#vtmb in real life

[thebaronofvenicebeach]

"I could just do it. Just walk out of here and into a legend. Maybe I live, maybe I don't. What's the difference? Die young, live forever..."

[automaticdestinytrash]

Bought this from work.

[ship-garbage-pile]

I feel my favorite moment in VTMB is that of the sudden-chance reunion with Samantha. Their is just so much to chew on from a narrative standpoint, we as the player have been so embroiled in the politics of the clans, doing dirty work and trying to survive. We are so stuck in our own heads about how it is we should proceed, "who should i place my trust in? Will i be able to survive?" Ultimately we become a survivor, and as we rush to do a new job we get greeted by..

Someone we never seen before, someone so distinct! no one else looks like her. Yet the moment she speaks and expresses her worry over you, we instantly understand that they are a friend of ours. Not just anyone, but a close friend with how worried she is; she seems so desperate to search for the PC even searching around the dangerous streets of Hollywood for us. How long has she been looking? how long will she 'keep' looking?

it's just a sombering encounter, and a real test of how the player treats their connection to their former life. Personally for my Ventrue, he erased the encounter from her mind. He could never hurt her, he would hope that she stops looking. But then again, a selfish part of him is happy they care so much.

[essie-essex]

Asha's Embrace, part 2

Continuing from last time, we now revisit the opening of VTMB as experienced by Asha.

I kept some lines the same and changed/skipped others. Sorry if there are any weird transitions or typos. I got tired of looking at this.

Asha had never flown in a private jet before. It must have been expensive for Strauss to charter, but he was adamant that they return to Los Angeles that very night. She could not quite believe everything that had happened. She was supposed to be home now, relaxing in the bath with a glass of wine and some music. She felt that her current situation was an improvement. A sort of light in the darkness. When before she could find excitement in nothing, she now had the mystery of this new existence, this whole new life, to keep her looking forward to the future. Vampires and magic. She was going to get to learn how to do magic! Not just the subtle, invisible witchcraft she had studied in the past, but actual sorcery, like in a fantasy novel. It was real. What else could be real? Werewolves? Fairies?? Unicorns???

She imagined what this revelation would be to a skeptic, someone who truly was not open to the possibility of the existence of the supernatural. Strauss had told her that it was important to keep an open mind and to be prepared for a complete transformation of her world view. Others in the past who could not do this had a hard time adapting. Asha realized that she was not very good at many things, but this one particular aspect, her interest in the supernatural, would be helpful. Actually helpful.

Strauss, seated across from her, cleared his throat, nodding toward the front of the cabin where Stefan rested.

“Right,” said Asha, rising and stepping out into the aisle. Strauss had gone over some of the basics with her about Clan Tremere, the Camarilla, and the Masquerade, but then sent her over to speak with Stefan as the Regent—another new term—retrieved a small journal from his pocket into which he was now scribbling nonstop.

“So... Stefan.” Asha plopped down on the seat across from Strauss's assistant, folding one of her legs underneath her while leaving the other hanging. Stefan, who had been silently gazing out the window, turned to her after a few seconds' hesitation.

“Yes?” he answered politely.

“How's it going?” Asha realized that she had no idea what she was supposed to talk about with him. She tried to think of questions to ask about vampires or Clan Tremere. However, as she made eye contact with Stefan, he blinked, his face betraying his annoyance before returning to its neutral expressionless state of formality.

“I am fine,” he said, a slight chill to his voice.

Asha smiled, attempting to warm the cooling atmosphere between the two of them. She had not really spoken to him since he had first driven her to the hotel, and even then, she was far too out of it to say much. Had he used some sort of power on her that she could learn, too? She wanted to ask, but Stefan did not seem that engaged with their conversation. Instead, she said the first thing that came to mind as she tried to fill the silence.

“So, we're vampires...” Asha remarked, trailing off before her mouth could blurt out any more inane comments.

Why don't you just tell him we're on a plane while you're at it?

“We prefer the term 'Kindred,'” Stefan told her, thankfully ignoring the absolute pointlessness of her statement.

“Right, Kindred,” Asha said, correcting herself. Strauss had also mentioned this, but, of course, she had forgotten already. “So, how long have you been a, um, Kindred?”

Stefan sighed, to Asha's surprise. He actually consciously inhaled and then exhaled. That had to mean something, didn't it? Maybe that expression she had seen on his face was more than just simple annoyance.

“It doesn't matter,” he replied.

“It doesn't?” Asha asked. “I mean, I assumed it would matter at least somewhat to you all, considering no one's dying of old age. There must be some pretty ancient Kindred, right? Is there more prestige as you get older?” She willed herself to stop talking. He clearly was not in the mood for a conversation.

“Yes.”

“So, it does matter.”

“Not for me,” Stefan snapped, now glaring at her. Hostility tinged his voice. “Please, I want to be left alone.”

“Okay,” Asha said, raising her hands in the air. She felt her face grow warm. She didn't even know it could do that anymore. Rising from her seat, she turned back to where Strauss was sitting. The Regent was now eyeing Stefan, giving him a stern look. However, the gesture was lost, as Stefan was not facing him. Had she said something wrong?

You said everything wrong. This is why you shouldn't talk so much.

Right. She had said everything wrong.

Spinning her lip ring with her tongue, Asha returned to her seat across from Strauss, who proceeded to thumb through the journal on his lap.

Stupid. Stupid, she told herself. She hadn't meant to annoy Stefan, but it was precisely what she had done. She should have thought of something to say before approaching him. Her own thoughts of her inadequacy led her back to a question that had run through her mind many times since her embrace.

Why choose her?

She couldn't build up the courage to ask Strauss. When would he realize that he had made a mistake? Did he know what she had planned to do that night?

As usual, her thoughts brought on nothing but misery, and Asha chose to occupy her time by staring out the window, doing her best to keep her doubts at bay. The rest of the ride commenced in silence between the three of them.

They now drove through the streets of Los Angeles, Asha's eyes fixed on the sights of the unfamiliar city as they passed by. The lights and novel scenery of the West Coast city stoked her sense of wonder while quashing her insecurities for the time being. Stefan drove while Asha and the Regent rode in the backseat. Although they were silent, as Asha pivoted her head to observe them, she could not help but feel as though Strauss and his assistant were having some sort of conversation. One without words spoken aloud. Her backseat companion's eyes stayed fixed on Stefan.

Asha watched them for a while before turning to gaze upon the nighttime city outside. She did not share her companions' gloom, but instead viewed the lights in the darkness with awe. She had never been to LA, as it sat on the opposite end of the country from where she lived.

She was not a spontaneous or adventurous person. She had always wanted to be one, but she wasn't. Whenever she went someplace new and far away, she had to do a reality check to make sure that she was not just dreaming. She tried to make the car fly and attempted to turn off the street lights with her mind, but the vehicle stayed on the highway, and the highway stayed lit. It was all real.

“Asha,” Strauss said, gaining her attention. “We will soon arrive at Venture Tower, where I will introduce you to the Prince, but I must warn you...” he paused. “Your embrace was unconventional, and there may be consequences for this. If I can help it, you will not be punished for this violation of the rules. However, it would be best if you allow me to speak for you, and should my words deviate from what you know to be the truth, I ask that you do not contradict them.”

For the first time since they had arrived in Los Angeles, fear crept back into Asha's heart.

“What do you mean 'punished?'” she asked. “Were you not supposed to... make me a vampire?”

“I had the permission of our clan leaders,” Strauss explained. “However, I did not seek the permission of the Prince.”

“You mean, you didn't tell him intentionally?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Time was very short,” he admitted. “And I could not risk him delaying his answer or rejecting my request.”

“So, you did this all short notice? I don't—”

“Yes,” Strauss said, cutting her off. Although she wasn't sure, Asha thought she could detect a hint of shame in his reply. She paused, building up the strength to ask her next question.

“Why go through all this just to embrace me?” Asha finally said, the words cascading nearly all at once from her mouth. “You went all the way across the country just for me. I don't understand.”

Strauss sat in silence for a while before answering.

“We will speak of that later, Childe.”

