Everything

“What’s one more meaningless act of violence on that zoo of a planet?

It would be appropriate. When in Rome; burn it.”

– Iain M. Banks, The State of the Art

Masks that Grin and Lie

A Fable Agreed Upon

As written by Khurshid, Wearer of the Sun Mask

History is only what is written. When it goes unwritten, it becomes a source of endless conjecture. The past of our lineage is remembered by me differently than how my sire remembers, or the kin with whom I share this mausoleum recall, so we play a game of who can tell the more tragic, inspiring tale. Perhaps there will come a night where a single account strikes us a resounding blow of realization. Perhaps not. The River Lethe takes memories from one, and there’s no guarantee of their ever returning in full.

I feel it to a degree pleasing to shroud our past in layers of mystery and seals of tar, not dissimilar to the wraps festooning the cooling bodies in this cellar. If we cannot know truth, then neither should any outside of our blood. We Harbingers sailed our ferries to the darkest pits and made an odyssey of our return. It’s only natural we should wish to forget fragments of that grueling journey, and what made us set forth in the first place.

My sire claims we were not born in the Shadowlands; we were created there. It’s a poetic aphorism, but perhaps not Truth. I recall my being a Harbinger long before I entered the Underworld.

Torn and Bleeding Hearts

For millennia, we chose to be known as scholars, ascetics, and diplomats. Our rich knowledge made us indispensable to other Cainites. We honed ourselves in hundreds of fields, but advertised few. In Persia, Greece, and later Rome, we became loyal subjects to magi, philosophers, and emperors. Rarely would our full array of powers be exposed, allowing us to dance in the background as empires fell, and learn from the mistakes and successes of others. I’m told of the time Emperor Caracalla of the Romans was slaughtered by his own men at the advice of one of my Harbinger brethren, who was herself in his employ. She gained little obvious benefit from murdering Caracalla, except to study and record how his followers rebuilt afterward. She carefully observed the variation in how the soul of a ruler exits a body, compared to when escaping the mouth of a deceased peasant.

As it turns out, there’s little difference to be noted.

Our line was rarely renowned for its proficiency in the field of conflict. This was deliberate. I was cupbearer to the Malkavian warlord of Diyarbakır. Despite my position, my true skill was in laying waste to Theodosius’ soldiers through use of blade, horse, and understanding of pestilence’s carriage. My sire was a poet of Zamya, who channeled his art through the rotting corpses of loved ones. He used those same corpses as unerringly reliable killers. Our skill in dealing death was as sharp as our knowledge of its forms, but it was a secret talent.

We were a diverse family, but the relationships between mentors and apprentices were bonds of true kinship. As unappealing as we were to look upon, our vast collection of talents put the Ventrue and Followers of Set in debt to us with pleasing regularity. All the while, we concealed gifts and honed disciplines, preparing for the possibility of one night crushing the Cainite masters with whom we consorted.

This is where we Harbingers differed from our Clan’s core. We possessed a cohesive focus: becoming relied upon, even essential to the working of courts far and wide. Our information network spread through the Underworld and back to the lands of the living. While our kin experimented with corpses, we opened channels to cavort with spirits. The Long Night’s end could have been brought about centuries before the War of Princes commenced.

Such potential was laid to waste due to Ashur’s deliration.

Our Clan was bonded only through veneration of our Father. We were the progeny of Ashur; a name oft given to vampires who succumb to the parasite feasting on their souls. Others called him Cappadocius, or Anubis, or Laodice, or Kizurra. His identity matters less than one would

think. He ultimately became a deific symbol for abuse and manipulation. It’s rare for any Harbinger to not think of our Father and succumb to vestigial abhorrence. My disgust for this vampire is absolute, as despite our fulfilling works, he saw fit to sacrifice the majority of his childer — his family — as grist for the foul mills churning in his soul. Ashur possessed profound deficiency in sanity, honor, and awareness. He ever lacked the shard of a soul leading to peace and resolution, and was constantly driven to revelations that further muddled the little wisdom he possessed. As we reached our zenith in multiplicity, buried deep within Cainite domains ranging from the Gothic Kingdoms to the Pyu City States, our doom came at his command.

