very hard. The alternative is easy… mayhem… bloodshed… spray the streets with red, from kindred and kine alike," Elizabeth says darkly. "That is what these anarchs are doing. You can see that, you must. They are only spreading chaos. They wish freedom, and what do they do with it? Would you have all kindred so?"

"So what do you want me to do?" Bryon leans his head back against the wall. "That’s one of the things I’ve learned, you know, to like the color red."

Elizabeth hears this… thinks of the red rain, and the girl she saw in Bryon’s mind, the one whose name had echoed. "Yes. Who is she, the girl in your thoughts? Have you finally found a replacement for Aela?"

Bryon looks at her with one eye. "What the hell do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Bryon." Elizabeth focuses her will on him and scans his thoughts again, listening for the name. Bryon does not answer, just stares at her for a few seconds. Elizabeth hears the name she seeks, echoing, this time she grasps the sound. "I should say… you know who I mean. Cynthia… pretty name."

Bryon twitches. "I dunno, they had found her somewhere and she didn’t have anywhere to go." He looks away from Elizabeth. "Yeah. Cynthia."

Elizabeth strokes the exposed side of Bryon’s neck with her thumb as he looks away. She smiles slightly. "So you took the little lost anarch girl under your protection?"

Bryon wants to tell her to shut up. Cynthia. They’d made him embrace her… it was that or let her become Nosferatu. Pretty Cynthia, he couldn’t do that to her…. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Why does talking about her make you so hostile, darling?" Elizabeth can always pick up on such things in his voice, in his posture.

"You sound accusing. Aren’t you?" Bryon ’s eyes flit back to her.

"Accusing of what? Do you feel guilty for finally getting over that Aela, then?"

Bryon ’s eyes glaze a little, then he shakes his head sadly. "Getting over Aela, sure. ‘Finally’? It’s only been three months." Ah, Aela… first vampire lover… he would never ‘get over’ her. He promised himself that silently.

"Why do you feel guilty over Cynthia?"

"Never mind." Bryon sighs.

"You don’t want to discuss her. Very well — on one condition. I wish to meet her.
Bring her here tomorrow night."

Bryon stares with open wide eyes at the table before him. "What?"

"You heard me."

He runs a hand over his face. "All right."

Elizabeth smiles slightly, and leans over, kissing his cheek. "Thank you."

Bryon looks at her sideways, shivering a little. He puts his hands on his knees, thinking, looking confused but serious. Elizabeth watches him, looking into his thoughts one more time. What am I gonna tell her… Cynthia. He shakes his head. "All right, all right. Tomorrow?"

Elizabeth touches his chin, turning his face to look into his eyes. Bryon looks into her dark, deep eyes. "Yes, tomorrow," she tells him. He nods. She releases his chin, pulling her hands onto her lap, withdrawing from him slightly. "I’m losing you…. It had to happen. Why so soon, though…? Why…?"

Bryon bites his lip. She looks at him longingly as he speaks. "I…. You know I care about you. But don’t do that. You know that as well."

"Don’t do… what?"

"Try to make me sorry for you. Because of that. I am sorry. I don’t pity you, but I’m sorry for what’s happened."

"Someday, Bryon… someday… when you sire a Childe… then you’ll know." Elizabeth paused. "I don’t want your pity. Of course."

Bryon shakes his head. "I’m tired of these games." He felt the bond pulling at him, tugging him toward her. He resisted with an effort.

"I’m just… tired. I loved Gregory… for so, so very long. It’s still hard to understand that he is gone, forever… but he is. And you don’t much care. I see that." Elizabeth stands up, off the sofa and walks to the edge of the room, looking into one of the black-mantled mirrors. She stands there, the black gauze making her unable to see her reflection except in the dimmest way… staring into the mirror. She whispers, "you should probably leave, now."

Trying to tell if she can see him approaching in the mirror, Bryon stands and follows her. Elizabeth senses his approach, but doesn’t move.

Bryon puts his hand on her shoulder. She still doesn’t move. Bryon can feel her trembling slightly even though she is very still. "Maybe I wish I did care. Maybe… I wish things were like they used to be."