The lobby of Venture Tower had the open emptiness typical of a corporate building. As the trio approached the front desk, their footsteps echoed on the marble floor, bouncing off the reflective walls and the few pieces of hard, polished furniture, along with a dry frigidity emanating through the sterile environment that could only be achieved through the excessive use of air conditioning.

An old man, emaciated enough to look as though he was one strong breeze away from keeling over and shattering on the floor, sat behind the front desk, hunched over a worn, paperback novel. Upon noticing the new visitors, he slipped what looked to be a rumpled receipt into the book and closed it, setting it to the side. He then reached a shaky hand to his face, removing his thick reading glasses and reducing his facial proportions from those of a cartoon character to something resembling that of a real-life human being.

“Welcome to Venture Tower,” he said in a raspy voice, breathing with some difficulty. “How can I help you?”

“We are here to see Mr. LaCroix,” Strauss said, leaning in close to the man, who had already tilted an ear toward him.

“Do you have an appointment?” the old man wheezed.

“We do not,” Strauss admitted. “But I believe he will make time to see us. Please tell him that Strauss is here to speak with him.”

“Well, okay,” replied the old man. He picked up a phone receiver and pushed a button on the desk, clearing his throat loudly before speaking. “Mr. LaCroix?” He continued to speak after a short pause. “Yeah, there's a Mr. Strauss here to see you, along with another young man and woman.” Another pause. “Okay, I'll let him know.” The man hung up the receiver, waving his hand towards the elevators behind him. “Mr. LaCroix will see you.”

“Thank you,” Strauss said politely.

“Yeah, yeah...” the old man answered, already turning to retrieve his reading glasses from the desk.

Strauss, Stefan, and Asha made their way to the elevator, which arrived promptly, and stepped inside. Their journey to the top commenced in silence. There was nothing wrong at the moment, but Asha's anxiety seemed to increase with the number of stories they climbed. She hoped Strauss wouldn't get into any trouble, especially over her. She truly had no idea why Strauss chose her to be a part of the clan. She had studied some magic, ritual magic mostly, the kind used by Wiccans and mainstream witches, but she doubted that vampire blood sorcery, or Thaumaturgy, as Strauss called it—although she knew that word as something a bit different—was anything like the low magic used in witchcraft. She knew a little about ceremonial magic, but nothing that made her stand out. Plus, as it was with most of her hobbies, Asha had lost interest in it, so she never practiced enough to become good at it. She was prone to melancholy, so her interests came and went, and her motivation waxed and waned. She never stuck with anything long enough to truly master it.

So, why did Strauss go through all the trouble of embracing her? Was there some sort of spiritual reason? Was it a genetic thing? A blood thing? Asha doubted it.

She found herself worrying that she would have to justify her usefulness to this Prince. If she did, she wouldn't be able to. What would she be able to say? Really, she could not say anything positive about herself to save her life. Most of the time, she was useless. Everything she had tried to do she had failed, and it had left her an empty husk of a person. Sometimes, she felt that she was broken and needed to be thrown away with the garbage, that her own birth was some sort of mistake, and now Strauss had given her a new life, just when she was about to end her old one. Did she really believe that anything would change? What if she tried to learn magic and couldn't do it? Was it possible to be bad at being a vampire, too?

Fuck, I'm spiraling, she thought to herself, as she was now nearly on the verge of tears.

Attempting to relax her muscles, she let her negative thoughts flow out of her, leaving her mind blank. She would have tried to breathe, but she felt strange doing it in front of Strauss and Stefan and refocused her thoughts instead. She would be fine. Everything would be fine.

She gazed at the floor numbers as the elevator continued to rise toward the top story. She was on her way to meet a Prince. Strauss had explained that he was not a real Prince, but he was the boss of the Camarilla in LA. What would he look like? Would he be young? Old? She reminded herself that no matter how young or old he looked, it would not reflect his true age. She considered asking Strauss, but the elevator finally slowed as they reached the penthouse. The doors opened with a ding, and they stepped out into the grandest room Asha had ever seen.

She had expected the penthouse to look just as empty and corporate as the lobby, but she had been mistaken. The area leading to the Prince's office portrayed elegance and luxury. The circular room supported an elegant dome that reached into the sky, decorative ornamentation adorning its cupola, under which a sculpted frieze reached out to serve as its base. A double set of staircases curved up to a second floor balcony that encircled the entire area, supported by a series of columns, lined by a gold and white balustrade, and its edges decorated with a seashell pattern. Thin, tall windows occupied the second level, and the brown and beige checkered marble floor lay in contrast to the light cream damask wallpaper. Topping it all off was the giant crystal chandelier that lit the room in a warm amber light. Asha would have described it as breathtaking if she were able to breathe.

They climbed the stairs, approaching a double set of doors.

“Wait here,” Strauss told her, motioning to a nearby bench.

Asha sat down on the bench while Strauss entered the next room, followed by Stefan who closed the doors behind them.

As Asha waited for her companions to return—or to be called into the office herself—she occupied her time first by studying the large chandelier glimmering above. However, she soon grew bored of this and absentmindedly eyed the rest of the decor, fidgeting in her seat and tapping her foot. She wanted to look outside the window to see the view of the city from the top of the skyscraper, but, as she peeked through the narrow frame, she found that the entrance hall was much too bright for her to view the blackened world outside. She caught glimpses of lights and shapes, but the city skyline in full was hidden from her. She plopped back down on the bench, hoping Strauss wouldn't be too much longer.

Soon after, the silence was broken by the sound of raised voices. Asha leaned closer to the door, hoping to catch part of the conversation, but she could barely hear the voices, much less make out what they were saying. She stood, approaching one of the doors and pressing her ear to the smooth, cold surface. Someone was definitely yelling.

The muffled raised voice was complemented during its pauses by a lower, more calm voice. She imagined that the latter was Strauss, although she truly did not know how many people were in the room. She assumed just three: the Prince, Strauss, and Stefan. Asha couldn't imagine any reason for Stefan to yell, so the loudest voice probably belonged to the Prince. LaCroix was his name. It seemed appropriate for someone who would become a Camarilla Prince one day—or one night.

The Prince was clearly not happy. She imagined Strauss, in his crimson ensemble, attempting to assuage the Prince in his calm and collected manner, LaCroix yelling and gesturing wildly, his face red, as the Regent stood his ground. Was it really that bad to create a vampire without the Prince's approval?

Asha's thoughts were interrupted by a muffled scream, which was suddenly cut off, and then the sound of heavy footsteps heading toward the door. She quickly backed away, moving to sit back on the bench. Less than a second before she managed to do so, the door swung open. The only sounds she managed to register were the raised voices of both the Prince and Strauss before the sight of the largest man she had ever seen drowned out all of her other senses. Although she did not get a good look at him, she noted his skin, which was a desaturated dark brown that almost looked gray, and, most stunningly, his bright red eyes. She barely had time to react before he propelled an object toward her so quickly that she never even saw what it was until the stake had pierced her straight through the chest.

Asha fell to the ground, stunned, her head ringing as it smacked against the polished floor. She wanted to cry out in pain and shock but found that she could not. She could not say anything. She couldn't move at all. With her eyelids half closed, she could only see shadows as the giant man picked her up from the ground and hoisted her over his shoulder, and as he made his way down the stairs, Asha couldn't help but try to scream. She tried over and over again, but nothing came out.

Time passed by as confusing, dizzying shapes in her vision finally gave way to darkness. The large man had taken her somewhere—she guessed the basement or a storage room—and all but stuffed her into a box. A numbness had come over her after she had been paralyzed, so while her head no longer hurt, the fear that overtook her seemed to eat her from the inside out. She heard more footsteps and a thud close by and possibly the closing of another box. Had the giant brought someone else in here with her?

Her thoughts pivoted to Strauss. What would they do to him? If they had done this to her when she hadn't even done anything wrong, then what would happen with her sire?

She considered that maybe this was some sort of solitary confinement. Maybe she would have to stay here until she served her sentence, whatever that was. She hoped not. Not being able to move was agonizing. She tried to focus on other things that weren't her body or the uncomfortable position she had been thrown into. For the first time since she had met Strauss that night, she found herself wishing that she had made it home and had gone through with her special last night on Earth. She hadn't asked for any of this. She didn't want any of it.