Father deemed us unworthy of this immortal life. He ripped our hearts to pieces as Set did to Osiris, and we were too afraid of this insane demigod to resist the edict. I witnessed my sire, four childer, and hundreds of my kin descend into oblivion because Ashur elected on a whim to punish them for transgressions never adequately explained.

We could have fought back. We should have. To my eternal shame, I didn’t lift a finger as I watched my beloved childer disappear into the darkness. Knowing now what they went through, I despise myself for not following them.

Lazarus

Lazarus resisted. Father’s childe rebuked the fallacy of our failure, and led a horde of fellows from Ashur’s slaughterhouse to the safety of Egypt. We survivors called ourselves “Lazarenes,” and diverted our death magics into assisting the Followers of Set, for whom Lazarus possessed fondness. I followed Lazarus in anguish for my personal loss, and rage for the contacts, agents, and plans put to ruin by a maniac’s purge.

“Of what dire crime could we be so guilty as to surrender eternal life?” was a question asked frequently by Lazarus and his disciples. We spread throughout the African continent in efforts to coax any surviving, disenfranchised members of our Clan to the fold, using Lazarus’ honeyed words of vengeance and former glories. We occasioned to travel overseas to do likewise, but Ashur’s minions were keen to obliterate us when we encountered them. From this point, the shadow war between the sycophantic devotees of Father and we Lazarenes commenced, and never really ceased.

Our mantra was simple: “We will present Ashur with the skulls of those he murdered, before shredding his soul as he destroyed ours.”

Some among my kin place our founding as Harbingers at the point of Ashur’s great betrayal. Lazarus united us in hatred for Father. I realize before — when we acted as regal worms in the bellies of other Cainite domains — we lacked a formal title. Despite this, it was mostly the former Cainites I knew — and know — as Harbingers who flocked to Lazarus’ banner.

In any case, titles lack relevance in the greater story.

The Followers of Set requested tutelage in necromancy, offering half a millennium’s protection as payment. They were keen to use our gifts for tracing the spiritual path of their god. There were those among us who taught Setites basic rituals and powers affecting the body, but Lazarus was clear we must never explain how the souls of the dead may be summoned, or their lands entered. This agreement survived for little over a century before the Serpents’ demands became such that if we refused, we would be cast to the desert winds.

Our greatest assets were ever the clandestine information we accrued in our centuries of service to other Clans, and our gifts of necromancy. When it came to our survival, we chose to divulge all information accumulated on the domains, personages, and abilities of the Assamites. It was a grand cache of intelligence, which I understand the Setites put to destructive use. Begrudgingly, the Setites ensured our sanctuary was maintained for a few centuries more.

Purging the Sin

True disciples of Lazarus would have you believe he manipulated the Giovanni family into their betrayal of Ashur and his vapid lickspittles. I’m not nearly so blinded by devotion. Lazarus saved us from Father, but he was unprepared for the Giovanni’s pogrom.

We all felt reverberations from the attack. As Father’s spirit splintered, and a part plummeted to whatever hell awaited it, his descent acted as an anchor. Those of us not pulled to the Shadowlands in his wake were mystified, and unprepared for the regimented attacks the Giovanni brought against us. If Father delivered the mortal wound to our Clan, theirs was the killing blow.

I consider it a disgrace that we were forced to retreat to the same Underworld prison Ashur sent our kin. It was the one place the Giovanni were too weak to explore. Lazarus implored us to retreat, and offered salvation even to the adulators of our dying Father, if they were prepared to forsake Ashur and his hold.

With haste we tied up affairs, aware of our impending death sentence. Cainites who knew and appreciated us could not understand our swift, yet melancholic actions as we settled debts and archived records for lifetimes to come. The destruction of Father was — although a joy — also a great shame. This was vengeance denied, snatched by capricious fledglings and neonates. Few of us communicated reasons for our depressing exodus to the tender mercies of the Shadowlands. Lazarus advised that a city of vampires in the Underworld awaited those of us who could find it, but few discovered the trail. For an interminably long time, we roamed the lands of the dead, tormented by the wraiths we once attempted to control.

The fate of our kin who remained in the lands of the living is known to Cainite scholars, but some footnotes were lost. Notably, one Roger de Camden petitioned for our Clan’s admittance to the Camarilla. My understanding is while Clans Brujah, Nosferatu, and Ventrue agreed to the proposal, the Toreador, Tremere, Malkavian, and Gangrel quietly decided no alms would be given. Their rejection damned my wayward kin. The budding Camarilla drew our ire for their inaction.