Elizabeth speaks in a very low voice, the effort to keep her voice even gives her a slight vibrato. "They can always be. No matter how far you go, you can always change your mind and come back to me. It…. The hope gives me something to cherish… now that I’m alone…."

Bryon squeezes her shoulder gently. He looks around at the black surrounding them. "Maybe I should go."

Elizabeth stays still, looking into the darkened mirror. "A lot of maybe’s."

Bryon imagines her for a moment smiling wickedly into the unreflective surface — the longing for her, the love he does not want to feel, is overwhelming. It is so hard to leave. So hard to take his hand from her shoulder and walk away. He sighs, turns around, and walks over to the door to pick up his jacket, still wet. Elizabeth turns to watch him go, looking impassive.

As he touches the doorknob, Bryon says, "I do miss you, you know." He opens the door and steps outside.

"I miss you too," she says as he shuts the door behind him. Elizabeth walks to her bedroom, closes the door, and lies down on the bed, face down. She folds her arms above her head and just lies there, a position that would suffocate a human, face buried in the pillow, but of course she does not have to breathe.

by Fred Ellis

Rarify my chance to be true
In this last breath I take of you
Pulling forth your barren breast
Towards my lips this damned test

Your body slipping from my hands
A final lover by you now stands
See the ended light of you
Now fallen gone and through

Another moment rises near and I do not betray
The secret of my lovers that died the other day
I hold you tight as the one before
I drain you dry and leave you sore

In death you leave this realm in peace
No longer do you care
Another night and one more love I send
With one more vacant stare.

by Brittany Adams

Alexis closed her eyes and laid her head back against the plush seat of her limo as the driver pulled away from her estate. Correction, Bishop Cadaver’s estate. She had just given him the deed to her house and the lands surrounding it as a reward for his years of service as her Templar. She knew that he would make proper use of all of the secrets contained within the mansion. He was Nosferatu and the most loyal of all those that had ever worked for her. She recalled the look in his eyes when she handed him all of the necessary papers and keys. The underlying significance of the act did not escape him. His protestations at her making this journey alone clouded her mind.

"Thisss one will be coming with you, Missstressss."
"Nay, my Shadow. You will be staying here."
"Thisss one will sssend otherssss to follow you."

"Then I will kill them. I must make this journey alone, my Brother. Know that you have never displeased me and that you are a valued member of this Sect. Our Brothers and Sisters would do well to take lessons from you. Your place is here and here you will remain."

She pushed the thoughts of her last conversation with Cadaver from her mind and with a small expenditure of her blood, she wrapped the shadows inside of the limo around her. Now was not the time to dwell upon sentimentalities and emotion. She let the quiet hum of the car engine to lull her into a light, meditative state. As she had done countless times in the recent past, Alexis opened her mind to receive her Inner Voice, the Voice that had guided her through many battles and plots against her enemies and the enemies of her Sect. A soft sigh escaped her as her questing mind was met with silence. She should not have been surprised at the silence, but a part of her had held out some hope that the Voice would be there.

She knew why she heard nothing, although she would never admit it out loud. She had failed one too many times. Failure was never an option for Contessa Alexis Narciano Dread. Until the past couple of years, she had always succeeded at everything she set out to do. She had rid herself of her mortal family and attained control of all of their businesses, amassing a great fortune in the process. She had led numerous War Parties in her native Italy and gained a lot of territory for the Sabbat. Her fellow vampires in the United States feared and respected her, as they should one who had attained the rank of Archbishop.

But now she was no longer an Archbishop. In a fit of insane anger, the Cardinal had stripped all Sabbat in her region of their titles, and then disappeared. Now, she was no longer a great leader of the Sabbat, and now she must atone for her alleged failure.

The car came to a stop at a private airport on the outskirts of the city and she slowly got out after the driver opened her door. She stood there for a moment as he got her luggage and took it to the plane that waited for her. She had an appointment to keep, and to be late to this particular meeting would bring about a slow, painful death.