She would have cried, but a sudden tiredness overcame her, silencing her thoughts as she fell into the dark void of sleep.

Asha awoke to darkness. It only took a few seconds for her to remember where she was and why, and she found herself wishing she could go back to sleep. However, another feeling also accompanied her. It wasn't entirely unfamiliar, as she had felt it the night before, but now, it was much stronger. She was hungry.

The hunger made her more fidgety than ever, but she still could not move. She tried to focus her thoughts on something else, but found that she was already tired of worrying, and the excitement she had felt before the Prince had ordered her shoved into this box was now replaced by even more worry. What if they did something to Strauss? He would never be able to answer her questions. She wanted to see him more than ever. She felt secure when he was near, even when nothing made any sense to her.

Suddenly, light flooded her vision, and she felt a pair of strong arms lift her from the container. She let her mind go blank. Wherever she was going, she would find out soon enough.

As Asha became aware of her surroundings, she could only stare like a frightened doe as she was placed in a kneeling position, the wooden stake yanked from her heart, leaving a gaping hole in its absence. The sudden emergence of an injury that should have killed her nearly distracted Asha from her surroundings. However, a series of bright lights suddenly blazed above her, calling her attention. She was on a stage, and before her sat an audience.

Standing at the front of the stage was a Kindred that Asha could only assume was the Prince. The man in the expensive-looking gray suit paced in front of her, gesturing out to the group of onlookers as he began his speech.

“Good evening, my fellow Kindred,” he started. “Apologies for disrupting any business or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening. It's unfortunate that the affair that gathers us together tonight is a troubling one. We are here because the laws that bind our society, the laws that are the fabric of our existence have been broken.”

Yeah, this guy was definitely the Prince. He had an air of authority about him, his blond hair neatly cut and styled, and his accent reminiscent of rich people in old black and white movies. He was both old-fashioned and modern at the same time. She imagined that he would be very skilled at capturing the audience's attention as he spoke.

As Asha looked out among the crowd, the lights onstage made the audience difficult to see, and it seemed almost impossible to pick out one person among the several who now watched intently as she knelt before them. However, as her eyes adjusted, she found that she could see a few in the front rows. Their facial expressions varied from serious to concerned to completely disinterested. She did not recognize any of them—not that she thought she would. She squinted, trying to scan the audience for Strauss, but his face did not appear among those in the group of strangers.

Where was he?

A man stood behind her, his hand firmly gripping her shoulder, while another stood to her right, obscuring something that she quickly realized was not an object but another person. It did not look to be Strauss, but she could not see them, as her view was obstructed by the nameless Kindred between them.

“As Prince,” LaCroix continued. “I am within my rights to grant or deny the Kindred of this city the privilege of siring. Many of you have come to me seeking permission, and I have endorsed some of these requests. However, the accused that sits before you tonight was not refused permission. Indeed, my permission was never sought at all.” The Prince's tone, polite up until then, transformed from a practiced neutrality to clearly irate.

So, she was right. This was the Prince. Although he did not look like royalty, he did look like the kind of man who would own his own skyscraper.

The Giant from before, the large man with red eyes, stood to Asha's right. She could barely see him unless she turned her head, but his presence was not easy to miss. She was attempting to move her shoulders to study him more when the Kindred to the right that had been blocking her view of the other prisoner next to her finally changed places, stepping back toward the curtain.

Asha found herself staring dumbly at Stefan, who knelt at her side, his head bowed and his face grim. She sat stunned, barely moving as the Prince presented her to the audience.

“They were caught shortly after the embrace of this Childe,” LaCroix continued.

Asha felt her mouth drop open. Suddenly, Stefan's words as they traveled to the city made much more sense. But why would he take the blame for something he didn't do? Did Strauss force him to do it?

The horror she felt at the thought of her sire forcing his own assistant to be punished for a crime he didn't commit was unthinkable.

“It is for the clan.” Asha heard the words form in her head in Stefan's voice. She turned her head to see Stefan peeking at her out of the corner of his eye. “When the Regent trusted me enough to tell me of his plan, I suspected it would come to this. Strauss thought that he had enough influence to stay LaCroix's hand. That the Prince would allow him to discipline his own apprentice, but I think I'm a bit more of a realist than he is. If Strauss had admitted to siring you, LaCroix would destroy him, if not in body, then in reputation. He would lose a good amount of respect and authority. The best outcome would be that the Prince would blackmail him, but even that is not preferable.”

What will happen to you? Asha thought, hoping Stefan would hear her. He did not answer.

“It pains me to announce the sentence,” LaCroix's voice rang through the theater. “As up to tonight, I considered the accused a loyal and upstanding member of our organization, but as some of you may know, the penalty for this transgression is death.”

Asha let out a strangled moan, her voice catching in her throat. She wanted to protest. This wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. Stefan didn't do anything wrong. The hand on her shoulder tightened, holding her back.

“Quiet,” Stefan said, still inside her head. “This is the story the Prince was told. Do as you were asked. You must not contradict it.”

Asha thought back to Strauss's words in the car before they entered Venture Tower.

“Should my words deviate from what you know to be the truth, I ask that you do not contradict them.”

But this was going too far. He didn't expect her to just let them kill Stefan, did he?

“Silence,” Stefan repeated. “Look apologetic. You will come next after me.”

Asha felt a lump form in her throat, her head growing light. Would they kill her?

She watched as the Prince stepped closer to Stefan.

“Know that I am no more a judicator than I am a servant to the law that governs us all. Let tonight's proceedings serve as a reminder to our community that we must adhere to the code that binds our society, lest we endanger all of our blood.” LaCroix turned to face Stefan, bending down at his side. “Forgive me.” Stefan said nothing. “Let the penalty commence,” LaCroix finished, standing to address the audience once again.

It was difficult for Asha to believe that she was not in some absurd dream, and the large Kindred with bright red eyes did nothing to change this belief as he pulled out what she could, even in her uncompromising terror, only describe as a “ridiculously large-ass anime sword” from a sheath strapped to his back. She found herself wondering if she had actually gone through with her evening plans after work and was now in some sort of cartoonish purgatory. The giant raised the sword above Stefan's neck, and Asha half-expected the Tremere apprentice's head to drop, followed by his body moving to pick it back up, and the head, perched in his arms, then pivoting toward the Prince, making an angry face, and commenting on how rude it was to cut off people's heads.

Stefan's last words seemed to echo as though being broadcast as they formed in her mind.

“I do my duty for Clan Tremere. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to learn so much. One House, One Clan, One Blood. Let it be so.”

The sword dropped. Stefan's head did nothing comical. It hit the floor, rolling like a vase tipped on its side. Asha's eyes grew wide. She could not stop staring at the headless body lying on the polished wood floor. Even more astonishing, it start to break apart, collapsing in on itself.

Finally, she found her trance broken as the Giant drew nearer to her, stopping a ways behind her to her right. Facing forward, she noticed that LaCroix had also moved to a new spot and now turned to face Asha.

He broke the silence that had fallen during the execution.

“Which leads to the fate of the ill-begotten progeny. Without a sire, most Childer are doomed to walk the Earth never knowing their place, their responsibility, and most importantly, the laws they must obey. Therefore, I have decided that...”

This was it. She was going to die, and her sire, her real sire, wasn't going to do a damn thing to stop it.

“This is bullshit!” A voice erupted from the audience, cutting off the Prince before he announced his verdict. A spotlight panned over the audience, settling on a standing figure in one of the back few rows, two others, a woman and a man, attempting to pull him back into his seat. However, it was too late. His unrest seemed to spread to the remainder of the witnesses as they whispered among themselves, some even standing, and others fidgeting where they sat. The two Kindred accompanying the outspoken naysayer, succeeded in holding their friend back before he could leap over the chairs, vault onto the stage, and punch the Prince in the face, which, one could reasonably assume by his aggressive demeanor, seemed to be his intent.

LaCroix spoke, bringing order back to the audience.

“If... Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish—I have decided to let this Kindred live.”