Ashur’s acolytes were ours to punish, and the Camarilla allowed Giovanni to play executioner.

Voyage down the Styx

The Underworld is a terrifying place to spend a single night, let alone several centuries. The majority of Harbingers lost their minds, bodies, and spirits to hungry wraiths, and

to each other. It took years to develop rituals allowing us to feed from beyond the Shroud. Until that time, hunger forced us to subsist on herds — few of which survived more than a month — and then cannibalism.

The numbers diablerie cost us are more than I care to count. In truth, I cannot remember much of existence in the Shadowlands. The rivers of the damned steal memory as we drain blood. Sometimes the Shadowlands find a way to plant a new reminiscence, its nightmare-weaving inhabitants taking delight in driving us insane with conflicted memories. We were attacked relentlessly. Some Harbingers slew themselves. Others became convinced they were ghosts. Years trapped in the Underworld forced many to torpor, but the Shadowlands are no haven in which to rest a head.

We had always resembled corpses, but swimming the Lethe savaged our bodies. It’s reckoned by some Harbingers the Lethe scoured our flesh as we were recognized as false inhabitants of the Shadowlands. We became lost among one another, forced to adopt masks in order to recognize former friends and foes.

My theory — perhaps addled by memorial hatred — is our faces were lost to Ashur. The Giovanni who thought him destroyed did not realize they sent a portion of his soul to the Shadowlands. I recollect being damned as traitor to the blood, my very countenance stripped as I was castigated for failing Father. Deferred sentencing due centuries before. Even in this state, Father’s disappointment in his progeny was supreme.

Moments of elation in the Underworld were fleeting, but when they did occurr, we celebrated with merry dances of the dead. The rare occasions we encountered members of our line long thought lost to the Underworld were joyous beyond measure. I reencountered my sire in such a fashion, and we celebrated with the theft of a Giovanni ghoul from across the Shroud, dining on him for weeks.

Throughout our time in this hell, we spied and intruded on the plans of Cainites and mortals. We offered wraiths tortured by Giovanni our future aid against the Venetians. All we asked was peace. Our numbers were depleted, but a detente formed. Our information networks grew, along with our caches of rich intelligence on Cainite behavior and court intrigue. From our safety beyond the veil, we became the ultimate voyeurs.

Over the years, a vampire calling himself the Capuchin appeared to us, offering guidance to sanctuaries not threatened by Tempest, Spectres, and worse. He was our guardian angel in times of great woe. We would make

The Importance of Masks

Pogroms have slaughtered the Harbingers for over a millennium. Whether from within or without, fate has been intent on periodically whittling down the numbers of the Lazarenes, scrubbing their identities from history books and in the case of their time in the Shadowlands — their own memories.

Harbingers known as the Disciples award members of the bloodline masks implying status, role, and achievements prior to and since their reemergence. They range from plain death masks to baroque constructions of stunning complexity. Aside from providing suitable disguise in Elysium and at esbat, each imbedded jewel, painted frown, and curved horn tells other Harbingers something of the bearer’s past, so even if they forget, others might remember.

A mask might state whether the wearer is fool or scholar, necromancer or diplomat. Each precious stone indicates a ritual created. The curvature of the mask’s nose tells how many Giovanni the wearer’s slain. The mask’s resemblance to a lost Harbinger confirms true status, as the Lazarenes are dedicated to avenging their fallen ranks.

offerings to him as if he were some visiting god whenever his cloaked form approached. In retrospect, we supplicated ourselves disgracefully. When he showed himself most recently, and removed his mask to reveal the visage of Lazarus, we knew he would return us to the lands of the living. He came to us with a promise:

Omens Enacted

As spoken by Marchesa Liliana, Wearer of the Triple-Faced Mask

You will be told many times these nights how we serve one vampire or another. Primary among all concerns is we are not slaves. We practiced the servile role as a subterfuge for generations, but that time is past.

