#vtda

[arichtelus]

les Siècles Obscurs : le vicomte de Carcassonne

Étienne (Raymond) de Trencavel, my toreador vampire during the 1208 and start of the Albigensian Crusade

[vinzred]

lasombra from a V20 dark ages game i'm currently playing in.

[relleytrots]

@ryttu3k I GET IT NOW

In going back to Clanbook: Tzimisce to look up the eco-warrior bit I had cause to reread the whole thing and now I understand why Auspex is integral to both the origin of Vicissitude and the operation of Tzimisce as a clan. They need it. Mechanically, they need it.

Auspex/Protean makes as much sense as an Amalgam as anything to do with Dominate. Which, INCIDENTALLY, is a fine substitution for the Old Clan, since Share the Senses and Possession and Subsume the Spirit are all about externalising lordship and transcending oneself without getting all meat about it, ruling the land without physically merging it, the land is the king and the king is the land but not literally except yes because koldunism -

The point is, I am now fully converted to the Auspex / Animalism / Protean agenda (with "Old Clan" as a four dot Merit that lets you fold Dominate in as a fourth Discipline, or you can yeet Protean as an exchange).

And I've got a neat idea for Koldunic Sorcery as a series of Rituals that key off Disciplines that aren't Blood Sorcery. I need to thrash that out more fully, but I'm gonna have a lot of fun developing this. I definitely need to do a Tzimisce focused Dark Ages game next...

[nosnet]

[wodeward]

Geoffrey Wodeward of Clan Gangrel

As a breathing man, Geoffrey had a decent life. The descendant of a Norman archer who came to England with the Conquest, then moved west to settle in Gloucestershire and put down roots. He inherited an appointment as a forester on the lands of the local baron and enjoyed a life that was, while not the privileged one of a true knight or lord, still a mark above toiling fields as a serf.

However, any station, high or low, comes with duty behind it. The lord’s forests were rife with danger - large game like stag and boar who could gore an unwary or unprepared hunter to death. Wolves emboldened by winter skulking too close to settlements. And of course, people to be dealt with - poachers and rebels and outlaws using the cover of wilderness to hide their deeds.

He was still a young man when the baron’s liege - Robert Fitzroy, Earl of Gloucester - called for soldiers to defend the right of his sister, Empress Matilda, on the throne. And he was called, so he went. He spent the years of the Anarchy as a scout and a bowman; at the hard-won negotiations of peace, he returned home.

He'd scarcely had time to hang his cloak in the forester's lodge before he was dispatched to help solve a problem. Someone (or something) out in the woods was poaching the baron's game. Corpses of deer found mutilated and drained of blood (the flesh wasted and left to rot in the sun), the rest of the herd not thriving besides. 

Relieving the younger brother who had taken his post while he was off at war - a good and competent soul, but worn pale and sick from the strain of the matter - Geoffrey took up arms to get to the bottom of it. All signs he could read pointed to the culprit being an animal: a maddened wolf, perhaps. He'd shot plenty of wolves.

He tracked the beast as the winter began to set in until he unearthed what seemed to be its resting place. And watched  as the sun set to see if the creature would emerge. To his grand surprise, what crawled out wasn't an animal at all, but a woman, dressed for travel, unafraid of the night and the dangers therein.

Unfortunately, though he'd shot plenty of wolves, he'd been trained to give a person warning and the right to surrender to custody. And she laughed at this as surely as she laughed at the arrow that loosed her way afterwards. The one that broke on her flesh as though it was made of stone.

She was on him a moment later, sharp teeth latched to his throat.

When a member of the hunting posse found his bloodstained coat on the dirt the following morning, they assumed the worst. When, three nights later, he arrived back at the lodge, pale and distant but otherwise no worse for wear, it was a cause for celebration long enough for them all to be disbanded and sent back to their lives.

That winter was the hardest he had endured. By grace or by cunning, he managed to avoid being destroyed by the sun or attracting attention through indiscretion. The excuse that resuming his post took his daytime hours passed well enough. Ironically, he learned to subsist like an outlaw or the creature that had made him; off the baron's game, largely, with the rare passing traveler come like a saints' feast day.