Asha nearly fell over on the spot, the tension that had been building suddenly leaving her body. Mr. Town-Hall-Heckler-fucking-Rodriguez just saved her life. She suppressed the sudden urge to scream, conflicting emotions hitting her all at once. Relief, joy, gratitude, confusion, and anger all cascaded from her heart, filling her mind and body until she could hold no more.

Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you, Mr. Rodriguez, whoever you are, she thought, but still the fact that her own sire did not speak up for her cut into her like a dagger. He had a good reason for it, she assured herself. He must have. However, another cynical voice responded to her idealistic assurances. Did he have a good reason for Stefan's death, too?

She couldn't see Strauss in the audience, but she knew he was there somewhere.

“They shall be instructed in the ways of our kind and be granted the same rights,” LaCroix continued. “Let no one say I am unsympathetic to the plights and causes of this community.”

Asha nearly rolled her eyes. He was clearly going to have her killed before that Rodriguez guy spoke up. She looked for him out in the audience, spotting him as he sat between his two companions. She would have to thank him after this. Whoever he was, he didn't seem to like the Prince very much. Asha wasn't sure that she liked the Prince that much, either.

Are the rules here really that strict? She wondered. Strauss had told her about the Masquerade, but besides that, she did not know much about the laws she needed to follow. She hoped she would not accidentally break one without knowing. She made a mental note to ask Strauss about additional rules, as LaCroix finished his speech.

“I thank you all for attending these proceedings, and I hope their significance is not lost. Good evening.”

LaCroix dismissed the other Kindred as the man behind her cut her bonds loose. She stretched her arms and hands, feeling the joints crack and pop, and then stood. She faced Stefan's remains, which were now nothing but a pile of ash. It was too bad that no one spoke up for him. She turned, heading back through the curtain with the other Kindred on the stage.

Leaving the backstage area, she found herself in a long hallway she assumed lead to dressing rooms and prop storage. She turned in a circle, not quite sure where she should go, and finally eyed Strauss as he emerged through a door on the far side of the hall. They made eye contact as he headed toward her, but LaCroix stepped into his path, drawing him into a quiet conversation.

Seeing LaCroix in his gray suit next to Strauss only made the Prince look somewhat weak. She wondered who was more powerful. It would be the LaCroix, right? Or else why would he be Prince if he was not the most powerful vampire in the city? She answered her own question thinking that maybe the role of Prince was determined through something else other than pure power. Strauss had warned her to be careful with her words around the Prince and other Kindred, and Stefan had mentioned that Strauss did not want his reputation to suffer. So, maybe it was all one big popularity contest.

However, LaCroix did not seem all that popular.

The richest, maybe? LaCroix did have his own skyscraper.

Focusing back on the two Kindred in conversation, she could hear Strauss as he spoke softly to LaCroix, her sire's posture humble and uncharacteristically submissive.

“As Regent, I will take responsibility for the care and instruction of the neonate...” she heard him say, before the Red-Eyed Giant appeared, ushering her further down the hall. He stopped a fair distance away from the two, obstructing her view of Strauss and blocking her from returning the way they had come. The Giant did not speak a word to her, but she was fine with that. She had nothing to say to him.

Several minutes later, the Giant stepped aside, allowing the Prince to pass through. She leaned to her side, attempting to find Strauss only to spot him walking down the hallway in the opposite direction. A coldness settled in her belly. He was coming back, right?

Though, she wondered what exactly Strauss's intentions were. He had allowed Stefan to die for something he did. With this new perspective on her sire, she found herself thinking back to his actions since she had met him. He had killed her and then made her a vampire without even asking her opinion on the matter. If he could just casually murder her, then what else was he capable of?

Still, his absence left her feeling small, scared, and alone.

“So, now you have had your first taste of our rules and customs,” LaCroix started, lecturing her as if she were a child. “Do remember this lesson as you go on. Breaking our laws is strictly prohibited, and using technicalities to avoid punishment will not work. I am sorry about Mr. Kleinfelter, but it was his own actions that cost him his life. It seems your late sire thought he could fool me by embracing you in another city. One without a significant Camarilla presence.”

“I—” Asha started before being cut off.

“Why did he go through all that trouble? Who was he to you?” asked LaCroix.

“I'm not sure,” Asha mumbled. “I didn't know him before this or anything, so—”

“No matter. I have other business to which I must attend, so let me quickly walk you through what you need to do, and once again,” he added. “Your sire. Tragic. My apologies.”

“It's—”

“But, you see, there is a strict code of conduct that all of us must... must adhere to if we wish to survive,” the Prince explained.

“Are we some sort of endangered species or something?” Asha started. “What could possibly threaten—”

LaCroix ignored her, turning to walk down the hall. She hurried to catch up with him as he continued to speak.

“When someone, anyone, breaks these laws, they undermine the well-worn fabric of our centuries-old society. Understand my predicament. Allowing you to live makes me directly responsible for your subsequent behavior.”

“What about the Regen—”

“So, what I'm offering is not generosity but the opportunity to transcend the fate woven by your sire.”

They reached the end of the hallway, stopping in front of a door. LaCroix turned to face her.

“This is your trial. You will be brought to Santa Monica. There, you will meet an agent by the name of Mercurio. He will provide the details of your labor.” LaCroix opened the door, motioning for her to go through. Complying, she stepped outside, LaCroix stopping in the doorway behind her. She turned to face him once again.

“I've shown you great clemency,” LaCroix lectured. “Prove it was more than a wasted gesture, fledgling. Don't come back until you do. Good evening.”

“But, wai—” Asha started, but before she could say any more, LaCroix stepped backward, slamming the door shut. She jumped back, her jaw dropping. As she stared at the door before her, a bright red, but with layers of paint chipped away throughout its surface, she stood frozen, willing back the tears that wanted so badly to run from her eyes. What was she supposed to do now? LaCroix hadn't told her anything. How was she supposed to get to Santa Monica? Where was she supposed to meet this Mercurio person?

Unsteadily swallowing her fear, she turned to inspect her surroundings. She would figure something out.

The area next to the theater was mostly concrete, grass, and garbage. As she looked toward the street, she thought of perhaps finding a taxi. Her mind flashed back to a memory of herself tossing her purse out the window of a car. She had no money. These assholes just left her out here in a new city with no money! Pivoting to the door, she attempted to open it. However, it wouldn't budge. She knocked on it loudly and waited.

Strauss would find her, right? He would help her go where she needed to go. He wouldn't just leave her in some unknown city with no money and idea where she was. She had seen him exit the theater by the door on the other side of the hallway, so maybe he was waiting for her there. She made up her mind to walk around to the other side. However, a rustling in the darkness caught her attention.

Laughter rang out from a dark corner of the yard as an unknown person stepped out of the shadows. A man with a long shaggy beard dressed in jeans and an open vest approached her, an amused grin plastered on his face. “Ha, ha, ha! What a scene, man! Hooey!” he exclaimed, addressing her as if they were best friends. He laughed again. “Then they just plop you out here like a naked baby in the woods. How 'bout that?” He sighed, calming himself before continuing. “Look, kiddo this is probably a lot for you to take in, so, uh, why don't you let me show you the ropes? Wha'd'ya say?”

Asha stared at the man silently, searching for the right words in her scrambled brain. Just who the hell was this guy?

“...Who are you?” Asha asked cautiously.

“I'm Jack,” he answered in a tone that suggested she was brainless for even asking. “What's important is I'm offering help. You make it back from Santa Monica with your hide, and we'll trade life stories, 'kay? Till then, I got about this much time.” He made a short gesture. “You in or out?”

Asha nodded. What did he mean 'if she made it back'?

“I don't have much time...” Asha replied, remembering that she wanted to see if Strauss was waiting for her. “Just give me the basics.”

“We ain't got much time, but I figure someone should fill you in on the bare bones stuff, at least, you know. Could save your hide,” Jack explained.

“My si—I mean Strauss told me a lot of the basic stuff,” Asha told him. She stepped back, feeling lightheaded.

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“You look wobbly. You even had a drink yet?”

She had almost forgotten. Was that why she felt so weak? Was it time for her to drink something?

Her hands clenched into fists as she imagined drinking the blood of another person. She was a vampire, after all. She knew she would have to do this eventually. She had just imagined that Strauss would be there to guide her through it. Not some rando she met in a back alley.

