Anywhere you go in the world, so far as I can tell, you will find vampires. And anywhere you find vampires, you will find us practicing most of the same customs and idle pastimes. We meet in pairs or small groups, we wage shadow wars against other small groups, we plot and plan, and we make sure that our downfall, as well as the downfall of our enemies are a sort of spectator sport by those untouched by the drama.
We call this society, though it has as much in common with society as rats fighting over the pickings on a corpse. We align ourselves by family lines, we vie for affection, protection, and power handed down by monsters that are our elders in age and strength. And we bicker, backstab, and collude. Sometimes we kill, but that’s rare, as the first draw of Final Death can turn so quickly into a spiral of
revenge after revenge. In most counties, we give up our rights to murder one another to one final authority. In this part of the world, we tend to call these leaders Princes.
I’m told outside of Christendom, they have other titles, and sometimes, very different ways of doing things. And anywhere you find us, you’ll find a succession of older and older monsters, those who have seen more and more of the extremes and limitations of forever. Poor bastards. Sooner or later, ten years dead turns to a hundred years dead, unless you’ve gotten yourself destroyed.
A hundred years becomes two hundred in the blink of an eye. For those of us who do not eat and drink at the table of humility like myself, that age flies by and leaves an elder hungry for more than just blood and sin. It leaves them hungry for conquest and the power like unto God.
The War of Princes:
In these modern nights where travel, communication, and mechanical wonders leap forward at such a pace to leave old ladies like myself confused and a touch afraid, we have the War of Princes. These nights that are so very holy, and yet, they pass without the Voice of God (if you follow the Pope, that is; we are without a Pope after all). It is in these nights, that the eldest and most listless of us war endlessly over land and power and esteem and sometimes nothing at all.
The Audacity of Youth
Was there peace when I was young? That’s a difficult question to answer, but at least, in my wild youth, no great Prince demanded I sneak away as fast as my legs could carry me to conduct clandestine war against the Prince of Cardiff.
I have witnessed, to my sorrow, a generation of childer Embraced for no purpose other than quick sortie and death at the hands of other childer Embraced elsewhere for the same ends. I will tell you all I can in hopes of preparing you, but alas, I weep inside knowing what your fate is so likely to be. Here, I will lower my voice so that we may not be overheard, though such a thing is unlikely. Know that there are youths who have not accepted the endless wars as their only fate. They reject the Right of Princes and the authority of the eldest. They draw from dark histories and mythologies. They gather even now in the forgotten or forsaken places in London and indeed all over the world.
I would not say you should go that way, but it is no more likely a death than the way that was planned for you at your making.
Social Distinctions:
The oldest books, records, and recollections of the
eldest tell us that we have done the things we do now since God threw Caine out of Nod. How our modern minds operate so much like ancient ones tells you this: change is potentially impossible for us as a whole. May I live so long as to see those words proven false.
Age:
Oh the claim of age! See how I lord it about when
anyone comes to order me about. Pah! But pay my bitterness little mind. Grandmother Penne has always been a Fetch and Carry sort. Now I am simply an old Fetch and Carry sort. For some, though, for most even, age brings with it a granted and obvious shine of respectability. This is a dangerous world we have all been Damned into, and I would say, surviving in it for any length of time is a thing to consider, if not respect in its own right. Any vampire who has lived even a year longer than you may have something to teach you, or at least have a thing you can learn on account of them. While you have no reason to love a monster with decades or centuries on you, it may be wise to give ‘em a nod and a bowed head so long as they’ve got knowledge on how to survive that you don’t.
If they’re willing to teach, then aye, maybe respect is a thing they can earn. If they refuse, ah well. You can draw the knowledge out in other ways.
Fledglings
A fledgling is a youth, a wee, just-born demon fresh
from their bloody end. That’s you, my love, still under your sire’s wing with more to learn than a fresh-birthed calf. A calf is born knowing how to walk. You barely know even that. You’re full of instincts, of course; the Beast guides you to fear fire and sunlight, and that you need to feed to live. What your instincts fail is telling you how to live, night to night, cursed as you are. That’s where your sire comes in, or if you’re very lucky, Grandma Penne. You are an afterthought in most Cainite courts; a non-being who has not earned the right to even be called a vampire. You may find that your needs are secondary to every other you meet, and there is little justice for you that is not granted you.
Neonates:
When your sire’s had about enough of you, or else
has decided that you’ve learned what they can teach you, she’ll take you to her elder, and usually her Prince, and release you formally from her ward. Two things happen in that moment. First, you are awarded a thousand new freedoms. Second, you are tossed to the wolves. Now, you are a vampire in your own right with your own responsibilities and respect. But make no mistake, to many a vampire, a childe so young as a neonate is still disposable.
To many, you are, at release from your sire, a new pawn on the board, and one every vampire around you may hope to manipulate to their own end. Or else, they may simply hope to destroy and consume you for whatever terrible reasons they have.
Ancilla:
So here now is a wretch worth paying attention to, aye? An ancilla is a member of the Damned who has managed to hang on for a century or two and not gone so insane as to be put down. To the youngest of us, they may be more accessible than elders and saner, so worth listening
to. The eldest of us may still see them as disposable, but since they are so much harder to dispose of, better to use than simply abuse. If you need a thing done right – an elder assumes – you get an ancilla to do it. Never mind that a wise ancilla has lived long enough to know her best bet is to pass along her duties to a neonate to keep her own skin from the fire.
Elders:
Sometimes, we beasts last a long time. Forever maybe, or so it seems to those of us who reach these impossible ages. Most vampires grudgingly agree to call a vampire three hundred years or more an elder, though as with any claim of age, manifestation of great power is more important than documentation and years gone by. I know a lad I’ve
got centuries on who most call elder because he’s better than I am at throwing around his potency and creating an air of terror and authority. Not so much for this old bird, though. Still, an elder is a terrible thing, a vampire of centuries who must have killed dozens or hundreds of times. Do not think for a second that you are a special exception to them.
Methuselah:
Due to my advanced years and incredible patience,
I have myself once met a Methuselah. The encounters are always hair-raising, with palpable fear. These monstersbare a thousand years or more, and are barely human in their way of thinking. They are clever, ancient, and willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want. At that age, few things can stop them from their desires. Do whatever you can, my little fawn, to never be between a Methuselah and what he wants. Or worse, never be the thing a Methuselah wants. A Methuselah’s powers are unknowable, and often only rumored. Do not cross one. And should they cross you, flee just as fast as you can.
Antediluvians:
Lastly, we have the Antediluvians, those Damned
grandchilder of our mythical founder. If they are real – and that I cannot say – they would be thousands of years old.
They exist only in stories, so far as I can tell, and those stories are as varied as the clans. Each one is said to have founded one of the thirteen clans, though there may be more or less of them now, thanks to ancient blood feuds and betrayal. We hear rumors of other clans from other parts of the world which throws our understanding to the winds. Sometimes they are said to be all dead. Sometimes
they are said to sleep eternally, exhausted by their own age to wake at the end of nights. Sometimes they are said to be awake and about, pulling all our puppet strings in a war as ancient as mankind’s birth.
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