When they look down, they see humanity. They see a power that could change everything. They see mortals organizing into universities and empires. In the mortal world of , power shifted at the rate an army marched. For the undead, power shifts faster than a fire overtakes a haven. To the Damned, power flows as fast as blood from an ancient heart. Vampire 20th Anniversary Edition: The Dark Ages is a storytelling game of horrific power. E-Book Information Year: 2, Edition: 20th Anniversary Pages: Language: English Org File Size: 37,, Extension: pdf. CONTACT Schamberger Freeway Apt. COMPANY About Us Blog Contact. LEGAL Terms of Service Privacy Policy Cookie Policy Disclaimer. Copyright © VDOC. You can choose how you deal with it.

But you must face it. You must build your unlife as a vampire around it carefully, meticulously, lest the structures of society, culture and belief come crashing down around you. The Beast runs it course. Its dark urge ebbs and flows, waxes and wanes. To control it, to use it, you must become familiar with it. You must learn the cycles of your hunger, how much blood is needed to quiet the Beast to where you can think again, how to deal with the crash after the ecstasy of sinking your teeth into the flesh of your victim, and how to cope with the hunger creeping in again, threatening to shake the brief moment of peace you had. Exercise, habit, and rituals can focus the mind away, prolonging any one stage of the bestial cycle. Yet everything you do leads you around and around, forever until your final night. You pull back from or claw towards these stages, trying to merge this aspect of your life with that you are forced to lead and survive.

Popes, kings, and armies come and go. At the end of the night, your hunger still remains. Exposition - The Hunger Every evening you awake and something is wrong. You are hungry. You recall other evenings, evenings from another life. You would wake up, your stomach rolling within you, growling. You would eat stale, yeasty bread and sharp, salty cheese, wash it down with a gulp of flat beer and go lay down again. You would feel the chunks of food between your teeth. The mossy feel of a dirty mouth as you rolled over in bed and pulled the sheets over your head to keep out the dark.

The memory seems so far off. You always wonder why you bother recalling it. You wake up and something is wrong. You are alone. Something is lost on the translation. It sticks in your throat. Your mouth is dry. It is often dry. Hungry is as close as you can get to describing the sensation. But your stomach never growls, not ever. You growl. You lack. Yet you are so much improved from days you desired bread and cheese. Faster, stronger, deeper, keener. Still, an emptiness within you yawns. From within it, the growl comes. The demand. It shouts the price for your being, the desire of your unbeating heart. It shrieks. Playing the Game. Hungers hold hope in being satisfied. You are awake. Something is wrong. You ate yesterday. It was wet, and sticky, and hot. You remembered in life, at the height of ecstasy, panting, shuddering, sweating. Now you never breathe. You never shiver. You never sweat. You feel hungry.

Now you gulp. Gulp, lick, slurp, suck. Hot, rich blood filled your mouth, flooded your throat. The Hunger inside you melts away, dissolved by what you have greedily taken. Your greed sates it. But that was yesterday. This is today. Many go hungry in the Dark Medieval World. Food security means the difference between life and death for everyone. A ruler who controls the distribution of food throughout the land amasses power and draws the eyes and wrath of those with open mouths and empty bellies. Food does not come easily. It must be grown or found. It must be killed and it must be prepared. Food is cooked over fire in homes. Whatever cannot be eaten carefully preserved and stored away for those lean times. Food is often shared and people are thankful for it. Prayers and sacrifices are made for good crops and fair weather, to ensure at the very least, the people will have full stomachs. And then there is you, the vampire.

You cannot partake in the feast around you. The community of eating, so important to this time, is forbidden to you. It sickens you. And crueler still, the food you need presses in around you, tempting you with its scent and vigor. Feast and famine effects you just as it does the humans who mill about you. Foods you loved in life may tempt you or repulse you now, the memories of their texture and flavor a burden. The hunger you feel is more than the need for sustenance. It is a lack, deep inside, which must be filled. It is destructive, gnawing at you. The power your sustenance gives you makes it more tempting. The nature and scope of the thing you need does nothing to lessen your desire for it. You need blood. You can smell it around you. You know where to get it. It is within your grasp, yet you must not indulge. You are trying to have a conversation with the priest who has information on where the monk in question may have gone off to.

Yet you can smell the sweet odor of his sweat, feel the heat pulsing at his neck, and hear the thump of a heart still living within their chest. You must weigh your opportunities. You must feed before you become too weak, too vulnerable. Whatever you have told yourself is the reason for your nature, for the Beast which snarls and snaps within you must be reckoned with. How hungry do you allow yourself to get? How close do you walk to humans when your craving scrapes at the very edge of your cold, dead skin?