She followed Jack to a nearby parking lot, and he pointed out a man walking to his car. She froze. Was she just supposed to attack him? Jack said that it would come naturally.

Biting her lower lip, she tentatively started forward, trying to stay in the shadows. As she watched the man, who wore a business suit, she realized that he did not seem to be paying much attention to his surroundings. She imagined that maybe his mind was on whatever had left him working all night. Some project that needed finishing. Maybe he was relieved that he could finally go home and rest. She would be ruining his night.

She decided to approach him casually, as though she were just walking to her own car or taking a shortcut through the parking lot. The man was now placing a briefcase into his trunk. Now would be the best time to strike. Picking up her pace, she approached the still-oblivious businessman. She was now close enough to feel his warmth. She leaned closer, imagining that she could hear his heartbeat, see the blood rushing through his veins. There was a particularly prominent vein on his neck that called to her. It was perfect. Before she knew what she was doing, she rushed forward, grabbing the human from behind and wrapping her arms around him. He could barely let out a cry before she sank her fangs into his flesh, finding that vein and puncturing it mercilessly. The blood flowed freely, and she drank.

With each swallow, she felt a warmth building within her. A power that she had never felt before. She knew the man was not afraid. He had fallen into the pleasure of being fed upon. Any guilt that she had had left her. There was only the blood. It was everything she ever wanted or needed.

With blood on her mind and nothing else, she drank, living solely in the moment, but then Jack's words echoed back to her. She didn't want to kill the man.

Reluctantly, she pried herself away from the life-giving fluid, glistening ruby red, which continued to trickle from the man's neck. She gave it a final lick, watching the wounds heal before her eyes, and stepped back. She had gotten some blood on the businessman's collar. She would have to learn to be more careful as she fed. She hoped it wouldn't be too much of an issue.

Satisfied, she snuck away, leaving the man in a blissful trance.

She returned to Jack, finding him standing near a taxi as it waited by the curb.

“Alright, kiddo. Time to go,” he said, slapping her on the back.

Still recovering from the high, she could barely register Jack's words.

“That was... that was...” she started.

“Yeah, that's it, kid. That's what it's all about, right there. Wish I could have that first drink all over again.”

Asha nodded in agreement.

“Now, time to head to Santa Monica.” Jack opened the door of the cab, motioning for her to get in. “You got a cab to catch.”

“I don't know where—” said Asha.

“Don't worry. The cabby knows the address to your place. Key should be in the mailbox, and don't worry about the fare. I already paid in advance for ya. Just a little going-away present.”

Asha scooted into the backseat, turning to look at Jack.

“I—I don't know how to repay you. Thank you so much.”

“Ha, don't worry about it. Just come and see me at the Last Round once you get back here, eh? It's a little bar downtown. Let me show you how jacked this whole situation is.” With a last chuckle, Jack closed the car door, slapping the trunk once before the taxi took off. Turning around, she looked back for the last time, watching Jack as he disappeared, once again, into the shadows.

“Long night?”

Asha had been staring at her own reflection in the window, complemented by the backdrop of graffiti-scrawled noise barriers and tangled weeds, the image continually interrupted by the flash of streetlights as the taxi traveled down the freeway. The cab driver's words pulled her from her spiraling thoughts, bringing her back to the present world.

“Yeah,” she replied, somehow sighing.

“This is your first time in LA, yes?” The cab driver stared back at her through the rear view mirror as she met his gaze. Strangely, Asha noted, he wore sunglasses, despite the sun having set long ago. She examined his face and its pale complexion, which contrasted his dark curly hair. Was he...?

“You do not need to maintain the masquerade around me,” he answered, clearly reading her thoughts.

“What masquerade?” Asha nearly blurted before catching herself. It would be nice to have someone to talk to about all that had happened over the last two nights. “That's a relief,” she said. “It seems like everyone keeps ditching me. Just pawning me off on the next person who can look after me for a while.”

“It is a bit of a messy situation then?”

“Yeah, I'm definitely starting to think that it is a very messy situation. One that I've been dragged into against my will.” A twinge of bitterness manifested in Asha's words.

“Do you not believe this new life will suit you?”

“I don't know. It's all just confusing. I thought I would be able to settle into a place where I belong, but now I'm not even allowed to see my sire.” Asha realized her mistake as soon as the words left her mouth. “I mean—”

“You are being tested now, but I think you will do well,” replied the cab driver, ignoring her slip up.

“You are lucky, you know. You do not have to maintain your old life while in your new state. You were given a clean cut from those you left.”

She thought about her parents, her siblings. They would be worried about her. They would be looking for her. She imagined search parties, missing persons posters, and candlelight vigils. Would she be on the news? How could any of this be considered a “clean cut?”

“You do not have to worry about being spotted by anyone you know,” the cab driver elaborated. “There are many who still live in the city of their embrace. It can be difficult to go missing when there is a chance that you will run into family, friends, coworkers, and the like. It is not something you have to worry about.”

Asha nodded.

“I see,” she said, allowing the conversation to die off. They were now on city streets, headed to some unknown location in a jungle of unrecognizable buildings. Asha attempted to fight off the sensation of hollowness that had blossomed inside her heart, a heaviness in the air clinging to her body. Finally, the car slowed, coming to a stop beside a pawnshop, its windows encased in anti-theft bars. The neon lettering of the shop's sign loomed over them, tinting the inside of the car an ominous red.

“The key to your haven will be in your mailbox, number 508,” the driver informed her. “And before you go, I have something important for you to consider, and I hope you will listen to what I am going tell you.”

Asha's hand fell short of the door handle, and she turned to the cab driver, focusing on the side of his face.

“You will have a choice to make.” The cab driver started.

“What do you mean?” she asked. The driver's tone, casual before, now took on an air of sobriety, the weight of his words bearing down on her psyche.

“You will have several choices to make, actually, but the first is the most important. You must choose who you will be.”

“I...” Asha wasn't quite sure what to say to his remark. She would be herself, of course. Who else?

“What you must understand,” the cab driver explained. “Is that you have the means to create an entirely new self. So, I wonder, Miss Mariam, will you choose to be the same Asha you have always been? The same shy, insecure girl who never truly loved herself or her life. Or will you choose to become someone new? Someone better? Someone you can live with. Will you create a new you for a new life?”

Asha paused, trying to consider her words before replying, but no answer she could form in her mind seemed adequate to say aloud. The driver's words seemed to work their way into her mind, burrowing deeply.

“Do not tell me,” the cab driver continued, breaking the silence. “This is something you must consider for yourself, and whatever you decide, no matter your intent, your actions will speak for you in the end.”

With that, Asha exited the cab, following a small, worn sign to the entrance of the apartments above the pawnshop. She located her keys in the mailbox, just as Jack and the cab driver had described. Letting herself in through the side door, she journeyed her way up the stairs to her new “Home, Sweet Home” in Santa Monica.

It was only later that she realized that she had not told the cab driver her name. Just another mystery in an entire ocean of them.

[badass-at-fandoming]

Is Beckett meant to be a poc (in vtmb)? I think so based on his facial features and his skin being a light shade of brown. But he was born in Britain during the 1700s-1600s which makes being non-white a lot less likely (though there were poc even back then).

This is an interesting question, @chinesegal! Thank you for your patience with me answering it. I was traveling, but now I'm back!

When I look at Beckett in Bloodlines, I interpret him as a white British man. But a lot can change depending on what mods one uses to make the game work. For example, this Beckett...

...looks much less pale than this Beckett:

One must also factor in Bloodlines' poor lighting. As any visual artist trying to figure out Sebastian LaCroix's hair color will tell you, the lighting in VTMB is a terrible, mercurial beast. The dingy lighting certainly aides the grimy, uncertain atmosphere, but poor fan artists struggle.