Ah, but what of Lazarus? If the ancient Cappadocian has anything to do with us, I’ve yet to see evidence. I’ve not met him, nor heard his voice, nor do I follow the authority of those so close to Antediluvians. I was never Cappadocian. I was always Harbinger. Others claim differently, but this is my truth.

I say with certainty, our bloodline harbors a quite instinctive hatred for the vampires calling themselves Giovanni and Camarilla. I could proclaim Giovanni as rivals to our realm of necromancy, due to their meddling in matters ethereal, but I know our loathing for the family and the Ivory Tower goes deeper, to the lowest level of the Underworld, where the Neverborn and a portion of our Antediluvian dwells.

Our Antediluvian is the important factor. We despise the Giovanni for slaying Cappadocius. This may appear contrary to our hate for the Clan founder, but listen; Cappadocius was no fool. Every step of Giovanni betrayal was utterly orchestrated by Cappadocius and his underlings.

You ask “why?” A lesser scholar would attribute such self-sacrifice to insanity, but Cappadocius’ mind was on a higher plane than we mere immortals. Do not try to understand the workings of a god.

If you must hear my theory, it’s a simple one: Cappadocius reviled us as much as we loathed him. He was frustrated by our failures; in a great convulsion, he decided he would start anew through the Familia Giovanni. His death was a small part of the plan. Cappadocius lives on through fragments. One within Augustus Giovanni, another within the Shadowlands, and the final bound somewhere in the Skinlands.

We do not hate the Giovanni for their act of murder, or for their theft of our vengeance, but for their being unwitting tools of Cappadocius. The Camarilla likewise. All are ignorant to the alien behavior of their founders; intelligences beyond comprehension. The Sabbat — despite

the tangled strings controlling the organization — are the only vampires who recognize the danger, even if they fail to understand the nature of the threat.

We’re driven by pure instinct to annihilate those servants of Cappadocius and his followers, the Giovanni among them, but where possible, we will give the option to join our enterprise. Rejection of our mercy will see them reduced to ash, their souls bound to our army of the dead.

I tell you this; revenge is a mere stop on the road to glories denied us. It is imperative you move beyond instinctive hatred of Giovanni, and become like the Harbingers of old. We can be great again, whether your ambition mirrors the dreams of entropy spread by Lazarus’ disciples, is a wish for the destruction of Antediluvians and their vassals, or you desire to command the legions of wraiths with whom we’ve made alliance.

Greatness awaits us. Doom awaits all who oppose us.

Flesh on our Bones

As declared by The Gentleman, Wearer of the Medico Della Peste Mask

You truly are dismal little neonates to believe all we intend will be carried out through our meager numbers alone. As the beautiful Marchesa made clear, we Harbingers make inroads to disassemble the fine structure of Clan Giovanni, snatching bloodlines here, reintroducing ourselves to submerged Giovanni who never partook of the purge there. The Rossellini are my pet project. Long mistreated by the Venetians, they all but leap at the prospect of serving new masters offering them a manner of reprisal.

Revenge is a succulent course.

As we Harbingers of old would bury ourselves in the courts of our enemies, new Harbingers from among the Premascine Giovanni, along with Rossellini and Pisanob families, will become Harbingers within their own Clan. They have but to lose their faces.

When we were at our height, the Harbingers were the skeleton of Cainite society. You’ve no doubt heard the old Malkavian proverb attributing Clans various body parts. We glued those fleshy parts together, whether they realize it or not. A body should not be without a skeleton, for it grows soft and pliable. How is it you think the cursed Antediluvians manipulate the Camarilla with such ease? Our absence caused this weakness, so now you see why Laodice and the nascent Camarilla were so enthusiastic for our annihilation.

We’ve renewed relations with the Followers of Typhon, or whatever they call themselves these nights. We remember their oath of protection, and their failure to protect. They may be Serpents, but the eldest among them honor pacts and have been suitably meek when presented with requests for a renewal. We therefore spread throughout Setite domains with little reprisal, even being awarded territory, as we possess proficiencies and knowledge Serpents still crave.

It strikes you as hypocritical how we lay abed with vampires who outwardly worship their founder, when we know the dangers such daemons present. Rest assured, little neonate; Lazarus has addressed this issue. The vampire known as Sutekh is gone — shattered into infinity — but the Setites do not believe this. We play the game of manipulation better than they, as we are not smitten with promises of divinity. Through our consorting, we continue to tease them with the promises of necromancy, while gaining the benefits of their peculiar, faith-based powers.

