“If you can think of anything more terrifying than that happening to you in the middle

of the night, then let’s hear about it.”

— Roald Dahl, The BFG

Daddy Long-Legs

Even when being pursued by a coterie of Camarilla partisans, Nathaniel McCabe never ran. The Weirdling advanced confidently, in long strides befitting his stature. He needed to remain focused on everything he knew about his trackers. He stopped to check his trail, the neighborhood, and his appearance in a reflection. Popping his collar and adjusting the brim of his hat, he approached a nearby house. As the moon peered out from behind a cloud, he knocked the door with a signet-ringed finger.

Without pause, he made eye contact with the pitiable man opening the door, his black orbs penetrating his victim’s wavering pupils. “Permit me enter, stand vigil, and fire this gun at anyone fixin’ to follow.” His voice lisped through fangs in a tuneful accent, and didn’t await a response as he jammed his derringer into the man’s sweating palms.

Nathaniel took the stairs four at a time. The gunfire downstairs signaled imminent peril. A disheveled woman bursting from a bedroom with a pistol in hand was given short shrift, as with the flick of Nathaniel’s wrist a burst of blackness tipped her over the landing.

The upturned tricycle on the lawn, the family station wagon; each were clues leading him to this perfect battleground. Not much of a mystery, but Nathaniel adored conundrums of any complexity. As he entered the bedroom, he leered widely at the confused pair of children. They looked up at him, one clutching his Action Bill figurine like it might offer some form of defense, as he shouted “Mom! Dad! Help!”

“They ain’t gone hear you.” The sound of feet tramping upstairs echoed around the house, as Nathaniel painted a simple spiral sigil on the door. He grabbed one boy and jerked him out of bed as he backed his lanky frame into the far corner of the room. Happily, he realized he must resemble some freakishly big daddy long-legs.

The door burst open, four Kindred on the other side of the threshold bearing teeth and claws. Earlier in the night, he’d discovered one of the few Camarilla holdouts remaining in D.C. As a result, his elimination had become a priority for these agents of the Ivory Tower.

“You gone done it now, licks.” As the vampires entered the bedroom, bedlam took its toll; the ward’s effects penetrated the intruders’ minds. Three of them clutched their heads, stumbling like drunks as they fumbled for an exit they found impossible to locate.

Nathaniel’s smugness faltered as he observed the ever impressive Tabitha Prester hanging back, leveling her shotgun at the Kiasyd. “Your wards won’t work on me, McCabe. I’ll blow you to fucking kingdom come before you tell a soul about our haven.”

With amusement, McCabe watched as Tabitha attempted to mouth an answer. Her eyes questioned, but her body would not move. “I know all about you and your weaknesses, Tabby. I done read Vitel’s old diaries pretty well. I might could be leavin’ with this boy, as insurance, you unnerstand? Don’t pursue now. I’ll hurt him bad, and it’ll be all your fault. Just like last time.”

Even when pushing passed four stupefied Camarilla with a child in hand, Nathaniel McCabe never ran. One of the fiercest Gangrel in D.C. tried to form words, but instead, vitae just leaked from her eyes.

The Black Sheep

A wise Cainite once said; “A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.”

I just lied. William Blake was never a Cainite, more’s the pity. He’d make a fine member of our bloodline. I daresay our falsehoods are believed more readily than any bona fide facts I could present, yet truths are requested, so truths you shall get.

Just don’t blame me if you do not believe them.

You know the Kiasyd of tonight to be a bloodline of the Lasombra Clan, and are well-read enough to know also we are descended from Marconius, the founder of our kind. There are no Kiasyd outside that lineage.

Any theorized weakness we have or had due to connection with creatures known as “fae” or “changelings” is purely hypothetical. We’re far more than mere Cainites, not less.

I did intimate you may not believe me. Wet your quill. Use the — heh — inkpot over there. The words you write shall be my testament. You’d do well to refer to them before questioning others of our blood.