Alexis held her long, black cloak around her as a stiff, cold wind blew through the night and she walked toward the plane. She spoke to no one as she glided across the blacktop, resembling the shadows she commands with the ease and skill of one who has seen what feels like an eternity of nights. She boarded the plane and after a few whispered instructions to her personal servant waiting there, she removed her cloak and took a seat. She stared out the window in silence as the plane began its ascent into the midnight sky, and her mind raced with plans and strategies for her upcoming meeting. She sat in the same position until she saw the eastern sky lightening, then moved to a specially prepared room on the plane and fell into a deep, restless sleep.

The plane touched down in Madrid at around 9pm the next night. Alexis was very careful in her preparations for her meeting, meticulously planning everything she would say and do, even what to wear. She sat before the mirror on her vanity as the maid did her hair and makeup, appearing to be totally unaffected by her lack of reflection. She rose from the table to dress, and her eyes fell upon her weapons which laid on the bed next to her gown. She had been ordered not to wear any weapons to this meeting, and she would not refuse the order. She touched the platinum and onyx scarab brooch on the table and a slight smile flickered across her crimson-painted lips. She hadn’t made it this far in her unlife by being stupid. His Excellency had said nothing about decorative "ornaments".

Two hours later, she emerged from the plane, dressed in a conservative, high-necked and long-sleeved black gown with her brooch pinned to it above her heart and her black cloak. She pulled the hood up to protect her hair from the wind as she walked down the stairs with her maid following her. She was met at the bottom of the stairs by two men wearing dark suits. They each grabbed one of her arms, and Alexis frowned slightly under her hood, thinking that Archbishop Moncada was sparing no expense to ensure her arrival at this meeting.

The men escorted Alexis, her maid following behind, to a waiting Rolls Royce out in the parking lot. She sat uncomfortably between the two men in the back seat, bristling at the feel of their guns pressing through their jackets and into her sides. She maintained her composure with cool emotionlessness, not speaking as the car made its way through the city that was a major seat of power within the Sabbat. She had made this journey a few times before since being inducted into the Les Amies Noir to sit as judge upon the infamous blood courts. However, this trip was to be very different, and unlike the past ones, she did not look forward to it.

The car stopped in front of a palatial mansion on the edge of Madrid, and once again, Alexis’ guards took up their positions on each side of her and held her arms as they escorted her up to the house. She was ushered into a large office as her maid was taken to what would be Alexis’ suite during her brief stay. Seated behind the desk was an imposing and obviously powerful figure; Archbishop Moncada.

The Archbishop rose at her entrance and stepped around his desk. He bowed, then took her hand and kissed it. "It’s a pleasure to see you again, Contessa. I regret that it must be under such unfortunate circumstances."

Alexis nodded respectfully, her back stiffening at the inference to her reason for being here. "I wish I could return the sentiment in kind, Your Excellency."

Moncada looked at her for a moment, then nodded before returning to his desk chair. "Understood, M’lady. I’ll do all that I can to make this go as swiftly as possible." He noticed the slight tensing of her muscles and looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. "You and I have had many talks right here in this office, Alexis. I ask you now, just between you and me, are these allegations true?"

Alexis squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye, replying without hesitation. "No, Your Excellency, they are not."

The Archbishop steepled his fingers in front of him and tapped them against his chin as he met her gaze and considered her answer. "Very well. Your tribunal starts tomorrow night."

by Jason Yates

Pale mountains shifted in the darkness in a quiet earthquake, water rippled around her as she rose. Her flesh was luminous in the odd light, seeming to glow from within, but on closer inspection, it was more likely because of an odd fungus that grew on it, making the surface of her skin appear greasy and vaguely cheese-like. The stench was amazing, the stench of the sewer, that luminous fungus, of whatever horror that nestled and grew in her prodigious folds, in her gently shifting waves of fat.

She brought her thick hand to her face, touching it softly with nails the color of black and green marble. Her hair hung in greasy tufts from her head, it hung over her face like black straw, shielding her features, drifting across her face as if to hide her one beauty, her strange lavender eyes, that glowed from the rolls of noxious meat that formedher face. Those eyes spoke of a woman that was beautiful once, a kind woman perhaps, a good woman. Her hand traced the lines of her face until they came to her thin, liver colored lips, and they parted, revealing three teeth, and only three teeth, long, needlelike, two on the top, one dead center in the bottom.

