Welcome to the Unofficial Vampire the Masquerade Swansong Archive! In this blog, I'll be reposting content from Swansong's official site and other relevant content (news, lore) on the game!
While the rats are involved into their power play, valueless and squeaking, he remains calm, wise, reasonable, beautiful. Give up the throne, bring the undeserved loyalty back.
Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong will be available on Steam on the 25th of May, 2023, after over a year (originally released on 19th May, 2022) of being an Epic Game Store exclusive.
Archived from the official Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong website.
Three short stories were posted on the official Swansong website, providing more information on its main characters.
Originally posted on 6/24/2022 at "news.vampire-swansong.com", this entry's spotlight was on Boston's reigning Prince Hazel Iversen, detailing her background, beginning and rise to power. Other characters mentioned include Berel Underwood, Quentin King III and Iversen's sire, Nathan Appleton.
***
“I expected more of a struggle, if I’m honest.” Hazel Iversen watched on as Berel Underwood’s ghoul tapped away at the ceramic mold, creating the indentation she’d requested to symbolize her reign. Soon enough liquid gold would be poured inside, casting a signet ring suitable for the Prince of Boston.
“Oh, no. Don’t be foolish, my Prince. We supported you because you were the right choice for the role. I dare say, anyone else who stepped up would have faced a harder climb, but we, the city Primogen, were only too happy when you seized praxis. Truly.” Underwood bared his teeth in a smile, utterly insincere, but then, it didn’t need to be. He didn’t have to like Iversen to accept she was their Prince in this uncertain time. “And I’m sure your jewelry will wow the other Kindred at court. I’m sure of it.”
Prince Iversen stepped closer to the artist and his fine tools, being careful to not obscure the light, but keenly observing his every motion. “I don’t give two shits if the courtiers are wowed. But I will look the part, Underwood. King had knights, pageantry, and some idiots thinking he was King Arthur. I can’t exactly follow that with business attire and board meetings, can I?”
Underwood shook his head. “No, no, of course not.” He thought back to the last century of Quentin King’s reign… The small number of highs… The vast array of lows and assorted humiliations. Never again would the Primogen Council permit a Malkavian to take power, he was sure of that.
“And I could do without the sycophancy.” Hazel shot him a glare. “I came up the hard way. You know my story, so I won’t repeat it. I don’t need you licking my boots to know you’re supporting me.”
Underwood fixed that insincere smile back on his face. “Of course, my Prince. What good would I be were I not an honest critic and domain councilor? You can rely on me to lick nothing but what you present to me.”
The jeweler struggled to stifle a laugh as he continued to work, pretending to ignore the conversation taking place right over his head.
“Jesus Christ, Berel… It’s not like I don’t know you pushed your sire for praxis before me. Grow a spine.” Satisfied the jeweler knew what he was doing, Hazel Iversen left the back room, stepping out into the store, and then into the market. It was uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Maybe the city knows there’s a new manager at the helm… She ensured her collar was straight, her cuffs were visible, and her shoes were clean, before walking to her car.
In her wake, Berel Underwood listened for Iversen’s car engine before returning to the jeweler and leaning over him, blocking the lamplight entirely. “If these pieces you make are anywhere close to the quality of mine, I’ll take your eyes. I’ll push my thumbs into your sockets and pop those eyeballs out. And then, I’ll bite them off! Do you understand me?”
***
“Nathan Appleton? I thought he was dead.” In a time before, Hazel Iversen drummed her fingers on the boardroom desk at Iversen Freight, and stared crookedly at her fellow board members.
Ever since her father died it was her duty to run the business, and though their freight and haulage services performed well throughout the New England region, she was alone, without allies in the industry. Her fellow board members were always attempting to push her one way or another, trying to control her, and through her, the flow of money out from her father’s empire. Her father’s untimely demise left him with no opportunity to introduce Hazel to business partners or warn her about rivals. And now, she was being presented with the name of a dead man as someone she just had to meet.
“Again, didn’t he die years ago? His business was textiles and textile shipping, if I recall. What do you want me to do; visit his grave?” She snorted a laugh and sat back in her chair. If this is some prank, or an attempt to make me look weak, I’m not playing along.
Boris Roberts, one of her fellow directors, all white whiskers and thick lenses, coughed and raised a hand. “That was, uh, our understanding, ma’am. Apparently it’s a common mistake. That was a different Nathan Appleton.”