The nights were lengthening back to winter when the woman came traipsing back for him. Encountering her again after she'd cursed and abandoned him made his blood boil, but there were things he wanted to know from her. Fortunately, she'd come back not to finish the job of killing him, but to reward him with knowledge after passing her trial.

She called herself Cerys -  a Gangrel from the Welsh Marches who skirted the court of Baroness Seren of Gloucester. Connected just enough to have once been given permission to create progeny (in exchange for a boon to be paid, of course). Before Geoffrey's timely arrival, she'd actually targeted his younger brother, Henry, but found in him a candidate tougher and more cunning and therefore more suitable to bestow with her blood.

In a way, the transition into unlife had just enough familiar elements to his experiences in his warmer days that it wasn't as jarring as it could have been. Cerys' 'apprenticeship' was rough but he endured it. The court in Gloucester left him alone if he didn't cause trouble. If the poachers and outlaws he found in the wood went to his own hungers or to tribute in London instead of to trial- perhaps it was only that the world was unkinder with monsters in it. At least that's what he tried to tell himself.

(art by: lammergeared)

[milk-crafting]

Razeen is my new vampire babe <333 We love salty old men <333

He's an El Hijazi (the Ashirra version of Ventrue) who ended up joining the Sabbat when it was first formed. He was embraced in 1015 AD.

I haven't decided what he does in the modern nights but he's up to something, that's for sure (like being a cutie <333)

[relleytrots]

I'm so proud of you all.

Welp. Today in Vampire we kidnapped the centuries old prophetess grandma from her Tzimisce grandson, floated the idea of murdering the prince of Prague and fulfilled part of a prophecy which leads to the awakening of some sort of hungry dragon lady.

We made good decisions 😀(?)

[vixensdungeon]

A video game idea that won't come true because the people who make decisions about these things lack my courage: a Vampire: The Dark Ages game focused on domain management. You're some poor neonate who managed to tick off the wrong elder and have been made Prince over a vacant but troublesome domain.

Why VtDA? Because the sects don't exist yet, bloodlines are more plentiful, and Humanity isn't as much the default Road as it is in modern nights, so you have more varied Cainites to contend with or recruit into your court.

No Masquerade as such, but there's still some sort of meter you need to keep an eye on so you don't get torch-wielding peasant mobs and such knocking at your castle gates.

[suddenlyshouting]

Our Constantinople VTDA coterie and their former Domitor Vanya. From left to right:

Ophelia, a former prostitute, accomplished business woman and court favourite from the Byzantine Empire (Toreador). Born in Thessaloniki sometime in the mid 9th century, embraced in Constantinople 917. Played and created by @versatilemess.

Zselyke, a Táltos of the pre-migration Hungarian Tribes (Tzimisce). Born sometime in the early 9th century, embraced in Constantinople 917. Played by me @suddenlyshouting.

Rhododaktylos, a former day-guard and seamstress (Warrior Salubri). Born in Moravia sometime in the 7th century, embraced in Constantinople 917. Played and created by @perseiis.

Vanya, aka Lord Ioannis of Belgrade (Old Clan Tzimisce). Date and location of Birth and Siring unknown. Created and played by @8megabyte.

[nihilight]

hello youths! 🥰🫶🏻 story time!

the above pics are from 1997: spring (pic 1) & fall (pic 2) --

(btw -- @blackcr0wking was just over 2 yrs old & already drawing! 🥺🥺🥺)

-- & here is how we got pics of ourselves (ie: selfies; we didn't really call them anything but "OOC pics," haha) online in the 90s:

you got friends to take them (the 1st pic was taken by my friend in her car), or you used, say... a ruler to push the button on yr camera that was precariously set ~just so~ on yr dresser (pic 2.)

you wasted a LOT of film; it was embarrassing asf to bring it to get developed if you were using a standard or those one-time cameras.

then you either had a scanner, a friend with a scanner, or in my case POST-MAILED yr pics to an online friend with a scanner... and THEY got them online for you... & then mailed the OG photos back.

phew.

basically, in the 90s world of BBS's, IRC, & AOL, you were ~hot shit~ if you had photos of yrself online. 💅

ps: pic 2 is one of only TWO shots that remotely worked out, out of 16 sheets of polaroid film.

in the IRC/AOL roleplay days (WoD: VtM/WtA, MtA, VtDA, & just any medieval fantasy) we used ourselves as our char pics ...