What do you do to keep yourself from reaching forward faster than they can anticipate and taking what you thirst for? Action - The Hunt If you could salivate, drool would drip from your mouth. You would slobber. The street is full of them. They walk the street. Some carry torches. Some have destinations. Others wander. Holy symbols hang at their necks and wrists. The symbols never mask the smell. The smell of dirty, hot skin, and beneath that, hotter still, is the heady, intoxicating scent of their blood. Their skin is so soft, so thin. It does nothing to mask the fragrance of what you would take from them. The buildings are full of them. They lock their doors. They hang their charms in the doorways.

These items do nothing to sway you. They cannot deter you. They do not sate you and so they cannot stop you. The warmth of the building is the warmth of those within. You wish to bury that warmth deep inside you. When you talk to them, the hunger within stirs. The chasm widens, as if to invite you in. Sink deep. Sink your teeth deep. If you could drool, you would slobber. Spittle would spray from your mouth. It would land on their hot skin. You have found someone. You have made your reasons and your excuses. This is the one, you tell yourself. If you could drool, you would wipe your mouth with your hand. Torchlight dances around you. The torchlight is for the victim. It makes them feel safe. You could see them in the dark. You have marked them. You can feel them. Anticipation sharpens you.

Your prey walks and you follow. Sometimes you follow in the shadows, away from the bright orange fingers of torches, orange fingers that pry. Sometimes you follow in plain sight. Your reasons and excuses spur you on. Your feet travel over dirt roads, through tall, dry grasses, hot, dusty sand, the haphazard cobblestones of a street younger than yourself, over the smooth stones of the temple floor. You swallow, hard. A gesture left over from another life. Your mouth would be watering. Your feet are so quiet. If your prey suspects anything, they do not suspect you. They do not suspect what you are. What you will do. No reaction comes from your body, dead but alive. Still you stalk. You follow. You draw closer. Your hunger is a blessing.

It is a gift. It will grant you success. It ties you to your prey. This is the one. Patience is rewarded with success. Success turns to surprise. You feel their heart thump harder. The reek of fear. You are real. They see you for what you are. They see they are the prey and you are the predator. They see it is too late. Still, they run. And you chase. If your mouth could water you would be drooling. At least you can throw your head back and laugh. Depending on your life and personal morals, you may stave off feeding as long as you can. Or you may embrace it as a rite of your people, knowing soon the Beast which lies coiled within you will soon be able to strike and have its fill. Eventually, you will decide the time is right and you will engage in the Hunt.

Some vampires have rituals or parameters they hunt within. They may set aside certain days for hunting or certain phases of the moon, or stars may signal the time to begin your search for your victim. Others still simply wait until their Hunger hones their Beast to a fine point, finding that keen moment where their senses are honed to the delicate instrument needed to exact their prey. Just as human hunters come with many methodologies and targets, so do vampires. Some are undiscerning and simply grab the first unfortunate who passed by as they lay in wait.

Others seek out particular individuals or frequent certain locations, knowing the type of prey they seek is likely to pass through. A number may have stipulations to lessen the cruelty they are about to force upon whoever comes into their grasp. They may lay bait for their prey, reasoning it away as compassion. At least their prey had a full belly and no cares before they were dispatched. Hunting may take place over the course of the night or over a long period of time, the vampire stalking the prey in the open or from the shadows. Perhaps to heighten the connection, to make feeding more meaningful? As a challenge? Vampires are not alone, stalking the hovels, streets, and roads of the Dark Ages. Charlatans and rogues look for purses and goods. Sex workers look for customers, selling their wares without displaying them first. Inquisitors boldly pursue heretics, torches raised high.

Witch hunters and those tuned to the supernatural search in the dark, peeking behind the veil between the worlds frayed and thin when the sun is a memory. All who linger outside at night have their reasons for doing so. Hunting is different from hunger. In hunger, the vampire is acutely aware of their disconnect from the rest of the human populace, in all the facets that may entail. In the hunt, the vampire first engages with the prey. Their senses, heightened and precious, see, smell, and hear things the prey is unaware of, the promise of taste. both goading the vampire on and forcing them to keep themselves under control.