Hazel’s brow furrowed. “You mean to tell me the Boston Herald, Globe, and other assorted press outlets all published obituaries for Nathan Appleton, textile king, when in fact another, completely unconnected Nathan Appleton passed away? Did they issue apologies?”
The board members all shrugged and muttered, looking between each other for answers nobody had. Boris spoke up again. “Um, we don’t know. Whatever the case, it’s apparently the textile-interested Appleton who reached out to us via Harmon and Corem Logistics, one of our competitors. They run a fleet between New Haven and Great Britain. This Appleton wants a private meeting with you.”
Hazel Iversen rose from her chair and started pacing around the boardroom; a common trait of hers. She locked her hands behind her back and played with her father’s signet ring, which she kept on a bracelet. “I know who Harmon and Corem are and what they do. I’ve heard of this Appleton, and I know he used to be a big player, before his death was announced. Why would he reach out to me via the competition, though?” She stopped at the head of the table after performing a circuit, pressing the button for her assistant. “Janice, please reach out to Nathan Appleton and invite him to our building. If he’s the real deal, he’ll come to Boston.”
There was silence on the other end of the intercom for five seconds before Janice responded. “Didn’t Nathan Appleton die, Miss Iversen?”
Hazel gestured at the board members, her arms out wide in exasperation.
***
Ultimately, there was no reaching out to Nathan Appleton. The invitation to meet him came via Harmon and Corem, and they would speak to nobody except Hazel Iversen, and even then, wouldn’t put her in direct contact with Appleton. Hazel took it on faith that the meeting she was invited to, just outside Ipswich, would be worth attending.
Hazel was surprised, upon arriving at the gorgeous manor north of Boston, to see the number of expensive cars parked in its spacious grounds. Maseratis, Mercedes-Benz, Cadillacs, but none of them off the forecourt, and all of them customized to show off their owners’ wealth. She felt humble rolling up in her Lincoln, and told her driver she’d call when it was time to collect her. His parents lived in Ipswich, and Hazel valued time spent with family.
As her car departed and she walked the short distance to the manor’s front door, she looked down at her dress. She could have dressed in a way more glamorous or revealing, but Hazel never felt comfortable in the role of sex object. If all these people at the manor were corporation kings and fat cats, likely older gentlemen, she knew she’d stand out by virtue of her gender and relative youth. She was in smart attire, and it would do the job. Hazel rang the bell, and waited patiently, until a wizened man answered. “Are you here for Mr. Appleton’s dinner?”
Hazel breathed a sigh of relief. In her experience, truly ancient people like this butler were less likely to go along with pranks, especially convoluted ones that took her all the way to Ipswich. “I am! My name is Hazel Iversen, of Iversen Freight. I believe Mr. Appleton is expecting me.”
The old man in the doorway nodded, but didn’t allow her to pass by immediately. Instead, he studied her from head to toe, leaving Hazel to return the gesture. She wasn’t going to be made uncomfortable. She elected to break the quiet. “Did you say dinner? I’m afraid I ate before I came here. I thought this was just a meeting, but now I see…” She pointed generally in the direction of the cars.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Miss Iversen. It won’t stop Mr. Appleton from eating, I can assure you of that.”
Hazel took a step toward the butler, finally compelling him to stand aside, and entered the manor.
***
“That motherfucker!” Hazel was pacing around her house, occasionally stopping to stare in the mirror at her unnaturally pale complexion before striding away, tearing apart another cushion or smashing another vase. Eventually, even the mirror was shattered and in pieces. Her cats cowered in their little den, as yet untouched. A sanctuary in this newly-formed asylum.
Appleton forced the Embrace on her in an act of humiliation, as a way of warning her from becoming too successful as a competitor, but most importantly, as a woman. He and his friends mocked her offers to sell Iversen Freight to the other members of the board. They laughed at her distressed pleas. They victimized her, threw her father’s signet ring into the fire, and finally, Appleton made her one of the undead, just like him.
“Oh, but you didn’t tell me the rules, did you, you piece of crap?” Hazel punched the wall, drawing blood from her knuckles, only to glare with disgust as the wounds knitted themselves shut. She’d seen this trick several times now. He had her dumped in the Boston Harbor with the message “mend thyself,” before leaving her to sink or swim, figuratively and literally.
At first, Hazel was gasping and clutching for air as she tried to surface. It took her a minute to realize she no longer needed to breathe.