"Maiandra," he whispered.

Her eyes didn’t shift his way as she absently sluiced the filth from her flesh, for a vague moment ashamed of her ugliness, but she was Nosferatu, and she knew, her ugliness was her shield, and her shield was strong. 

"What?" She asked, moving slowly across the chamber she nested in to the small collection of personal objects she kept on the ledge. She picked the silver mirror up, even older than her, and peered into it, absorbing the odd joy her hideous smile gave her.

"Custus wants to see you," the boy said. She would always call him ‘boy’ though he was the better part of a century old. "He misses you."

"You keep coming, Chibam, and you keep asking, and I keep saying no. Why?"

The child-thing smiled, his emaciated hand slowly caressing the centipede that crawled over his pale, narrow chest. It was huge, over two feet long, its hard black segmented carapace glittered like a string of ebony pearls, its many feet like tiny blood red spikes as they undulated over his skin. It sank its mandibles into Chibam’s shoulder and began to draw sustenance. It was his, and its poison could kill a large man in seconds. "He asks. I do as he says."

"And why won’t he come?" She turned to look at him, and he looked into her lavender eyes with pleasure. He realized they were the first beautiful things he’d seen in over a month. Their world was steeped in ugliness, that was how it should be. His oddly huge, hairless head tilted slightly on his terribly thin neck, and he smiled his many toothed smile at her.

"You said you didn’t want to see him. He honors that request. But he hopes you’ll change your mind, of course. Love amongst the uglies is a rare thing, sweetie. You should treasure it."

She looked away, looking again into the mirror. "No, Chibam. Don’t come here to ask me that question again."

He nodded. He would never understand her anger. Custus had given her a great gift. She had fallen in love with his illusion, the false face he wore to please those around him, and when she discovered his horrible truth, she wanted to flee, but he gave her the gift anyway. He embraced her, taking away her beauty but pledging to love her anyway, as she would learn to love him.

But she did love him, and that was the pain. They had been apart these decades, one loving the other, but unwilling to show it. She would not forgive him. She no longer hated him, she no longer lamented her lost beauty, but he had condemned her to an eternity of this ugliness, and she would condemn him to an eternity without her. It was a small punishment, but one at least she could enforce.

Chibam shuffled away, extricating the centipede’s mandibles from his flesh and moving it around his waist, like a belt. It dug in with its sharp feet, burrowing into the cool dampness of his dead flesh.

She watched him go and smiled. It would be time to feed soon, she must do so before Custus left the sewers, so that they couldn’t meet by chance. She would not allow him to see her, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the city, to leave his presence, because of that useless amputated love.

She dropped the mirror in the water, perhaps to find it later, perhaps not. She did this often, but always ended up scrabbling for it on her hands and knees later. It was the mirror he had used to reveal her new face, as her flesh bloated and her teeth fell from her mouth. "You’ll get used to it," he said. "You’ll come to love it."

She didn’t believe him, she didn’t accept it. Of course, he was right, she did learn to enjoy it as he did, with that odd lust for the grotesque, that freakish need to shock and horrify. She liked it more than the false airs of life, of the tight corsets, the high collars, the stiff rules and silly manners. Those things were gone now, she was simply who she was, but she had made a vow and she would keep it. He would not touch her again, he would not see her again, he would never again peer into the eyes he had valued so much.

She moved from her chamber, her bulk now lost to human sight, and drifted down the pathways of darkness with only her glowing skin to light her way.

by MillieCat

I remember running through the trees, trying to keep up with the sparrows. My mother laughed and smiled in the shade of the mountain. They said the animals loved me, but especially the sparrows. Such delightful creatures they are, so happy and carefree. I seemed that way, to the others at least. I did not let the tribe see me at the other times, running off to the caves to plan and brood about being more, doing more. Our lives are good, mostly. But yet, sometimes there is cold, sickness, and hunger even in this wonderful area. I cry with the howling of the wolves, and the sparrows stop their singing when I do.