(y'all call them PB's now & idk what that stands for? help? 🥺)

& i was playing an old-clan tzimisce vampire named nakita taktarov, lolol, & ohhh, but this was considered a banger photo back then. 😬😬😬

by like 1999 people started using fantasy art or celebrity photos for char pics/PBs, & the bottom of our IC profile page would credit artist/name celeb.

& oh yes -- those who could draw their own characters were highly envied!

& that's how selfies & PBs were in the mid to late 90s.

like, now i wanna get into how long-distance/online friendships worked in the 90s... 🤔

::sighs in autism hyperfix & drops into porch chair; half-heartedly waves random kids off with her cane.::

[relleytrots]

Clicking my pen in "stuff to put in my Dark Ages game."

I said it once I will say it again

The first VTM Storyteller that adds in "one of the players characters has to be involved in a political arranged marriage" will be my personal hero

It will cook

[vinzred]

Stasys Navick, Telyavelic Tremere, Sabbat Bishop and Ductus of Death's Draught. He belongs to @mournwatch.

[postsofbabel]

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[relleytrots]

𝖃𝕴𝕴𝕴 𝕿𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝕱𝖊𝖚𝖉𝖆𝖑 𝕭𝖔𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖆

𝔄𝔠𝔱 ℑℑ, 𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔳 𝔢𝔱 𝔳𝔦

Our story arrives at the traditional two-part end-of-season finale-type wham episode. It wasn't planned this way, but it turned out I'd overplanned slightly and there was a knot of "I know what you need to know but I can't tell you what to ask for" we needed to pick our way past to resolve things and we were all too sleepy, so we split this session right down the middle and it was the correct decision to make. Oh lord, was it ever the correct decision to make.

This is gonna run long. Put a brew on. Make one for me while you're in there - Earl Grey, oat milk, no sugar. Big mug. No, the big mug - there you go. Perfect.

We begin in the monastery of St. Lawrence, on Petrin Hill, where Brother Marsillius is tending to the wounded knight and also sipping from his dressings because the Lord helps those who help themselves. Said knight has regained consciousness, and introduces himself as Christof, a second son on his way to join the muster of the Sword Brethren for crusade into pagan Livonia.

Alas, he was waylaid in the woods outside Prague: some demon, with great paws and a scaled hide and baleful red eyes, set upon him and gouged him without mercy. Marsillius recognised this as a vodnik - a water creature that comes in many forms and does not usually attack travellers without provocation. Christof confessed he might have swung first, but - he is here to fight the enemies of the Lord, is he not?

Christof thanked him for his ministrations and asked if, perhaps, now that he could walk again, there was some small duty he could do? Even if not the sword, some work to which he might put his idle hands?

Marsillius also saw an opportunity, or perhaps experienced a craving. Seeking permission from his sire, he produced a potion of sorts - a muddle of herbs and vitae that would, he swore, aid noble Christof in his recovery. In return, said Garinol, Christof was to visit the Cathedral of St. Vitus and transcribe the inscription from a reliquary that Garinol could not bear to handle.

Marsillius and Christof experienced a very godly and heterosexual moment. That's what the notes say.

We needed a brief moment of OOC time here, to re-establish exactly why everyone was going to Vysehrad. It helps to keep everyone aware of all the threads and stakes going into a resolution, and also to refresh the memory of decisions made weeks ago in real time.

To summarise: Marsillius' premonition suggested he should go to the mountain and Alzbeta was going too, to pray with him. Theodericus was worried about his friends, and Libussa, and Shaagra. Mariam needed to prove there was nothing evil in the ghetto, and to confirm her Compulsion-induced belief that All This Shit Was Connected, and also her cat was up that mountain somewhere.