The Toils of Marconius

Marconius and his sister Hrotsuitha were magi.

I see your quill’s already ceased scratching. You heard me correctly. Now, the Lasombra weren’t known for their dabbling in thaumaturgic arts, but it’s remiss to believe our august Clan hadn’t Embraced some mortals familiar with the power of the Abyss.

Marconius and his sister were such scholars. They were consumed by the idea of creating the perfect being, possessed of vitae, the dreams of changelings, and the souls of magi. If an alchemical mixture comprised of such glorious components could be fed to a subject, the organism created would be perfection embodied, and elevate the creators to godhood, surely.

Oh, the caprice of magi. No amount of experimentation kept their constructs alive.

In an irony that even now embitters Marconius, he was brought into Clan Lasombra due to his mortal status as an influential noble. His sire wasn’t even aware of the alchemical brilliance Marconius possessed. Still, our founder put his new powers as a Cainite to use. He gave the Embrace to his sister, and then attempted to Embrace their latest experiment.

Still no joy. The heady concoction Marconius created affronted God and science. After being given doses of several distilled wondrous creatures, the subject was drained of his blood, before receiving Marconius’ vitae.

The subject emitted a hundred voices of the Abyss before melting into a pool of oily substances.

It was Hrotsuitha who unraveled Marconius’ Gordian Knot. Unlike her brother, she focused on learning the true arts of the Lasombra. She claimed the components of the experiment were correct, but the environment and sponsors were not. The creation must be made within the Abyss itself, out of God’s sight and with the blessing of a group known as the Thallain.

Alas, by this time Marconius had lost all wealth and title to his Clan, and was unable to locate a perfect subject. The Lasombra ever have been Cainites unafraid to kick their childer into the dirt and keep them there.

Don’t write that.

In an act of faith and sacrifice, Hrotsuitha volunteered herself as the final test subject. With heavy hearts, the siblings entered the Abyss.

Marconius’ account tells us he fed Hrotsuitha some ungodly brew of vitae, Unseelie, Abyss, and the Lord knows what else, while creatures of living nightmare bred and destroyed around them. He then drained her dry. He never told anyone what became of his sibling, but her fate was likely unpleasant. He returned, still a vampire, yet possessed of unusual endowments marking him as other to his fellow Cainites.

But, was his experiment a success? Was Hrotsuitha’s sacrifice in vain?

The jury’s still out.

The Family’s Shame

When the Amici Noctis discovered Marconius’ acts they were displeased, to put it mildly. He’d Embraced without consent, performed experiments within the Abyss without permission, and had returned visibly changed.

Marconius’ reward for his experimentation would have been destruction, were it not for the intervention of Boukephos. The Lasombra Methuselah saw some merit in our founder, and instead instructed he be held in an oubliette, segregated from the Clan but allowed to continue his experimentation with the Abyss and beasts of all types.

It’s worth noting it took up to 80 years for his confinement to take effect. During this time, Marconius’ actions are mysterious. It’s said he visited Castel d’Ombro as a guest, Embraced a score of childer, attempted to reverse his condition, and even opened a permanent gate to the Abyss beneath the Alps. Unraveling fact from fiction when it comes to Marconius is a Sisyphean task, so don’t bother.

The Lasombra attempted to suppress knowledge of Marconius’ existence, but somehow the Toreador of the Courts of Love — it’s from the Dark Ages; look it up — discovered his actions. The Keepers were overwhelmed with shame. Kiasyd were not fit for the noble Clan of the Night; therefore we were removed from the Clan’s annals, and from polite society.

A New Dawn

Lasombra’s murder changed all that.

The Kiasyd’s role in the Anarch Revolt is minor. Supposedly, the Toreador offered us protection around the same time Gratiano sought advice from one of Marconius’ errant, free childer on how best to vex his sire, the Lasombra Antediluvian. It could be propaganda, to give our line undue credit, but the childe — known these nights as the Arcadian — swears it to be true.