I come down from the mountain, my young form shaking from the fifteen days that I had spent up there without food, and with very little water: Another cleansing, which I had through the years managed to pass off as getting in touch with my spirit totem. As I descend to the valley, I smell smoke. "Another summer forest fire," I think unconcernedly to myself. Then, I see the source.

"No!!!" I scream, and the forest silences. My village is burned to the ground, blackened in a circle that no natural occurrence could possibly have done. The air is thick with the foul, putrid stench of burned flesh. Dry heaves from my empty stomach force me to my knees. I look up, eyes watering, and vow vengeance, removing my clothing and covering myself with the ash of my village and friends. All hunger and thirst forgotten, I use my skills to find the direction of the enemy’s retreat, and follow.

The trail leads up a crest of a mountain that I visit less often. I arrive at the mouth of a cave that I had visited twice before. Even my fury and rage can not keep me from collapsing just inside its mouth. I fade with the last hint of day.

"Ah, Little Sparrow, it seems you were spared." It is the most soothing voice that I have ever heard, coming from within the cave. "Fret not, I have… taken care of some of the fiends that did this to your tribe. They were starving savages, but tried to make it look like the white man did the ravaging.

"How do I know it was not you who did this?" I say with hate of anything with the gall to outlive my tribe. Long past reason I am, as I squint at the shadowy form in the cave.

"Come now, do I sound like someone who would do that?" he queries with ultimate suave, and just a hint of goading.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, not really caring in my delirium.

"I have lived here for a very, very long time, and I have watched you much. I, too, sing with the animals." With that, he begins to whistle a tune that is almost indiscernible from an actual sparrow’s song. Soon enough, sparrows appear, and sing with him. My rage turns to awe as my eyes close. I am swept away by the singing. In moments, with the sparrows still lulling me, he speaks again. "You are near death. As you are now, you cannot fulfill your vow. You will die, Little Sparrow, with no retribution to those that caused this. I can give you a gift that will enable you to continue for as long as you are careful. But, the gift comes with a price."

"I will pay any price," I whisper, my consciousness and life slipping away. He steps out of the shadow of the cave into the full moon light. Even in my waning state, I manage a gasp. He is hideous, a monster beyond monsters. How could such a voice and song come from so a vile beast? "Will I be able to summon the sparrows, too?" I utter with resolve not to go into heaving fits, yet again.

He smiles a terrifying parody of a smile. "Yes, Little Sparrow, that and more for a very, very long time."

Afterward:
So long ago that was, when the white man first started to come to this land. The white man, heh, not really that many around here, sometimes. Quite amusing, actually. I remember my journey to Oklahoma, when they moved all of the so-called "Red Faces" there. Such a tragedy they are, always drunk and out of touch with their totems. Even this city has more spirit force. That, and there are not as many of those damned Lupines that hate me just for being what I am. And, this city with all of its underground havens and vitae supply tends to grow on you after about seventy years or so. And my true tribe is here. My tribe of the cursed, and I am its chief. And rats are almost as friendly as sparrows…

by Lars

Dealing with the dead has always been viewed as morbid and immoral by the masses. Their own fear of death fills them with loathing of the bodies of those they once loved, and often of their souls as well. The few individuals who has cast that yoke off their shoulders, and have no reservations about confronting death on its own terms, are ostracized from society and labeled sick or worse.

Among vampires, the practice of Necromancy is abhorred almost as badly as by mortals. Though physically dead themselves, very few are willing to take advantage of their unique situation to probe the mysteries of the death that they avoided when they became immortal. Perhaps confronting the spirits of the departed reminds them that they are not as immortal as they think.

The vampiric arts of the dead were first explored by the antediluvian Ashur, who taught his childer the secrets he learned. Their lore was mainly concerned with the physical aspects of death, which was quite natural, considering that they themselves were walking corpses. But when a man named Augustus Giovanni was embraced into the clan, many things changed. The Giovanni were more interested in the souls of the deceased, and quickly became masters at summoning and interacting with the restless dead.

Lately, a number of bloodlines have developed who are skilled in Necromancy. One of these, the Samedi, are rumored to have been taught by the Giovanni, but the rest are supposed to have come from within the Sabbat. Some think that the Sabbat include several Cappadocian elders, who have instructed these bloodlines in the arts of death, others think that the Sabbat have developed their Necromantic skills themselves.