As Mariam and Marsillius had an awkward conversation - she can't read him at all, but no doctrine on either of their parts says they can't be friends. This was the first time, I think, that she'd admitted these people were her friends. She wanted to make right what she'd done to Katya, or caused to be done - nobody deserves to live forever as a tongueless, silent possession. Alzbeta arrived, and then Theodericus, and gosh, when he walks up with his travelling cloak and his chainmail, his long sword and his short sword and his eating knife with their lion's head pommels, suddenly it's possible to take him seriously. The age of chivalry is almost upon us, and the stories are already starting to be told; Mariam was genuinely awed by the sight of this actual knight.

The coterie made their way along the south road, by the banks of the Vitava, sneaking out of the city without lights to avoid the Prince hearing of their departure. A mist was rising off the river, and the going was hard. I should add, at this point, that it's a long and tricky enough walk to Vyserhad, on a short summer night, that nobody had a chance to feed before they left - so Alzbeta was sharply hungry at 4, and nobody was below 2.

Along the road they passed a decrepit watermill, and the two Cainites leading the way - Mariam with Eyes of the Beast, Alzbeta with Heightened Senses - pulled up sharp. Something was watching. Something in the rafters with eyes as red as either of theirs. Mariam stared it down, sheer heft and silent fury incarnate, and when she showed a Messy Critical, the watcher's will broke first; something tumbled, and fell into the stream, and was gone into the river proper in a flash. Some vast and terrible fish. Something Marsillius also recognised; the vodnik is said to take many forms, among them a pawed and scaled fiend, an old man with a ragged beard and a green felt hat, and a pike of unusual size.

The lights of Vyserhad were visible, ahead and above - so many lights. Torches and candles lining the crenellations, the battlements carved from the living mountain. A path, winding to and fro up and up. A gatehouse, and atop it a grotesque, a winged shape with vast owlish eyes, seven feet tall and not even standing upright, and - it was moving. It knew they were coming.

In the end, it was Theodericus that stepped up: they were guests and, as such, must introduce themselves. Such courtesy (and dots in Etiquette, dump skill my ass) did not go unrewarded. Szarka, warlord of the Fiends, descended with a powerful leap and greeted the visitors; trifold jaws and a foot-long tongue choked out a welcome. Mariam's lack of respect for the Prince, and Alzbeta's talk of visions, were the deciders; Szarka took them in.

Through the winding streets of Vyserhad, the Citadel; dense and shuttered, flickering candles and restless dreams all around. To the square before the immense Gothic basilica, the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul, the most nodular and extravagant architecture in the city: as though the stone itself wished for a more outlandish shape.

In the square before it, a dead tree hung with climbing orange flowers. At the foot of the tree, bare earth, and on that earth a throne, and on that earth, barefoot and languid, Libussa. Theodericus took a knee and Alzbeta dropped a curtsey before Mariam and Marsillius could even ask who this was.

She was attended by guards - orange surcoats and splinted leather, or the wide hats and staves of the wandering Chods - and by a second Fiend. This Depolt, tall and rangy, arms hanging a foot longer than is normal and four more twitching within his robes, bade them welcome in a voice semi-consistently resembling that of David Warner, and extended to them the hospitality of Clan Tzimisce.

Nervous, Marsillius chose to Sense the Unseen, and lord, did he ever sense it! The comforting light-without-light, warmth-without-warmth of the Basilica ahead, and all around, all around, beneath and below, the mountain - dark, watchful, aware, seeing him and them through every flame. Our poor boy bare shat himself, had he but been living, and tried to sneak into the Basilica to be with his God.

Libussa's head snapped round, and a voice not quite her own asked what he was about. He spoke to her of visions; of a calling from God that brought him to this mountain, and his need to pray. Alzbeta spoke of experiences much the same. And Libussa asked them if she was the royal nun the rumours spoke of (she is not; that honour belongs to Sister Agnes), and if he had seen what she had seen; been seen by what saw her.