The last sticky point I can think of is how all the Kindred characters are supposed to have a "deathly pallor," especially if they have lower Humanity. Deathly pallor can muck up skin tone wonderfully. I think Strauss would be the best example. He's an older Kindred (LA by Night states he was at the Convention of Thorns in 1493) and made a gargoyle (which involves torture), so he's definitely on the lower end of the Humanity scale. According to VtM's lore, Strauss has trouble maintaining a lively, human appearance. Some fans interpret him as white and often point to his white voice actor, Jim Ward. Others remark on Strauss' resemblance to Morpheus from The Matrix Trilogy, cite the deathly pallor lore, and interpret him as a Black man with graying skin. As in, Strauss looks closer to what a Black man's corpse would look like. The deathly pallor factor allows for this interpretation, and in the gap can nicely fit Cuthbert Beckett. He's an Elder Kindred and has had periods of low Humanity. Maybe he's brown and has been through the wringer.

VtM has a tenuous relationship with history, but if you want to check in with it, real life history doesn't obstruct an interpretation of Beckett as Black or brown. British people have had black or brown skin since forever, as you referenced. The oldest Englishman, Mesolithic era Cheddar man's skin is possibly darker than the reconstruction suggests. Ya gotta remember that white skin came to be because people weren't getting enough Vitamin D. If Beckett is descended from the indigenous Celtic Britons (unlikely but possible), his ancestors might not have been malnourished and lived somewhere the sun could penetrate the mists of Avalon.

So like, given all the above, you can definitely argue that Beckett's a Black or brown British guy. Whatever floats your boat.

That wasn't exactly your question, however. You asked if Beckett's meant to be a person of color or white. This implies you want to know the devs' original intention with the game, which I guess at being Beckett as a white man.

Beckett has been described as white in past White Wolf publications. Or rather, not described, because white is default skin tone in so many works, very unfortunately. In the Victorian Trilogy, much is made of Halim Bey, Theo Bell, and Hesha Ruhadze's black skin, but Beckett's skin tone gets no comment. He's "a long-haired man" with a "wolfish grin one might imagine on a privateer from a past age," (The Wounded King, pg 123-125). Someone describes him as "a pauper's version of Buffalo Bill Cody," (197). When his lover Emma disrobes him, the text notes "his feline pupil slits [and] amber irises," (pg 204). Special attention is paid to Beckett's hands: "dark hair, slick like sable covered the back of his hand, fading to a more human-seeming growth on his forearms" and "His fingers were longer than a man's should be, and the nails were hard and thick like a dog's," (ibid). In Year of the Scarab Trilogy's Land of the Dead, he describes himself with "lean, muscular physique [with] round smoked glasses [hinting] at a pretty boy slumming," (pg 101). By the absence of skin tone description, by the unfortunate reality that white skin is seen as default and therefore unworthy of comment, we can infer that Beckett is white. That's to say nothing of the Vampire: the Masquerade - Beckett comic, which depicts him as white. I wouldn't give the VTMB developers the grace or credit to suddenly deter from this character history.

After all, these are the same devs that failed to come up with a story with Chinese people that wasn't Yellow Peril drivel, created a white PC with "locs," declined to brown Nines' skin, and made Skelter imply that Black Americans make up their own oppression. Just like, all of Chinatown is hard for Chinese and Japanese players to get through. Even by 2004 standards, it's real shitty. With these other missteps, it's hard to imagine they'd have the creativity to re-design Beckett as brown or Black. I think they meant him to be interpreted as white.

But you don't have to! Death to the authors! In your fan art, fan casts, picrew, fanfic, chronicles etc, he can be brown, Black, indigenous, or whatever ethnicity bees your knees. You create the Beckett reality in your Beckett-loving head.

Thank you again for the ask, and I hope the essay made the wait worth it!

[eukarisparadise]

Idk why just wanted to rant about my character that I rp as in my VTM campaign

Soooo our chronicle set in San Francisco 70's started about three years ago and only now finishes (because it's impossible to keep a stable schedule in WOD) and so I finally decided to revisit my character card that I made all the way back in 2022. Turns out, I didn't pay any attention when I was choosing the model from Pinterest back then (I didn't even want to have a real person's face, I wanted to just have male Toreador model from VTMB), because the model was... a photoshopped picture of Ashton Kutcher. Apparently I just didn't recognize him back then, because I didn't even watch any movies with him in my childhood, so this entire time I was playing as a sad anxiety-ridden bisexual Toreador with something that's severely reminding depression... with Ashton Kutcher's face. Now, he wasn't intended to be like this at first:

I love WOD, because it allows you to still have incredible fun, whilst subtly reminding you with its entire atmosphere that you are, in all actuality, fucked, and your existence – is already a tragedy. My character was an aspiring journalist who had a promising future, but stumbled across a Kindred-own gallery that he wanted to expose. He got Embraced by accident, because his sire suddenly felt attracted to him and decided to give him Embrace just so he wouldn't kill him. The relationship between them was as toxic as they come: with light and love slowly fading away from my guy's eyes (his name is Nate btw lol I just found it neatly fitting) while watching as his sire slowly but surely loses all interest in him, simultaneously abusing him both physically and emotionally, and betrays him at the end. At the end, from this golden retriever-type goofball you have a pile of bitterness, filled with angst worthy of Tumblrs golden age, that doesn't have anything it takes to be The Toreador™ (and doesn't want to) and is despised at best by his clanmates (half of which turned out to be Sabbat btw, so nobody cares about their opinion 💅).

I accidentally built him a bit weird for the clan I chose: instead of focusing on social/conversational stats, he is built like an offensive/tank, with him being our primary muscle that takes the most damage, until our Tremere is ready to crit all the enemies. Idk why I just didn't pick Brujah, since that's how I even play him: he's the most rebellious and hot-headed of our coterie, doesn't respect authorities, is liked by Anarchs and doesn't mind dropping the Camarilla if they piss him and his friends enough (only if the alternative pays off more, that is). The only thing he remotely has from the Toreadors is his clumsy and cringey attempts to flirt with absolutely every asshole trying to kill us and the fact that he has comically fragile ego with the worst mouth possible. Oh, and he doesn't like art, like, at all, because it reminds him of sire. Since I don't really know how to play as someone else than myself, I just didn't give him enough taste to appreciate anything neither classic nor alternative (he wears Adidas suits and is afraid to let go of his knife) – he's just a dude that's so terrified for his life that he sleeps with one eye open, but is dumb enough to wear his heart on his sleeve. But hey, nothing to worry about, since everyone already knows where he lives, his tiny ass studio apartment is a known thoroughfare for everyone in the Camarilla, the Anarchs, the Sabbat, and even for his current Giovanni bf.

I honestly didn't even like him at first, but when I made him a backstory he started growing on me... 🤕 Oh well.

[absolutelybatty]

Had a dream that blood heal, like from VTMB, worked in real life but for charging my phone. Like I could make my phone more charged by giving it blood.

[makowo]

Okay. Finished Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines. Here's my scattered, informally-presented thoughts on it (some spoilers under the cut, but tried to keep it vague). I recommend looking through a professional review online if you want some more in-depth opinions tho

TLDR; Good game, but severely tainted by its janky combat and the writing being pretty "of its time", I think.

I loooove love love love the gameplay, for the most part! I think the stat system is good and forces you to really consider what you want to put your stats into, instead of just letting you farm them or whatever. You can't be an everyman (unless using console commands ofc, which i did). You have to stick to a build, though I think that ranged combat far outweighs ranged. But then again, roleplaying game. Getting a good combat build or stealth build is a side part of the whole experience.

However, I do wanna talk about the combat. The combat. Oh god, the combat. It's really, really bad. For most of the game you can avoid it, but there are multiple boss fights at the very end of the game that force you into combat. If you put all of your experience into stealth and subterfuge options, RIP. Many enemies are damage sponges, and you are most certainly Not a damage sponge in equal measure. Your movements in melee combat are usually slow and difficult to maneuver, meaning that if you get jumped by three or more enemies when you play melee, you're kiiiinda fucked. You stagger on every melee hit and cant avoid damage for shit half the time. Little better with ranged ofc, but the enemies also have guns most of the time, and some enemies will gun you down before you have any time to react. which means that if you run into a group of enemies, again, you're fucked. it's miraculous that they didnt catch just how bad it is to face off against large groups of enemies (and the bosses. they are Really Bad. All of them) in playtesting. So strange.