The Lasombra mystics of Iberia have become partners in the years since our return to the lands of the living. It’s all very well proclaiming your membership in the Sabbat, but if one of the pillars does not stand for you, you might as well be screaming into the Tempest. Thankfully, several prominent Lasombra — including those notorious Knights of the Abyss, Sir Talley and Lord Rickard Argentis — have taken an interest in our voyages through the Underworld. They believe we know something of their Abyss. We call it by other names, but the Neverborn denizens of the Shadowlands and those alien beings with whom the Lasombra consort share undeniable similarities. Keepers have thus supported Lazarenes attaining positions of sectarian prominence in the Americas, and we are beholden to them for this kindness.

We’ve regrettably failed to make accord with Clan Tzimisce, to date. I recall nights when we acted as chamberlains and spymasters in their castles, but the bloodline has thinned and lost all pretense of nobility. I’m told Cardinal Alleluia of their Clan denounces us as “eaters of souls,” which is rich coming from a vampire infamous for her practice of diablerie.

Despite our lack of success so far, you’d do well to parlay with the Fiends, and find common cause. Surround yourself with members of their Clan, and share vitae if you must. Become the eager Sabbat recruit they want you to be, and we may gain some traction within this cumbersome Sect.

The Camarilla does produce some vampires of a high caliber. Our greatest sorrow is in the withering of our fine friendship with the Ventrue. Like the Tzimisce, few these nights would know us to look at us. In truth, the Ventrue were our favorite

marks. If you manage to work your way into the good graces of a Ventrue Prince, little neonate, I should think my heart might beat for the first time in over a millennium. You could, perhaps, even be forgiven for joining the Ivory Tower.

Healers of the Soul

As muttered by Abraham, Wearer of the Gatto Mask

I truly have little time for your bemused questioning, so allow me to be germane.

Clearly, we would strengthen our line through the Embrace of mortals. Yet the disciples of Lazarus make it clear we’re not to Embrace until every last Lazarene is rescued from the Shadowlands. It’s an ongoing ordeal, and frankly, I see no end in sight.

Do not interrupt me, pest! I am getting to you. Yes, your existence proves not every Harbinger follows Lazarus. Some indeed have Embraced since our reappearance. Hells, I know of Harbingers Embraced in the 18th century, as some escaped earlier than most, through use of experimental rituals I personally developed. The numbers have always been low, with such progeny treated poorly by Lazarus’ disciples.

By my reckoning, all newly created Harbingers ought spend a duration within the Shadowlands to gain a flavor of our struggle. Those who do fly their sire’s cloying coop and visit the Underworld are more highly regarded, returning with skulls permanently scored of flesh.

I anticipate a change in our line’s attitude towards childer in coming years. We are few, and most suffer a violent form of what the kine call post-traumatic stress disorder, among other diseases of the mind. Centuries locked in the land of the dead produce such symptoms. Children are said to be healers of the soul, however, and the positive behavior of Harbingers who have Embraced is notable, when compared to those who still struggle to leave sepulchers for fear of being consumed by the Tempest.

Now, get out of my library, and touch nothing as you leave. Wretched fledgling.

A Delightful Hiding Place for Weary Men

As whispered by Erebus, Wearer of the Pantalone Mask

Everything you’ve been told is a lie. I don’t recognize one of these Cainites as kin. Let me tell you why.

I’m a wraith.

You think me mad, but in truth I am just one who knows the truth. When a vampire spends masses of time in the Shadowlands, they lose segments of their soul. They live a half-life. They can never return in full unless a wraith takes possession of their body. You see where this is going?

Yes, many Cainites journeyed to the Shadowlands. Cappadocian, Nagaraja, Lamiae, Erinyes... Scores have made the Descent of Orpheus, but by the time they return, the Styx has rearranged their souls. It convinces them of a past that never happened. It’s all subterfuge to put Puppeteers such as myself into Cainite society as sleeper agents. When the time is right, the Lady of Fate will activate hundreds of wraiths riding their hosts.

We’ll ferry the entire desolate civilization of vampires to its rightful place. These creatures have cheated Charon for too long. It’s time to be delivered. Lazarus knows, and he would keep you all ignorant for his own purposes. This can’t be permitted.