Recall what Blake said of truths and question why the Arcadian assisted a Clan that shunned us like mongrels for centuries, when a better offer from the Toreador apparently existed.

Nevertheless, the prisoner in the oubliette was released once the Anarch Revolt was stymied, and the Sabbat was picking up pace. We eagerly awaited Marconius’ emergence from the black, to discover what he’d worked on during his long imprisonment beneath Castel d’Ombro.

Sadly, Marconius had become an imbecile. Unrivaled alchemist he may have once been, but the Marconius who tentatively peered from his cell was an institutionalized moron. He was afraid to leave, and when forced, babbled incessantly about the things with which he’d been forced to share the dark.

When I encountered the Arcadian recently, I raised the question of why Marconius never sent himself to torpor. The Arcadian answered he had indeed done so, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the unending screams of the Abyss.

With time, Marconius recovered some composure. Note I say “some.” If ever left alone he would riddle himself into a frenzy. Sometimes it was worth listening at his feet to pry pearls of wisdom from his otherwise inane ramblings, but he’d succumbed to a state we call “bedlam.” Despite moments of lucidity, he’ll never be fully there again.

These nights Marconius holds the title of Prince of Strasbourg. Yes, Prince. More on that later.

As for the rest of us, the Sabbat gave us the option of remaining in Strasbourg with Marconius, or migrating widely, restricted to two to a city at most. I can’t speak for their logic, but the latter option was accepted by elders among our line. It was the best decision we could have made. We were free, and so widely traveled we’d all be able to become experts in our own, specific fields, without fear of bloody rivalries rearing their heads.

Our Sect

Of course, as members of the Sabbat, we were expected to participate in the ritae, join packs, and engage in the antics of our less urbane allies. I can’t speak for the entire bloodline, but I feel we

never bought into the idea of Caine veneration or Antediluvian slaying. To butcher a metaphor; it’s a race in which we lacked a horse. For the purposes of diplomatic relations, we shared the occasional goblet of vitae — but heaven forefend we drink directly from another vampire’s dirty vein — and participated in crusades against the Camarilla.

We made inroads along the Paths of Enlightenment, as philosophy was an area in which we’ve always shone. Some of us threw ourselves wholeheartedly onto these Paths, giving eternities away for research. It’s one of the few areas in which Keepers prized our existence. As we began to codify the Paths of Lilith and Honorable Accord, our cousins warmed to us. In the main, however, we kept ourselves secluded and continued personal research without interruption.

And what research! The Kiasyd obsession with study is through breeding. That is, we Embrace learned persons from an array of difference expertise. This habit started in 1716, when it was realized far too many simpletons were being Embraced for reasons of beauty and martial prowess. Such sires were sent strongly worded letters by those of us who knew better, I can tell you.

You laugh. Have you read one of our strongly worded letters?

We spent our time discovering treatises on the Abyss, the fae, and blood magic, as well as making inroads into the power Marconius’ experiences bestowed. I’ve never begrudged the abilities of our line, but I do know many became prey to mortal inquisitors due to our appearances. Being other is occasionally a cross to bear.

Winter Rosebud

n

A REFRESHING CONCOCTION HARVESTED

FROM THE VEINS OF TOREADOR, SPICED WITH A SPRIG OF MINT AND SERVED OVER ICE —

THE WINTER ROSEBUD WILL CLEAR YOUR HEAD

OF ALL TROUBLES. A PERFECT APÉRITIF TO

DRINK UPON WAKING.

DESIGNED IN THE FAMOUS KRAKÓW BAR MLECZNY

The Great Symposium

The subject of blood magic came up repeatedly in our research, compelling us to meet together. It seemed a fine road to power through understanding, and segued nicely with our other esoteric preoccupations. In 1666, at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Strasbourg, we secretly arranged the first Great Symposium. This was in contravention of the Lasombra orders that we remain separated, but our excitement overwhelmed thoughts of abiding by such a pointless ruling.