They focus on their intended. Impending intimacy looms. Death looms. They cannot know or they will flee. If they flee, they may cry out and the hunter may become the hunted. The chronicle may require you to take your eyes from your mark. It may require you to engage a mortal in the hunt that you would not otherwise pursue on the behalf of an organization or individual seeking out the mortal demise of a liability. It may remove you from your hunting grounds or force you to change your methodology. In the hunt, you may still lie to yourself. Others stalk in the evening hours. Yet none are looking for what you are looking for, and not for the same reason. The Beast desires and the self strives to direct. You must measure yourself against your hunger and pace the pursuit of what you require.

You will have it. It is simply a matter of when. Climax - The Feeding Grip. The stretch of your mouth. You bite down hard. Teeth tear through skin, muscle, veins. Soft, tough, chewy, hot. Your mouth will not hold back. Fear shoots hot, thick blood into your mouth. It gushes. It wants to leave their body. Blood spreads itself wantonly over your tongue. You soar. It is more passionate than the most sensual kiss. It is more satisfying than the finest delicacies, more intoxicating than the headiest wines, and more liberating than the most sacred of religious rites. The Beast has what it wants, and yet it asks for more. And more comes. It flows so freely, like an offering, for you. All your reasons and excuses melt away. There is no need for justification. There is no judgment. There is no damnation. There is you. There is your mouth. There is hot blood. There is a body pressed up against yours, so close, so giving.

Your mouth is wet with it. And still, it comes. Feeding is the ultimate paradox within the vampire. It is the vibrant, ecstatic joining of two bodies, an intimacy never to be replicated. Yet the act hurls the vampire away from humanity, thrusting them farther and deeper into the darkness as the light of the human victim is snuffed out. In the act of feeding, these two contradictory actions embrace, mingle, and coalesce. The act of feeding is violent. Even when done quietly, carefully, with a sedated or sleeping victim, it is still the rending of flesh so blood may be spilled. It is Cainite versus Seth. It is Caine murdering Abel again, removing the glory the human may have brought the world. Blood, generally reserved for deities and demons coats your throat, flows through your limbs, invigorating you. The rush of the chase leads to the rapture of feeding.

More intoxicating than any Bacchanal rite, you are a childe Playing the Game. of Caine in that moment. Each vampire will have their own method and rituals for feeding, but the desire to drain the victim dry and move on to the next is strong. The Beast no longer slinks through your nightly life. In that moment, it is your life, and if you cannot contain it, it will rage, uncontrolled. It does not wish to remain in the cage of rules and rituals, only summoned to perform tricks. It wants to sink its terrible teeth and crunch bone, slurp blood and suck the marrow from those it can catch. Every feeding is the damning evidence that you are not a human. Every feeding is a frenzied proclamation as to your new, powerful, dreadful heritage.

Every drop of strange blood that fills you makes you stronger, better. Mercy is shown at your discretion. The habit of killing and the growl of the Beast makes each drawing from the vast pool of humanity easier. You long for a day where you can glut yourself, even as blood fills your mouth. It is up to you to pull back, to disengage from this fleeting connection and force your Beast back behind the trappings of law and rules you use to contain it. You have your fill, as much as you dare. As much as you can allow yourself. As much as they have. You are full. But you are never sated. The Denouement All you dared to take has been given. Warmth flows through you. The blood within you is fresh. The event is fresh. It has not been given. You have taken it.

The Beast within has had its fill. Yet still, it wants more. It is not your place to be sated. Even when your body can hold no more blood, it still seeks more. It seeks destruction. It seeks answers. It seeks justification. You would devour everything in its path, as those deities of old once did. Bone would crack, flesh tear, blood spray across your cold, lustful face. Screams would rise into the sky and gurgle, fade and then be silent under your terrible mouth. Satisfaction flees from you as this truth enters your mind, mixing with animating blood. Your face is sticky and you lick your lips. Still you want more. It is never enough. The distractions of politics and knowledge and travel and treachery and friendships and vendettas are never enough.

You bite your lip. Something else. Something different from you. They were alive. Now they are dead. And you are alone. Growing colder as the Beast snarls for just a bit more. Just one more. If you could cry, tears would fall from your eyes. A thief, you take what is not yours. A murderer, you snuff out the life of the unsuspecting. A liar, you spin truths and misdirect to hide your secret. The gorging of blood fills the vampire with hyperbolic emotions, abilities. The Beast is quieted and all your senses quick and keen, able to function without the constant whispers to feed. Human company becomes more bearable, their scent not as tempting. But eventually, the high wears off. The realization sinks in.