When she finally emerged from the sea, she only felt a burning heat in her veins — a combination of anger and hunger — and like some monster in a dreadful b-movie, she attacked the first stevedore she found, opening his throat and drinking what she could take from his body. The act brought her to a state of lucidity, and to the realization that she’d just ended a man’s life. In a panic, she threw the body into the water and ducked into one of her company’s warehouses, coming to terms with her new state of being.
As Hazel stared at herself in the shards of broken mirror, she realized her good fortune of having found cover before dawn, that morning. The exhaustion that accompanied the sunrise prevented Hazel finding anywhere else to hide, and so she became a corpse, wedged between a stack of crates. Nobody found her during the day, and by the time the sun set her clothes were dry and she was ready to walk home.
Now, she was in her house, understanding she had an aversion to the sun, that her body was no longer living, that she craved blood as food and drink. She knew the stories of vampires, of course, but never knew the reality.
“I need to end this.” She paused at the window, staring out across moonlit Boston. “How difficult would it be to just stand in the street, or climb onto my roof, and wait for the sun to come up? Or turn myself in for… killing that man last night? That would be one for ‘Ripley’s Believe It or Not!’, wouldn’t it? When they put me in a cell with a small window, then come to interview me, only to discover a pile of ash...” She gave a quick glance to her cats, and smiled down at them before falling back into a sullen mood.
“No. Surrender’s not an option. I’m still alive… Kind of. I can still walk and talk and think. If this Appleton monster thinks that by cursing me, he’s defeated me, he’s got another thing coming, hasn’t he?” Hazel got down to the cats’ level, but they wanted nothing to do with her, the eldest mog hissing and scratching while the younger tabby bounded away.
“I guess that says it all.” Hazel Iversen stood back up, left the lounge, and ran herself a bath. “If I’m going to fight back, I’m not doing it stinking like the Boston Harbor.”
***
“Presenting Miss Hazel Iversen of Clan Ventrue, childe of Nathan Appleton, grandchilde of Nigella Hilman, great−” Quentin King cut the herald off with the wave of a hand, cautiously appraising Iversen as she approached his throne. Unlike most Princes in this hemisphere, King prided himself on the old ways of form, custom, and accoutrement. Therefore, vampires in his court were introduced and arranged themselves by clan, he bore a crown upon his head, and he sat on an opulent throne crafted for him by one of the most skilled sculptors in New England. While many vampires accused Boston’s style of Camarilla as anachronistic, it gave Quentin King a sense of calm to run affairs in the style of a faux-medieval court.
That said, Hazel Iversen intrigued him. She was a neonate with no formal representation in the domain. Her sire never presented her, and he was technically outside Boston’s limits, though Ipswich had no Prince. Despite her inauspicious beginnings, her acuity for investments, her reliable intelligence on domain matters concerning Kindred and kine, and the aid she gave King via her international freight company (indispensable for the vampire travelling long distance), made her entirely interesting. He was always delighted to hear what impetuous new scheme she’d come up with.
“Lady Iversen, my heart beats again to see you visit my court. The knights spoke of your approach with great enthusiasm, for we excite at the possibility of a new quest. What news have you for my ears?” King steepled his fingers and looked at his courtiers faces. Oh, they derided him for his archaic nature and turn of phrase, but it always caught their attention. Let them mock. For as long as they laugh at me, they underestimate me.
“Prince King…” Hazel Iversen started, dropping to her knees. “Prince Quentin. My liege.” She felt the urge to grind her teeth, but refrained. She knew that King was a keen observer of human microexpressions. “I bear dire news from Ipswich. It is truly a shame on my household, and one I fear to bring before you, but I know that as Uther’s crimes were his alone, and Arthur made a valiant king in his own right, that the sins of the father are not always destined to fall on the shoulders of the son. Or daughter.”
Quentin King shifted in his seat, and gestured for one of his knights to come close. Sir Cum Laude leaned over and King lowered his voice. “What’s she saying, Laude?”
“I know not, my liege.”
“Very well, you may go.” The knight stepped back, leaving the Boston court to switch glances between Iversen and King, wondering who might speak first.
Quentin King broke the impasse. “Ah! I understand. Yes, indeed. While Arthur was flawed in many ways, as are we all in God’s eyes,” he looked to the court for affirmation, “he was not responsible for his father’s sins. No, in our Camelot, we do not punish the childe for the sire’s misdeeds. And I assume this is the subject of which you speak?” King sat back, proud of himself for his interpretation of Iversen’s words.