Our initial meetings were splendid, with polite comparisons of study over refreshing goblets of rich vitae. Even Marconius was there, smiling and nodding, though he seemed away with the fairies, if you’ll excuse the phrase. It was there Isanwayen introduced our number to drinking from flayed bodies, explaining how it was preferential to letting blood oxidize, or risking infection by drinking directly from the filthy skin of a vessel.

You’ve not tried it? I cannot recommend it enough, especially from virginal vessels. The taste is pure gold.

I’ve become distracted. Ah yes; blood magic. We considered that, beside us, the most advanced vampire state was exemplified by the Tremere. Marconius was of similar — albeit not Hermetic — heritage, and the alchemical mix of the most dangerous predators upon this Earth was within our vitae. It seemed likely with the correct trials we could advance further. Marconius began to talk profusely and sagely on the secrets the Abyss and Thallain would gift us. He also advocated reaching out to the Tremere.

That’s when the arguments started. “You’d alter our blood further? Look at us!” cried some. “We must steal the blood of the Tremere as they did the blood of the Salubri!” proclaimed others. “Alliance with the Warlocks betrays our Sabbat sponsors!” announced the occasional Kiasyd trying too hard. My point is, in the 100 years we’d drifted; our views had changed substantially from one another, if indeed they were ever similar.

The fourth Great Symposium, held in Constantinople in 1866 was cataclysmic. We’d invited a Tremere — that tattooed virtuoso of Skopje, Pyotr Stanislav — to this event. We wanted him to hear the promise of our lines working together, forming vampires even more evolved than his Clan or our bloodline.

Alas, many took umbrage at his attendance. Maybe it was due to Sect leanings, or Kiasyd seeing the Great Symposium as an affair exclusive to our bloodline, but bloodshed was the result. Kiasyd killed one another as we allowed ancient disagreements to become battles. Valuable research was destroyed in the inferno that followed. Such valuable research. I still weep to remember the papers I lost.

Oh, Stanislav didn’t make it out either.

Since then, it’s been hard to find members of our bloodline who trust one another. We lost so much at the Symposium, and no few of us believe it was a calculated attempt by the slower thinkers to sabotage the research of individuals outpacing them. Resentment and civil conflict reverberated through our bloodline. One month before the Great Symposium of 1916, Pherydima found her entire dissertation on the true names of Abyssal entities stolen by another Kiasyd. Fae sigils were left at the crime scene. Once upon a time, such a heinous offense wouldn’t have been dreamt of by the lowest Weirdling. The thief was never discovered.

The Great Symposiums were canceled for the entire 20th century. Thankfully, their reprisal’s due next year. Hopefully, it signals a new era. I pray tempers have cooled sufficiently to allow civil discourse, exchange of information, and the magics of advancement our line has long been due.

Has your ink ran dry? Cut a new hole, for now we enter the present.

Ladies, Gentlemen, and Other

If the skin is too hairy, shave it before writing upon it.

We are other, as far as vampires outside our bloodline are concerned. We’re therefore entitled the status of “bugaboos,” which

comes with as many perks as it does disadvantages. Should one of our line desire attention at an esbat, all she need do is show her face. Should the same Kiasyd wish to strike terror into her enemies — or friends, for that matter — she must simply smile.

Unfortunately, being on the fringe has also lost us the trust of other vampires. Our practices seem unusual to others, but come as second nature to us. The heart wants what the heart wants, and all that. Just because other Clans are so unrefined as to balk at feeding from sleeping children and drinking changeling blood, doesn’t mean we can’t profit from their lack of sophistication.

Bloody Politics

Our small voice in the Sabbat grows louder these nights, due to the earnest efforts of Béatrice L’Angou in Montreal and Reverend McCabe in Washington D.C.