Here follows a break between sessions. We wrapped up by establishing everyone's immediate Desires for next time. Alzbeta was discovering things about herself and God, and she wanted to know more of the Tzimisce and their ways. Marsillius was afraid, mortally afraid, and wanted to get onto consecrated ground where he was safe. Mariam was disgruntled; none of these people save for Szarka spoke plainly, and she wanted to speak to Szarka, protector to protector. Theodericus was concerned: although the Tzimisce didn't seem as monstrous and horrible as he'd been warned, Libussa still seemed ill-treated, and he wanted to ensure her well being. She was, after all, a queen. And everyone wanted more meat crimes; it was felt that I could be going harder. I still find Koldunic Sorcery more interesting than Vicissitude, but let it not be said that ol' Relleytrots doesn't take feedback...

To ease the pressure and create some better scenes, oh some absolute scenes, we (I) divided the coterie. Depolt sensed the Hunger radiating off Alzbeta, and invited her and Theodericus to dine with him; what kind of host would he be if he did not?

Libussa rose from her throne and expressed, to the air at large, that she was so tired, may she rest now? thus confirming to Marsillius that she was not in control of her own form. He recalled that she often slept on sacred ground, and asked if they could see inside the Basilica. Alas; no. Ground sacred to the White Christ is not for Tzimisce to walk upon. But Marsillius was free to try, and the Tzimisce looked... expectant. Anticipatory, even.

This left Mariam alone with Szarka, whose form imploded on itself, buckling and collapsing into a body more human, a little shorter than Mariam, patagia wings indistinguishable from sleeves, that furry mass behind her shoulders merely a fine stole, ignore that her dress is the flushed red of a blush and that her tongue is still a foot long.

Marsillius first, inside the Gothic magnificence of the Basilica, seeing and feeling Libussa's steps become lighter and more hesitant with every stair they climbed. He ended up carrying her to the altar, laying her down before Peter and Paul and Christ, and asking her, in hesitant tones: who is doing this to her?

And Libussa answered, clearer than she'd ever been before: magna mater, blood of my blood, queen of my world, the goddess Shaagra, the Dragon of Prague. She who gave Libussa the gift of prophecy; she who claimed two older sisters and two eldest sons. She whose blood was the Premsyl blood, and the secret of Libussa's four hundred years of life. And Libussa was - is - so old. So tired. May she not rest? Is there not more toil?

Marsillius, tormented - for this is how he preys, and this is the Lord's work that he does, to feed upon the dying and ease their passage from the world - asked: can she be stopped? If she is waking, can Shaagra be stopped?

Libussa does not know why you would want that. Libussa must sleep, now.

Smash cut. Mariam and Szarka, outside. The realisation that I've fucked myself with Szarka and Shaagra and, in everyone's consciousness, Sorcha. I should have used Valasca, but I got so hooked on the murder valley...

Mariam and Szarka had their heart to heart. It was a beautiful conversation: long silences and long thought, speaking true and from the heart. Mariam wanted to know if there was evil in the Josefov, or threat to it and to her people; to those she called friends; to the people of Prague. Szarka took her time to answer carefully, for hers is the Road of the Beast - she does not dissemble.

Evil in the Josefov? Not of her doing or her family's. Threat to the Josefov? Not by her will; no grievance there. Threat to the city? To others? Who can say? When the Dragon wakes, she will be hungry, but her hunger will be sated first in Vysehrad.

If it comes to blows, these two will be enemies, but they were able, here and now, to talk as kindred spirits. Mariam expressed her concern that Prince Brandl thought the threat to Prague was coming from her clan and people, and Szarka explained that he has always feared and mistrusted Zvi and the Jews; that if he spilled their blood it would not be on the hands of the Tzimisce.

There followed a discussion of who owns the city. Szarka, maiden of Valasca's revolt, warlord to Libussa the first princess of Prague, saw the city as theirs - that is to say, the Tzimisce's. Mariam, a farmer's daughter, saw a continuity: those lands she grew up tilling would never be hers again, they are her father's, and will be his son's, and their son's. What was is passed. What was built by you is not yours forever.