Necromancers
The primary practitioners of Necromancy are the Giovanni clan, along with the Samedi, Kiasyd, and Nagarajah bloodlines, and many sinister vampires outside these groups seek the secrets after death.

The study of Necromancy was in fact the primary reason the Giovanni founder was embraced. Their manipulation with lost souls has helped them scrape together much of the power they possess, along with their wealth. Despite the Giovanni being the original creators of the Discipline, they rarely see the aesthetic or scholarly side of it, instead using it to further their own political goals.

The Samedi are often used as particularly horrifying assassins because of their mastery of Necromancy. With Obfuscate and Thanatosis they can reach their target and do the required damage, and following the actual murder, either torment or enslave his spirit. This fact, coupled with their macabre appearance, make them even more reviled and feared than the Giovanni. They see Necromancy in a more philosophical light than the Giovanni, and it is considered a sign of age and wisdom to study it.

The mysterious Kiasyd use Necromancy almost unknowingly, being more in tune with the spirit worlds than most other vampires. Speaking with the dead is natural and droll for these enigmatic beings. For the cannibalistic Nagarajah, Necromancy is the cornerstone of their existence, as both Enoch and Oblivion with all its mystery lie beyond the Shroud separating the quick and the dead. The Ash path is often studied as a Nagarajah’s primary path instead of the Sepulchre path, as this, more than the other paths put together, holds the key to the Underworld.

Body Preservation, level 1
When cast over a fresh corpse, less than 24 hours dead, this ritual stops decay and putrefaction for a year and a day, after which normal decomposition sets in. One of the components is two blood points of vampiric blood, normally the caster’s own, poured into the corpse’s mouth. The ritual takes half an hour to complete.

Sepulchral Beacon, level 2
This ritual allows the caster to sense the last place the Shroud has been breached within his vicinity. It reaches about 500 meters, and will reveal someone’s death or the use of Arcanoi or Necromancy Paths, as well as any other effect that may have disturbed the barrier between living and dead. Once located, to the necromancer the location of the breach glows with the black light of Oblivion. The more time has passed since the event, the weaker the light glows, indicating the approximate hour. The ritual takes about an hour to perform, and requires the caster to inhale bone dust into his withered lungs. This ritual can be performed in both the Shadowlands and Skinlands.

Warping the Morbid Visage, level 3
The Necromancer invoking this ritual is able to change a corpse’s facial features to correspond with that of his own. The caster has to remove the body’s tongue, and keep it on his person for as long as he wants the ritual to be in effect. Following the invocation, after letting his hand glide over its features and closing its eyes, the face of the corpse warps to mimic the face of the Necromancer. The process of invocation takes fifteen minutes.

Any change to the caster’s face while the ritual is in effect will affect the corpse also. Samedi sometimes use this ritual to hide the identity of their victims, as well as a gruesome calling card.

Strength of Rotten Flesh, level 4
Favored by the Giovanni, this grisly ritual increases the power of the Necromancer’s undead servants. Preparation for the ritual, which usually takes around three hours, requires the caster to remove the skeleton from an initially living human. The flesh and tissue must be burned within a circle made from the bones, as the right incantations are uttered over the funeral pyre. The rite itself takes an additional hour, and can only be performed in the Necromancer’s haven (somewhere he has slept at least three days in a row).

All zombies created by the Necromancer temporarily gain a point of Potence and two points of Fortitude. The duration of the effect depends on the number of successes gained on a roll of Manipulation + Thanatology (difficulty 7) during preparation. The ritual lasts one week per success.

by Millicat

The blood of lover’s
never was so sweet
As that which flows from thine immortal kiss.
What innocence and passion we deplete!
From sacrificial lambs we carve our bliss.

We slash through bodies and morality
Feeding that which never can be sated.
We hunger for our long lost chastity
So long ago, new at love, elated.

I offer you this rose, this girl, this boy
Plucked in perfection moments before bloom,
A Valentine of centuries lost joy,
A moment of discovery and doom.

I give what I desire: first love’s breath.
I give you all I am. I give you death..