McCabe’s a dandy and talks like an Appalachian televangelist, but he plays the political game well. He’s a highly respected Noddist Bishop, and lately there’s even been talk of his stepping up as temporary ruler of the capital in Archbishop Vykos’ absence. These rumors have roused the jealous anger of various Lasombra, but none can deny McCabe was integral to the collapse of the corrupt bishopric within Detroit.

McCabe espouses an elevation of bloodlines and antitribu within the Sabbat, decrying the constant deferral to Lasombra and Tzimisce as the leading cause of our Sect’s failings. Given the growing numbers within his target audience, his is an easy cause on which to pin one’s colors. His words resound with enough truth to make listeners ignore his translucent flesh. The Sabbat would do well to continue his message.

L’Angou’s knowledge of the Sabbat’s history is second-to-none. Her ability to recall names, dates, words exchanged, and pack territories in every Sabbat city goes beyond impressive. Sages from throughout the Sword of Caine make pilgrimage to Montreal to get the truth of a contract signed centuries before, or clarification on archaic points of contention. She’s often utilized as peacemaker between warring packs, and has even arbitrated disputes between Prisci.

Béatrice is an inspiration. She’s attempted to unify our bloodline after being burgled by the traitor of 1916. There’s now a bounty on the thief capable of making any Kiasyd’s head turn; five decades as Béatrice’s apprentice, and freedom to review any of her texts, should the thief be caught. Never before has she opened her library’s doors. Contrary to my

expectation of this offer leading to bitter competition, lines of communication have re-opened between long estranged Kiasyd, in an effort to benefit from Béatrice’s largesse.

The Sabbat isn’t the only Sect in which we grow prominent. You recall I mentioned the Prince of Strasbourg? Marconius has been so for a decade now, finally taking up the offer of Toreador sanctuary. The Lasombra of Spain made a strangled noise when it occurred, but even they care little about him. Any assassins they send run the risk of discovery by watchful Camarilla, and as Marconius has always been seen as a raving fool, it hardly seems worth the effort.

Giangaleazzo, he is not.

Of course, Kiasyd fond of conspiracies may doubt Marconius’ madness. Maybe he spent his last millennium playing chump so the Lasombra would underestimate him. Perhaps now that he’s got the safety of the Camarilla and has mastered the qualities he acquired through communion with the Abyss, he’s something more than Kiasyd. Maybe he can now entreat the Tremere as an equal, as he readies to lash out against all who wronged him. The Camarilla won’t have taken him in unless he had something to offer, after all. Or perhaps he’s intending on betraying Camarilla to Sabbat!

Wheels within wheels. Stare too long, and you become dizzy.

McCabe and Marconius aside, Kiasyd rarely engage in politics. We’ve always been more entranced by research, the accumulation of knowledge, and its application. Whether creating life or something more metaphysical, we’ve gained the urge to create since our Embrace. The Sabbat allows us to play doctor more freely than the Camarilla, but we do appreciate their Masquerade. Since Marconius’ swerve, a number of Kiasyd have silently followed him to Camarilla domains and met little resistance. The Tremere seem quite keen to experiment with Kiasyd vitae, and vice versa. I suppose the greatest affront is the Sabbat seem happy to let us go. It’s nice to know how valued we aren’t.

Despite their rudeness, I’ve always felt at ease in the presence of Clan Lasombra. They wear the Abyss like a cloak, and we are byproducts of the Abyss. Yes, we’re treated like scum, but if they weren’t around I doubt the remainder of the Sabbat would vouch for us. Lasombra encourage us to study for them, take on risky experiments for them, and generally endanger our existences for them. They think we’re lapdogs. They don’t realize how much we enjoy the role.

Redcap Nightcap

n

FOR A FLAVOR YOU WANT TO SAVOR, YOU CAN DO A LOT WORSE THAN THE REDCAP NIGHTCAP. LIQUID DREAMS SQUEEZED

FROM THE HEARTS OF FAIRIES, MIXED WITH A SHOT OF RUM, AND DOSED WITH A DRIZZLE

OF ASSAMITE JUS; THIS COMPLEX

MIXTURE IS ONLY SERVED IN ONE LIBRARY — THE RENOWNED NEST IN NAIROBI, KENYA, WHERE ISANWAYEN PLAYS HOST.