Why am I telling you? Well, my friend; the time has come.

Wake up. Your flesh is a vessel. Take the reins and cast off the lie.

He Who Controls the Past, Controls the Future

As decreed by the Wearer of the Capuchin Mask

You’ve suffered greatly for centuries, but now your suffering ends. You’ve rejoined your kin, the Harbingers of Skulls, and you’re to live up to your name. The suffering you felt will be repaid to our enemies a thousand fold.

I’m proud to call you disciple. You always were, before you descended. You do not remember. I forgive your confusion. You will remember. You were ever my disciple.

Our Father would see himself made God. You know his sadism. You know we cannot allow this to happen. The Sabbat is the best vehicle for our virtuous fury. We shall strike down his Giovanni pawns, the Clans of the Camarilla who serve their own Fathers, and the childer of Lazarus who would subvert our bloodline for their own aims.

Everything shall be rendered unto nothing, so we may rebuild. Trust only in the Capuchin. Trust only in Japheth Cappadocius, as you have always trusted.

You will always by my disciple.

Character and Traits

Concepts

Carnevale Masquer

The devil hides best in plain sight. You organize enticing Elysiums for the Camarilla, and thrilling esbats for the Sabbat. Your face isn’t acceptable in polite society, but neither were the countenances of the syphilitics and leprous nobles of centuries gone by. Like them, you’ve a selection of masks, allowing you to circulate with your lessers as they spill their secrets. When the time is right, you’ll split Cainite society open down the fissures you’ve created with destructive intrigues. As the world falls apart, you’ll be tripping the dance of the dead.

Conflicted Disciple

You’re an adherent, but doubts wrack you. Lazarus rescued you from destruction twice; by saving your hide from the insane Ashur, and by sending you into the Shadowlands when the Giovanni came knocking. You’d lay down your existence for Lazarus, but you question his altruism. All he asks is your ascent within the Sabbat. He says it’s the best weapon against Ashur. You hone your Necromancy and offer tutelage to other Sabbat, yet the more you follow Lazarus’ decree, the more you realize your liberty to choose. You’re tempted to use your new freedom to escape the repetitive entropy afflicting your bloodline.

Shadowlands Shellshock

Harbingers of Skulls who spent any length of time in the Shadowlands often bear the mental scars, after years of harrying by horrifying spirits and worse denizens of the Underworld.

Derangements such as Amnesia, Fugue, Paranoia, and Schizophrenia are prevalent among Harbingers of Skulls. If you wish to take one as a Flaw, discuss the symptoms of your character’s Derangement, and your Storyteller can assign it a point value.

Rossellini Turncoat

The Milliners can go fuck themselves. They constantly complain about their treatment by the bosses, but they go no further than moaning. You found a way of climbing the totem pole without having to kiss Venetian ass for an eternity. These Harbingers will let you do whatever you want with the spirits of the dead, as long as you sabotage the Giovanni. These Lazarenes even said you can “keep what you kill” when it comes to the war with the Venetians, and you’ve got your eye on the soul of the stunning Claudia. The cost was high; your initiation was pain beyond anything you’ve felt, and the tortures the Harbingers’ wraiths then visited upon you was worse, but a month (or was it a year?) later, and you’re ready for action. A shame your face has atrophied, and your body is catching up, but a styling mask and a tailor-made suit conceal the worst of the damage.

Combination Disciplines

Necromantic Rituals

Generation of the Acheron Vortex (Level Two Ritual)

Harbingers of Skulls who taste the blood of Lasombra find their link to the Styx reawakened. Under the new moon, the necromancer must spill blood comprising Harbinger and Lasombra vitae into any body of water (from a puddle, to an ocean) and listen to voices from across the Shroud with a ritual such as Call of the Hungry Dead (V20, p. 177). A vortex forms, with each point of blood spilt making the whirlpool last an additional turn. Stepping into the vortex takes the vampire to the Shadowlands equivalent of the body of water, and a single person (mortal or vampire) can follow for each turn the vortex is still active. The ritual works in reverse, but requires the expenditure of two blood points from each individual following the necromancer from the Shadowlands to the Skinlands, and can only take place on a night under the full moon.