This may happen while your victim still lays across your lap, their limbs already stiffening in yours. It could happen after some weeks, when the first pangs of Hunger begin to gnaw, your previous feeding seeming futile. Your memories are sharp in your mind. The bodies and victims pile up. Each feeding leads to another. You and your kind remain relegated to the dark. Your kin and clan members stretch on and on, fighting and feeding, towards what? You consume and watch people, villages and cities die, fall, decay. Some vampires. may crash hard, becoming horribly depressed and macabre. Others may simply become more stoic. Others may avoid speaking of the growing emptiness yawning within them as the fresh blood grows old and then drains away during the unlife sustaining them all.

The Beast, sated, sleeps and the vampire is left alone with their thoughts, to consider their place in the world. The distractions of social and clan-related obligations may allow the Cainite to focus and recuperate from the bloody ordeal of feeding. But eventually, the Beast will stir again. And the Hunger will, again, take hold. This endless cycle will manifest differently for every vampire in the game. Some vampires will embrace all aspects. Some will drag parts out, avoiding certain stages. But no vampire can free itself from this, the need for blood and all that entails.

Other vampires are also being crushed under this circle of gluttonous desire and exultant pleasure, even those who embrace their vampiric nature completely. The famished and the feasted all walk the shadows of our Dark Medieval World. There is no escaping the cycle. How you approach your own vampiric nature will affect your fellow characters and your place in the society of Cainites. An outside observer might think that writing a Cainite history would be simple. At the very least, he might suppose composing a history of the last thousand years would be a simple matter.

After all, the events in question are in living memory—or at least, something like living memory. I will take a moment to note here that, despite my ability to compel the truth from them, I have found the histories dictated to me by ghosts are only slightly more reliable than those of the living. These passion-warped shades cannot be relied upon to provide an objective account of anything, but their accounts are entertaining, if nothing else. But I digress. It is my contention that the long-lived nature of the Cainites renders the composition of a concise and accurate Cainite history all the more difficult. Let us take the example of Prince Mithras of London.

He claims to be the founder of Mithraism and source of its mysteries. By popular account, he styled himself a living sun god and enjoyed the worship of elites all over the Roman Empire, but evidently grew bored of being a deity and decided to enjoy a bucolic existence in London. I do not mean to cast doubt upon the formidable Prince Mithras himself. It is an extraordinary claim, but Mithras is a most extraordinary being. I wish merely to highlight that not only has our history been written and rewritten to suit the victors for millennia, but also that our histories are simultaneously of outlandish scale and yet entirely plausible. I do wonder what they will write of Constantinople in a thousand years. Will they remember it as a glorious paradise ruled by an angel, tragically undone by treacherous outsiders? Will they remember when it was Byzantium, ruled by Cappadocians for a millennium before their arrival?

Will the texts recall the plundering of our libraries, the massacre of our clan at the hands of the Latins? Will Cainites a millennium hence tell a version of history that is utterly unrecognizable to those who lived it? If we could see ourselves a millennium hence, would we even recognize ourselves? It is impossible to say. Our world has many histories. Some are secret. Some are common. Most of them contradict one another. Some of them might even be true. It is the task of the reader, then, to which version of history they will accept, and which lessons they will learn from the past. Who was it that sent you? Did your sire make you, then realize just how very tiring the whole thing is? How hard it is to raise a fledgling vampire up from the mud? Pay it no mind. No mind at all. You, come sit here at my knee.

Count your blessings, aye? A hundred Cainites or more came and sat here to hear this, and now you join a proud tradition. Someone murdered you, childe. Someone decided that your life was to come to an end. only that we are gone. You wipe your eyes again with my apron. Your body, mine, all of us, are made of sin. What a human can do we can do better. We can run faster and see in the dark. For most of us, our bodies become more perfect visions of what we were as humans. No, not me, childe, but I am a special kind of sinner. You are a creature meant to steal virtue and arouse vice. You drink blood and tempt the holy with your strange secret powers and your allure. What else have you noticed? The heart, aye? Sad, that. Did I say that you are stronger? Throw yourself from a parapet.

Get kicked by a horse. Even a well-intended thrust by a man-at-arms will hardly slow you down. When the stake is removed, he will rise, most likely hungry, mad, and bent on revenge against them that incapacitated him in the first place. Odd, aye? All your memories, your feelings, your attachments are still there. You still feel guilt,. A heavy heart over your first kill? Oh, I see it in your eyes. Does that comfort you? And if you do? You fall to the Beast. You become a creature not of sin, but a creature of destruction and murder.