Rewarding Research

We’re unashamedly obsessed with knowledge. We hunt it, study it, experiment with it, store it, and occasionally trade it. Contrary to popular opinion, only some of us are fulltime librarians. We’re as prone to wanderlust as any vampire; possibly more so. Yes, our eldritch appearances hinder visiting overpopulated areas, but we’ve never liked crowds. Too much filth and disease.

Kiasyd the world over make expeditions to the darkest tombs and most obscure libraries. Odd little curiosity shops nobody visits are our catnip. (Cats are tidy creatures, by the way. Keep them around your haven, if you don’t mind scratched furniture.) There’s no crevice we won’t probe for hidden knowledge, you understand. We thirst for knowledge.

Our drive to learn and experiment comes from many sources. Some Kiasyd pursue knowledge to become fat spiders in the center of sprawling information networks. Returning to my original point; truth is a dangerous thing, and when you know everyone’s secrets, the Jyhad becomes your plaything. Our powers enable us to command others to tell us their most deep-seated fears and discern lies with ease.

Those of us who follow Marconius’ lead still desire to create something new, and better than our current form — a supreme life, an apex predator, a being existing in both dreams and wakefulness. We track down myths of chimera — no Tzimisce fleshcrafted dross — and seek to surpass their perfection. In this, we find common cause with the Ravnos and their antitribu. Our association with the Deceivers has increased in recent time.

Ravnos possess a power that should be ours. This isn’t accusation of theft as much as statement of fact. The Ravnos can access dreams as if they were tangible; forming illusions with thoughts and fists. Yet they do not know dreams like

we know dreams. Nightmares aren’t in their blood. It’s become a priority among our kind to help Ravnos in need, and aim to receive tutelage in their arts of illusion. Your kinsman Bartholomew theorizes if we could master it, we would elevate ourselves to a new form of being.

One truth that became a lie surrounds our former proficiency in the arts of necromancy. We never became masters of the dark arts, but it was an experiment we chose to pursue in the cause of advancement. Alas, our studies were far from profitable. We drew the beady eye of Giovanni, and our new allies, the Harbingers of Skulls. Threats of violence were leveled, and we were told, in no uncertain terms, it wasn’t our province. Bartholomew was the first to concede such accusations were correct; we are not necromancers. Indeed, according to him, we never practiced necromancy. We’ve denied dabbling in necromancy ever since, and will do so until these lies become truth.

We’ll Drink Anything

Don’t be mistaken; we don’t feed from beggars and drug-addicts. Some experiences aren’t worth sampling. For such a low test, you pay some indolent Pander to drink the blood for you, and watch the effects it has on his awareness, form, and mood.

No, we Kiasyd are alchemists, and our bodies are the mixing bowls. Our forms are changed at the point of Embrace, just as Marconius’ was from the time he ventured into the Abyss and drank portions of creatures fair and foul. We would change ourselves further. Lupine, changeling, magus, demon — all are palatable. The cocktails we mix are art to behold. We compete regularly with one another on who can craft the next exciting concoction, and record the effects it has on the drinker. The next Great Symposium will be as much about sampling vintages as it will be about comparing books.

There’s a school of thought among some Kiasyd that each Clan offers a different taste to the drinker. It’s not as simple as Brujah tasting fiery and Ventrue tasting cool; there are pronounced variations in the blood. Several Kiasyd now make a hobby of capturing Cainites just to sample them. A brew of unadulterated Toreador in a glass is very different to a goblet of one part Giovanni, two parts Lasombra. Trust me.