The roleplay is AMAZING, though. it has good diversity in its dialogue and character backstory, so you're relatively good on that front if you're here to be some guy thats having the roughest time of their life. plenty of avenues you can go for in the gameplay to fit the image you have in mind for your character, and I think that's its greatest strength.

the story is also pretty good! writing is great, love the characters and the setting. the writing is pretty tight, interesting the whole way through, and the reveal about the driving force of the narrative at the end of the game is real fuckin good. greatly enjoyed it.

ofc, there is some pretty bad shit as well; the chinatown area and any chinese character is depicted as evil, traitorous, stupid, or greedy. there's like, probably one or two good chinese characters in the game (if i remember correctly, my playthrough took a while). there's other instances of racism, however; The Sheriff character is a silent, animalistic bodyguard that is killed in several routes. hes stated to be from africa, and serving La Croix, a powerful white person... yknow. There's like four total dark-skinned people in this game, and a whole one of them is good, but only technically in one route, and he's still portrayed as an aggressive guard.

but all in all, i really think it is like, kinda worth the money? its pretty good despite these faults, especially since you have access to console commands and can just turn on god mode if shit gets unbearable (which it will, trust me). theres several unofficial patches that also add to the experience, and are probably even vital to playing the game. I used the VTMB Unofficial Patch, but there's other patches out there i believe, if you want to look at those.

so yeah i recommend it if youre fine with playing an old pc game thats too ambitious for its time.

[panvani]

I do like how many of the VtMB fights are just extremely stupid from an in-universe perspective, like the player character is allowed to do things that they would naturally be allowed to do from a mechanical perspective, but the other characters must have gotten so mad. One of the last bosses can be killed in five seconds using a weapon you can pick up at the start of the level. Another level involves a guy kidnapping you and running a bunch of tests on you (cuz you're a vampire) and at one point he sends a group of hired soldiers to try to kill you. Imagine being the soldier hired to test a new weapon on a real life vampire (!) that your boss has captured and detained and when you go to actually kill it it just pulls out a gun and shoots you

[chunky-ruckus]

Unfinished fic: Did the Eagle Envy Prometheus?

Hi gang! I'm pretty much done writing fanfiction for this fandom (just lost interest). I have a few fics I was excited for, and I figure I'd share the bones of what they were. So here's fic 1! I think there are 3-4 half written fics in total. This fic was basically a VTMB au wherein Marvus gets turned into a nosferatu.

___

Prose written:

You see him many times in your life, but he saw you first when you only caught him looking.

Leaned up against the sign for Santa Monica’s Protestant Church of the Blood and Body (God’s got a plan for you!), the smoke he exhaled gave the impression he was fading away from the world, only here as a visitor.

  He smiled at you then, Cheshire cat smile sharp with canines, his lips as full and flushed as cherries. And the smoke was all around you.

You know now that his eyes are a rich, laughing brown. But back then, you would have sworn you saw purple.

And when the girl at the counter of the 7-eleven joked that you looked like you’d seen a ghost- the resume in your hand crumpled where you held it tight- you weren’t entirely sure you hadn’t. 

___

Snippets / Ideas:

You stroke his hair as he convulses, continue to soothe even as your fingers catch on locs that refuse to stay rooted in his skull. He curls around you, clenches his body tight like a comma, like it’s not over yet. Just stopped for a breath, carry on! And he doesn’t move but to tremble. 

“God, please,” he says, with eyes closed tight as if he can pretend it’s not happening. 

Whether he’s praying to you or to God Himself, you aren’t sure. You aren’t sure it matters. You hold him there tight against your chest while he screams, muscles pulling skin taught through the tension.

And nobody saves him. Nobody is here to catch his soul.

___

You hold him tight around the middle and he thrashes and writhes, bringing you both to the ground, his own muscles his puppet strings. “I believed,” you breathe into his skin, “I believed in you.” And he?

He believed in God.

His ashen skin is feverish, tugged tight over his straining muscles like it could split open at any moment, spilling out like overripe fruit, his pomegranate blood all over you and the ground. He curls around you, a comma curl, as if to say, just pausing for a moment, or more to come, just need a breath! 

And you hope, you hope, you hope.

“God,” he says. “Please,” he says, with eyes and body clenched tight as fists.

Suddenly, that very heat spears you through, to your core. It spills in rivulets down your cheeks, pattering on your shirt above your collarbones. 

He dies there in a pool of blood that could be his shadow, with no cross on his chest, no gospel in his gasping: death, in odium fidei.

___

Working the graveyard shift has always suited you; some symbolism of death has always surrounded you anyway. [Insert here about how they’re amnesiac, though whether it’s because of how good they’ve gotten at denial or something real is up for interpretation]

[more here]

And here you are, home sweet home. Su casa.

Flipping the light switch is mostly a psychosomatic quirk; the lights outside are as bright as it’s getting, here in your home.

You’re not in denial; you know you’re considered homeless. This could all be taken away from you with a bad brush with the authorities, or a worse brush with the local teenagers.

It’s nice enough, anyway, to be homeless in the city. You’re not paying the electric bill to keep the McDonald’s sign across the street on, and it’s just enough light through the window to read your book by. 

It is homelessness absit invidia; you don’t know any other life, and you’ve built your superego around it. Karl Marx, eat your heart out. You’ve never had a dream job, never dreamed of working, but you’re living well despite. You have enough money to keep this place clean. Enough wits to steal food. And friends who have your back.

Nobody needs to know how much your life is your grave, how your habits build your tomb.

The graveyard shift you work is only half of the metaphor. Pressure radiates like you could rip open your ribcages on hinges.

You don’t know where you came from. You can’t remember a life, lived. Some days, it feels like you simply crash landed here, right in the McDonald’s parking lot across the street. You have no memories of home, no memories of your parents. There are days where you aren’t even sure you’re one of the local species, some alien life form that just appeared here in all of their collective narratives.

You let the dark swallow you whole; day will break in a few hours, and you won’t squander the light.

___

You stare down at your receipt, zeroed out by Chixie at the till.

The plastic bag hangs by your side, cutting into your fingers, condensation from the gatorade wetting your thigh.

Zero, as a number, did not exist naturally as the other numbers did. There has always been one atom, two people, millions of shades of feeling: all countable, all present. But the concept of nothingness as a meaningful, mathematical concept came later, from an Indian mathematician who’s name has been lost to time.

You wonder, with Marvus’s absence so conspicuous in your home, if that mathematician felt like this at the time. Now you see: you are not currently one minus one, but have always been one plus zero. The evidence is in what’s missing. What’s always been missing. 

___

MSPAR asks for Marvus’s number and he gives them bible verses instead.

John 6:55: For My flesh is true food, and My blood is true drink. // Matthew 26:28: for this is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for forgiveness of sins.

___

Outline:

Meet Marvus → He befriends them slowly → He gets them to break inside the church with him at night so he can pray. He’s been a very bad protestant, so he’s making his own forgiveness here on earth. Talk about fear of dying (So when you said God had a plan for me, you meant you had a plan for me) He’s a soundcloud rapper (or so MSPAR thinks), and he sends them a link to his mixtape. They don’t listen to it, not having internet at home, but are intrigued by the titles.→ Weeks go by without seeing Marvus at all. → They break into the church late at night on a hunch one night (the stained glass of cain and abel is smeared with blood) and find Marvus holding his neck. MSPAR investigates and notices two bite marks, burst capillaries spreading away from them like a map. They joke about someone fancying themselves a vampire and Marvus laughs lowly. Parallel to his bad end: at least, if he’s dying, he’s somewhere where he feels safe. MSPAR holds his hand and he drifts off to sleep. → MSPAR wakes up to the sounds of Chahut opening the doors to the church. They drag him- he’s sleeping heavily- to their beat up old car. Then they put on their hat and go to work. → Marvus isn’t in their car when their shift is over, and they notice that their monster has been drained of drink and their car doors were all locked.  → Chixie is playing at a jazz bar one night and MSPAR goes to watch her sing. Once her set is over, they notice Marvus standing outside the window, watching. He waves once MSPAR sees him. He plays cat and mouse with them, leading him through the streets and towards a club with loud, pulsing base. MSPAR notices his eyes are more predatory, and he looks sick. He wears an ascot even though it’s hotter than hell, and they get a little hot and lusty out on the dancefloor. MSPAR licks a bead of sweat off his neck and Marvus shudders, nearly fainting. MSPAR thinks thats just the sexy mood, but it ends up that Marvus needs to leave. He’s clutching his elbows and grinding his teeth. → They make it out, MSPAR suggests a slushie run, hoping to keep the tone light. And there’s nobody on duty right now, it should be safe. Under the flourescent lights, Marvus transforms a bit more into a monster. (Insert snipper here). Include: he stumbles and pulls one of the levers for a red slushie, and red slushie is all over him like blood. He’s so cold, colder than even the ice should make him. Once he finally settles down, MSPAR desperately searches for a heartbeat and, upon finding none, rips open his shirt to press their ear to his chest. His body is a nightmare, full of pockmarks and pale and sinewy. They’re about to call emergency services before he grabs them suddenly by the wrist and says no. Just take him back to his car. His car is this bougie ass limo with tinted windows. MSPAR is p much hysterical, and Marvus tries to calm them down as best he can. → A few more weeks go by, MSPAR hasn’t seen Marvus. They end up hunting him down to an abandoned building behind a church; you can hear the church music playing muffled through the walls. He looks awful, fully transformed into a nosferatu. MSPAR tries to act like they aren’t scared; Marvus talks about his worth now that he isn’t beautiful anymore. There’s wires all over the floor; he’s watching his old music videos. [insert feeding scene here; should parallel a sex scene].  