Both of them acknowledged they sounded like their sires. Perhaps there's something there.

For now, their conversation was over, and Mariam went inside the Basilica.

Meanwhile, by the Devil's Column on the north face of the mountain, Depolt and Alzbeta shared stories - Depolt told the tale of how the Devil was cheated and threw down this pillar on the mountainside in rage, and Alzbeta explained how her mother, in madness and fear, had pushed her into the fire to make her form less desirable to men. There was some sympathy there; perhaps she was merely mad.

Depolt explained that he could take those scars - if she wished it - but he understood if she did not wish it, if the body was where the memory was written. There followed a discussion of Disciplines, of moulding the mind and body, and a demonstration of the particularly visceral Feral Weapons to which Depolt had access. These two also have a spark between them - a tendency toward philosophy.

But then the men in splinted leather brought out a family from their home; a woman and her adult sons. A test for both visitors; Alzbeta, the Consensualist, and Theodericus, the Ventrue. Both took their lumps; Alzbeta two Stains, for doing what she did even with a prayer for the prey and letting Theodericus do the same, and Theodericus two Willpower hits, for the weight of his Bane descending. He confided, as they walked back to the square, that he found biting people like that - just like that - rather cruel, and rather crass, and most untidy. Alzbeta, shaking, could not discuss it, and fearing she would have another vision, Theodericus bore her with haste to the Basilica.

Here was Marsillius, and here was Libussa, so very tired. Would he do what he felt bound to do? But here was Mariam, walking in alarmed, saying he and Alzbeta had been right. There was something waking in the mountain, and it was dangerous, but was it something they did not want? Would they let whatever came come, and deal with the aftermath? Would fighting only make things worse?

Marsillius wondered aloud if they should warn the Prince, evacuate the city, at least warn him to quit the city - but if he did, said Mariam, he would come back and find it in others' hands and besiege it, and that would be worse. Prince Brandl was bound to do something stupid, and to blame his rivals, and the visionaries - Alzbeta and Marsillius - were complicit in that, to a degree.

What if they simply removed Prince Brandl? Would they be better off, asked Mariam?

Marsillius looked down at Libussa, maddened and weary, ancient and possessed, and asked in answer: "do you think this is better?"

Stirring in her sleep, Libussa seemed to recognise that Mariam was Jewish - they'd mentioned the rabbi in their conversation - and murmured something about that poor old man, about the Prophet of Kupala, about what she'd seen that night in May-time. That got Mariam worked up, and she strode out, intent on asking the Tzimisce which of you is Kupala's prophet -

Instead, she found Theodericus and the worrying Alzbeta, and as they hastened back inside to confer, Alzbeta dropped her bombshell: "the Prophet of Kupala is my sire."

She described him as resembling Brother Marsillius in passing - older, more haggard, less well kept - and as Marsillius spoke of his desire to save Libussa somehow, to take her from this place or grant her rest with the Kiss, Alzbeta broke down fully. She had already fed here. She had not been able to quiet that scratching dry Hunger in her throat. She had fed upon the unwilling, and - was she damned? was she evil?

That question, in this place, and the concurrent loss of Humanity? That changed things. Libussa rose, and intoned her prophecy in a voice they had not heard before:

Faith defiled shall lead you to me. Innocent blood shall lead me to you.

And within the foundations of the Basilica, within the bowels of that sacred place, they all heard it - crack.

Exit coterie, pursued by a fear. Mariam racing to warn the Jews. Alzbeta and Marsillius, clinging to each others' hands in fear of God and something worse. Theodericus, with Libussa in her arms, convinced at last that she needed to be saved - and, as the players remarked as the tension bled, they'd need her.

Here ends Act II - She Only Speaks In Exposition

Join us next week for Act III - We Gotta Kill The Prince Yesterday

[wodeward]

( Brought to my VtDA group from another RP community I'm active in: 6 characters or people that help inspire your character)

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