As with many aspects of our bloodline, differences in drinking preferences have caused rifts. A Kiasyd cocktail club in Kraków formally declared war on another in Osaka, not that the two will ever meet. Apparently, their disagreement stems from their differing thoughts on vitae quality from a vampire donor exposed to the sun’s rays. Such a minor thing, but we all want to be right.

You may question why — with our interest in experiments and physical transmutation — we do not mix with Tzimisce. It’s a good question. The harsh truth is we harbor aversion for Fiends who experiment by adding new orifices, appendages, and similar. It’s all so vulgar Yes, there are rare metamorphosists who impress with transcendency of the physical form. A cabal of Kiasyd has attempted to follow their Path of Metamorphosis, as it does speak to the part of us craving change. You’d do well to study it. Alas, most Tzimisce are simple children who’ve not yet passed Freud’s phallic stage, and so cannot be approached. They have no refinement, and it’s offensive to compare their experiments with ours.

I will hear no more on the subject!

From the Outside In

Throughout our meeting, you’ve been pulling disgusted expressions whenever I speak truths. Truths are, frankly, impolite to air. Our bloodline does not make the mistake of telling other vampires the truth, and risking impropriety. We remain civil, even aloof, when met by other Cainites. It’s easier to lie when wearing a mask of politeness and couching dialogue in deference, use of titles, and formalities. We sip vitae from silver chalices, dab our lips with handkerchiefs, and nod sagely as the Archbishop speaks.

Not so when among our own. Airs of graciousness are dropped during the Grand Symposium, for instance. Among our kind, we speak with candor and honesty likely to horrify others. We practice acts I dare say would even make debauched Toreador antitribu blanch.

When we feed in private, the masks drop. I know of a Weirdling cauchemar who creeps into sorority houses to feed. If the grounds fall in the territory of another vampire, he feeds without leaving a trace, except for perhaps pleasant dreams in the mind of the vessel. If the grounds fall outside of said territory, and the Kiasyd knows himself to be alone, the inside of the sorority house becomes the scene from a nightmare. Expect survivors so traumatized they’ll never recount the events. They’ll likely kill themselves before anything other than screams leave their freshly lipless mouths.

We’re not savages or sadists, as a rule. Everything we do is done for a reason: experimentation, pushing our boundaries, drinking blood from a wailing vessel when compared to a weeping one, and so forth. We record the results in our diaries, and when we meet fellow Weirdlings, we share our findings. Some Kiasyd feel

the need to remain in touch with their Humanity, and that’s acceptable, if limiting. If they can contribute to the greater work of our bloodline while imitating genteel vampires of legend, more power to them.

Personally, I savor the intoxicating taste of fear.

Lyssa’s Froth

n

THE TASTE OF PURIFIED RAGE IS POTENT INDEED, AS LYSSA’S FROTH PROVES. PRIMARILY FORMED OF

LUPINE BLOOD — PART-COAGULATED THROUGH SHAKING — INFUSED WITH AN AROMA OF ALMONDS

AND BRINE, WITH A SPLASH OF SODA, WHIPPING CREAM, AND SUGAR SYRUP;

THIS MULTIFACETED BREW IS BEST CONSUMED FROM A TALL, SILVER CHALICE.

Lies, Damned Lies

The Kiasyd bloodline of Marconius is the only one extant. This is fact, but a hard truth to swallow for those who claim differently. Such liars need to be put down quietly and properly. There are many lies doing the rounds these nights, none of which hold a grain of veracity.

One is Hrotsuitha has returned from the Abyss after a millennium submerged in its tendrils. Supposedly, she’s quite insane, violent, and seeks to do irreparable harm to Marconius and his descendants. A few Kiasyd have fallen silent in the last decade, but I attribute this to torpor or a natural desire for seclusion. Boogeymen stalking our dreams and eating us from within is a nonsense tale, designed by Kiasyd with rampant imaginations. Talk of Weirdlings claiming to be of her bloodline is likewise poppycock.