It moves behind your eyes, testing the confines of your ribcage like your heart is its prison. It needs your body to survive for it to survive, and so, it will keep you alive if you know how to find equilibrium with it. When you fly into a rage and kill off the competition invading your territory, that is the Beast ensuring you have enough blood to survive. It is your nature, anyway, and nature can be terribly cruel. THE BEAST. Midnight Courts and Churchyards nywhere you go in the world, so far as I can tell, you will find vampires. And anywhere you find vampires, A 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. 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. Poor bastards. 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? 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. 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. 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. A calf is born knowing how to walk. You barely know even that. What your instincts fail is telling you how to live, night to night, cursed as you are. 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. 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. 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 monsters are 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. 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. Clans Both High and Low ye? As with humanity, how we were reborn, and to whom, as well as where and when, can matter more than a lifetime of right unliving. Much of your eternity was decided for you by the actions of your sire and his ancestors. before him, long before your heartbeat for the first time, never mind when it beat for the last. And it is these sins before you that color all your nights before you. Let me explain. We come from families, all of us, you and I and that Prince in her tower. These families, round about thirteen in number, each manifest their damnation in special ways.

The Curse gives each family a way of survival. To further the example, my accursed blood was granted the ability to hide from sight so as not to frighten my prey. There is a family of serpents that can make you love them with a smile and a gesture. The list goes on. These are clans. Your clan is as much the shackle that punishes you during your damnation as it is the freedom and power you wield and the politics you will have to dance around forever. They have rights granted to them without earning them. They bear privi-. leges just by virtue of being murdered into a lineage. Usually, who is considered High and who is considered Low becomes a tradition in an area. And thanks to the Celts, my Clan Nosferatu has long been a Low Clan. Fact is, there tends to be reasons why the High and Low is what it is, and each city has its own justification for those positions.

The Roads I know, my little love, I see that sadness in your eyes as you soak in what I have to tell you. While the majority of the Damned spiral down and burn up in the first ten years or so, some of us hang on to who we are or what we someday hope to become. We find a sort of spiritual map to guide us away from giving in to the Beast and the oblivion that promises. These maps are highly personal, but certain schools of thinking are followed with their own guidelines for what makes a smart vampire, or at least what makes a moral one. We call these Roads, and they vary from the familiar to the inconceivable.

Your grandmother is what they call a Prodigal, because I follow a Road very similar to my morals in life. There are those whose morals align themselves with the rights of gentry and kings, or those who follow Roads that seek knowledge above all else. I know a Gangrel barbarian of considerable age who functions, thrives even, by following a Road that makes peace with the Beast rather than holding it at bay. I have seen that it works, even if I cannot fathom it myself. There are dark Roads, and Roads practiced by people from cultures so far from what even I know that they seem alien, but we must be careful what we label evil when it comes to surviving the night. Evil is highly subjective when it comes to a culture of murderers, and sometimes, anything that helps you hold on another night is worth almost any cost.

You are lucky, because Grandmother Penne will tell not only what they are, but why they are what they are. They are the Traditions, but which ones, I wonder, are the right ones? My curse is thine, and my salvation is thine.

Home World Of Darkness: Vampire - The Dark Ages [PDF] Includes Multiple formats No login requirement Instant download Verified by our users. World Of Darkness: Vampire - The Dark Ages [PDF] Authors: Onyx Path Publishing PDF Add to Wishlist Share. This document was uploaded by our user. The uploader already confirmed that they had the permission to publish it. Report DMCA. The Mongol army crushed Baghdad, then Russia under its heel, then moved on to devastate Poland and Hungary. The Holy Roman Empire stood to war with the Papacy. The second Lombard League wielded the word of the Pope and fought off Frederick II. The War of Princes rages.

Patricide looms. Young powers look up the ladder to the next rungs, and see stagnation and hypocrisy. They see targets. When they look down, they see humanity. They see a power that could change everything. They see mortals organizing into universities and empires. In the mortal world of , power shifted at the rate an army marched. For the undead, power shifts faster than a fire overtakes a haven. To the Damned, power flows as fast as blood from an ancient heart. Vampire 20th Anniversary Edition: The Dark Ages is a storytelling game of horrific power. E-Book Information Year: 2, Edition: 20th Anniversary Pages: Language: English Org File Size: 37,, Extension: pdf. CONTACT Schamberger Freeway Apt. COMPANY About Us Blog Contact. LEGAL Terms of Service Privacy Policy Cookie Policy Disclaimer. Copyright © VDOC.

When you fly into a rage and kill off the competition invading your territory, that is the Beast ensuring you have enough blood to survive. Generation: How many steps a vampire is from their progenitor, which denotes how potent her blood is. When you talk to them, the hunger within stirs. This book uses the supernatural for settings, characters and themes. We guess the Scourge, but really, no way of knowing.

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