[gingerbeer-queer]

what’s swl!

Secret World Legends

It's a failed reboot of a dead MMO from 2012. It feels VERY much like if VTMB was an MMO: Story Focused. Dark themes. Secret Societies. Backstabbing. Politics. Messy Vampire Love Rhombus... It's good shit!

And also some of the puzzles require you to research things IN REAL LIFE. It's kinda cool and im a little bit obsessed lol

You can blame @paint-lady for getting me into this time sink!

[thebaronofvenicebeach]

In case you missed last year's 18th anniversary event, well the good news is that it's all uploaded on to Youtube now for you to binge in a single night if you wish.

The even better news? The playlist has been updated over the past year as well to include more of the locations I just wasn't able to make it out to last year during the week of the event!

Y'all know what day it is out here in LA now?

𝕳𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖞𝖊𝖆𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖔!

[1800duckhotline]

in every universe salice and Allen are the unlikely best friends. having a real giggle just thinking about her and him in the vtmb au because a Toreador as obsessed with appearing charming and full of love like Allen being friends with Salice who's a gangrel that hates being one (hates that she can easily slip into her inner beast) and that tries so hard to be like a ventrue and gets along horribly with other people, let lone other kindred, to me, is like comedy. and others think it's hilarious too I'd bet

but they knew each other before they both were embraced, so in the end they just were destined to remain friends for life

if people ask they're both just like idk. I met this idiot in law school and can't get rid of her/him even if I tried

[dolinemae-but-its-shitpost]

...Once upon a time, in one Russian spoken chat we were talking about VTMB

Runa (me): So, yeah, I`m supporting Anarchs. Mainly because of Damsel, Smiling Jack and a little bit because of Nines

Bro: Well, yeah, Jack is one of the main reasons of supporting Anarchs instead of Camarilla

Runa: Yeah!! You know, he`s like dad ahaha. He`s cool dude who always supports you, gives you advice and is ready to give watch your back if something bad happens!!!

Runa: Oh wait.

Runa: Is that what people are calling "daddy issues"??

[badass-at-fandoming]

Do you have any headcanons for Beckett? Specifically about his life as a mortal? It sucks that we know so little about his past, other than the fact that Beckett "wasn't the name he was born with," and that he was embraced in the early 1700s in England. I find it strange that we know so little about him despite the fact he's practically a mascot for VTM.

Hi Nonny! I'm so used that World of Darkness' lacuna that it doesn't seem strange to me anymore, but it is quite a cold-water shock, huh? The game designers leave blanks on purpose so we can fill them in. I remember this one interview with Justin Achilli where the interviewer said the Book of Nod was (forcibly) published in 1993 (same as irl). He corrected her and said, "No, no, you have to say it was published in the early 1990s, so any Storyteller can fit it into their '90s chronicle, like if they want to do an adventure to prevent or pursue its publication." His answer stuck with me. As a fan I was like "...why does it matter, let us have this fixed date" but as a writer/baby game dev I was like "OH, that is CLEVER." It leaves room for creativity! Any adventure can follow the meta-canon! That's such a good game design trick! As a fan I find it frustrating!

This game design principle sticks even to the mascot. I've seen stuff that Beckett was a pirate, a privateer, an Oxford scholar, and/or an attractive dying waif. @chinesegal was kind enough to ask me various Beckett backstory questions, that you can find here: bathing practice, opinions on creationism, trans experience. I'd also point you to @vampire-the-askerade for their delightful Beckett writings.

My only like, firm headcanon for Beckett is that he has to be kind enough to warn the fledgling in VtMB. If someone's interpretation of his character doesn't allow for that, my interest tanks. I'm not even totally married to the backstory in my fanfic and idle-thoughts-before-falling-asleep scenario. Those were all convenient pretexts for me to write cuddles and snuggles, haha. I'd love more kudos and comments on my fanfic if you read those stories, but below the cut is the bullet point version.

A Kinder Universe series drops hints of a possible backstory, especially "A Monastery Hides More Than Bones," "It Pleased the Lord," and "Forbidden by God and King."

Birth name is Matthew Lowell.

"Matthew" after the Christian Apostle. The Matthew of the Catholic Bible was a tax collector and therefore a pariah in society (just like Beckett is kinda like an outsider to Kindred Society). He was called to join Jesus out of a crowd (like Aristotle called Beckett out of the wild, or how Caine singles out Beckett during Gehenna). After Jesus's Ascension, Matthew wrote a Gospel, which translates to "good news," and spread it around, (like Beckett spreads his theories like "Good news, everyone! Gehenna is fake!). Matthew's Gospel is focused on how Jesus fulfills Hebrew prophecy and begins with a long genealogy connecting Jesus to King David (Beckett is obsessed with the genealogy of the Kindred race and studies/fulfills/collects prophecies).

"Lowell" is the Anglicized surname of Norman French "lou," which translates to "wolf." Beckett's dark brown, straight hair and white skin is a common coloring with French people. We don't know his original eye color, but blue would clinch the deal. There's a long history of migration between France and England, both of people and culture. It's in the realm of possibility he's of French descent, at least partially.

Born in Oxford. One of many siblings. Mother died in childbirth. Kid during the Great Plague of London in 1665-1666. Good father.

Attended one of the Oxford universities and got his doctorate in some sort of proto-anthropology.

I think I've talked about it before, but I have an Embrace fic idea an Embrace scenario I've thought about real hard before falling asleep.

Beckett has the same tombstone data as above. He teaches at his Oxford university, but is not very popular among his department peers. He's too into evidence and the scientific method, and he's constantly quarreling with his colleagues.

Aristotle and Anatole visit Oxford to set up a satellite library. Possibly they needed a break from Paris for some Kindred political reason.

Kindred brothel owner owes them a favor and lets them stay in the brothel while the duo sets up the library haven

Beckett visits this same brothel to let off steam, and he's gifted to Anatole as a blood doll for the night. Except Beckett is like, "Can I rant to you about how stupid my colleagues are?" and this leads to a genuine discussion of scholarship and, later, friendship

Beckett becomes Anatole's regular client, and Anatole proposes to Aristotle that Aristotle Embraces Beckett

Aristotle approaches the Prince of Oxford and something something Kindred politics and Cassandra Darby kill steals Beckett and dumps him in the forest

The two Noddists learn that Beckett has been Embraced, and they try to find him. Anatole is so distraught that he is Not Helping the search at all, so Aristotle sends him back to Paris. Aristotle keeps up the search and eventually finds and adopts a feral Beckett baby

Aristotle and Beckett rejoin Anatole in Paris. Anatole has regained his equilibrium and takes over Beckett's Kindred education.

Yeah! I hope that answered your question, Nonny. Thank you for the ask!

[griffinshoodie]

so uh... in the interest of not completely burning out on choices, i might take a break on the genderlocked books