Additionally, there exists the dangerous myth that it’s possible to Embrace a changeling. This lie gathered momentum some centuries ago. Falsehoods with enough impetus can become truths — at least until they’re quashed. I tell you now; Embraced fae do not become Kiasyd. They die horribly. To concede the possibility is to concede our founder is no more than one of the fair folk, unlucky enough to have been on the end of a Lasombra’s fangs. It would also mean everything he ever told us was a lie.

In our case, I prefer the truth with bad intent.

Character and Traits

Concepts

Elysium Mixologist

You’re a regular at Elysium, but not as one of the hoi polloi. You tend the bar for kine and Kindred alike, practicing your craft of cocktail mixing to the delight of the punters. An Old Fashioned is nothing. A Ramos Gin Fizz is barely an effort. A Bloody Mary? Now you’re getting somewhere. How about a Zillah’s Vitae, or Tweaking Blood Doll? Your bizarre appearance is seen as part of the act, as you shake up blood and rum, with blackcurrant and zest of neonate. You may not be a traditional alchemist, but you’re sought after for entertaining in multiple domains.

Jekyll / Hyde

The prospect of making your aberrant form something more evolved — greater than a simple vampire — appeals to you on every level. You’re unafraid of launching an expedition to hunt lupines or ensnare changelings to get the necessary quantities of their blood, souls, and other parts, just for the purposes of consuming them and recording the effects. You have a laboratory to which you bring back test subjects, either for draining, or to feed them new, dangerous mixtures.

Mr. Sandman

You discreetly maintain an expanding herd of unwitting victims; those incapable of fighting back. You like to whisper in their ears between drinks, use your mental influence to crush their wills, and visit them nightly as a thing from their darkest fantasies. Your growing network of traumatized vessels has become quite the opportunity. Just think of the deals you could make with licks who desire easy prey, or the resource you could offer Kiasyd when the next Great Symposium is hosted in your town.

Merits and Flaws

The Necromancy Lie

At the Storyteller’s discretion, Kiasyd may take the Discipline of Necromancy instead of Dominate, but in so doing earn the Clan Enmity Flaw (V20, p. 492) twice, both for the Giovanni and Harbingers of Skulls. Freebie points aren’t gained for taking these Flaws.

subconsciously creeps up. The difficulty of any Appearance roll is reduced by three. A Stamina roll is required by anyone in your presence for longer than one scene, if this is the first time they’ve encountered you. Failure drives them away from you with a sickness wracking their body.

Combination Disciplines

Kiasyd Alchemy

Until now, the Kiasyd practice of alchemy has resulted in a bevy of flavors, if not successful functions. Lately, however, some of their bizarre mixtures have begun to alter the forms and powers of those who drink them. Some claim this is due to the awakening of Hrotsuitha, while others mundanely state after a near millennium of research, it would be more surprising if nothing had been achieved.

At Storyteller discretion, Kiasyd cocktails may convey temporary benefits, such as increased Strength or points of Protean through consumption of a werewolf-based drink, greater affinity for Thaumaturgy or astral projection during the day by drinking the blood of magi, and temporary immunity to the sun’s rays or use of Chimerstry through drinking from fairies.

Such powers should come at a cost, however. Increased likelihood of frenzy, becoming subject to bizarre coincidences when using Masquerade-violating Disciplines, or being hunted by illusionary entities are all possible penalties for indulging in the macabre field of blood alchemy.

The nightmare’s four independent tentacles each deal lethal (the Kiasyd’s Strength +1) damage through constriction, which can be resisted with an opposed Strength roll (difficulty 6 for each tentacle). The nightmare’s mouth deals aggravated (the Kiasyd’s Strength +2) damage after successfully grappling the sacrifice with its tentacles.

The nightmare has equal health levels and resistances to the summoner, who can soak damage with Stamina and Fortitude. Damage inflicted on the nightmare does not affect the summoner.

This power costs 21 experience points to learn.