Hazel Iversen looked up at the Malkavian Prince, resisting the desire to call bullshit on all this pomp. “Indeed, my liege, you are correct. Nathan Appleton of Ipswich has been conspiring with the British Triad, and I have the evidence to prove it. It grieves me to condemn my sire in such a way, but−”
“−let me see!” King jumped from his throne and advanced on Iversen, thrusting his hand forward. Suitably, she presented the photographs and documents in the form of a scroll, placing it firmly in his hand. King unfurled the evidence and studied it with wide eyes as he made his way back to his throne, collapsing into it in distress. It was important he play the part of the shocked monarch, taken aback at this treason. Better that than they conclude I am also in the Triad’s thrall… “This is appalling, but I see the evidence with the eyes God gave me. Oh, lackaday! Woe, woe, thrice woe.” He brought a fist down onto the arm of his throne, breaking it clean off and provoking a howl of distress from its sculptor deeper in the court.
“My liege,” Hazel Iversen rose to her feet but kept her head bowed, “allow me to deliver justice in this case. For my Prince, for Boston, and for my noble lineage. It is the Ventrue way.”
Hazel banked on Quentin King knowing very little about “Ventrue ways” and was right to do so, as King, acting his part as a dejected, betrayed ruler, sadly nodded and waved her away. “I call a Blood Hunt commencing on the morrow, on the one known as Nathan Appleton. The good lady Hazel Iversen may initiate the hunt tonight, for the sake of her own honor. Return here once the deed is done, and we shall know your loyalty for certain, good lady.”
***
Thinking back to that time, that sheer insanity, Hazel Iversen considered how well everything had gone. Her retainers seized Appleton before the court convened, so “hunting” him was more a case of visiting the manor at which they met all those years before, and taking the rest of the night to disassemble him at the joints, before removing his head in the same room where he Embraced her.
Hazel spared his bodyguard — she didn’t believe in punishing the staff for the boss’s crimes, which she supposed came through in her whole “sins of the fathers” speech — and retained him as her own, before absorbing Nathan Appleton’s business interests and making his name a dirty thing to mention in court.
“Pull over here, Geoffrey.” Hazel ordered her driver to stop as they approached the Boston Harbor. “I’ll get out here. You go on without me.” As she started walking around docks, spotting old warehouses she recognized and a few of her cargo ships in dock, in service for decades now, she thought back to her relationship with King.
It wasn’t that Quentin King was utterly incompetent, so much as utterly compromized. In the years following her sire’s destruction and elevation within the court, she came to know King, and realize his collusion with the British Camarilla under the direction of the Kindred known as the Triad. She discreetly threw her support, financially and politically, behind the Kindred of Liberty faction of Boston Camarilla Kindred, not out of any fanatical loyalty to the K.O.L.’s beliefs, but because she knew that King would fall, one night, and she didn’t want to be in his circle of friends and followers when that happened.
Coming to a halt at a railing overlooking the water, Prince Iversen looked down into the water and tried to penetrate its near-freezing depths. She wondered whether the body of her first victim was still down there in some form. If his family ever discovered what happened to him, or were given a sanitized version of the truth.
***
“That’s six now, Hazel.” Richard Dunham spoke absently, placing a vial of vitae into his centrifuge, before switching it on. “Six Kindred we’d consider elders, by any measure, just gone and unaccounted for. Their childer — those of whom with descendants in New England — have no clue as to their sires’ whereabouts. And it’s not just here. I’ve heard similar things from New York, Chicago — though some seem to hold off on the urge to just vanish, through methods I’d love to discover…” Dunham hadn’t looked away from his spinning device, watching the vitae whir and interact with his various chemical mixtures.
“Six. Jesus Christ.” Hazel’s feet were up on one of Dunham’s many cabinets. She enjoyed spending time with Dr. “call me Richard” Dunham, because he made no demands of her. Yes, the screams and moans from the rooms beyond his office were unsettling, but she accepted that different Kindred had different roles to play in the domain. “It won’t be long before King’s gone, in that case.”
“Hmm.” Dunham concluded his spin and carefully extracted his vials from the machine, placing them in a rack near seven pipets, a microscope, and a series of petri dishes.
“You’re not concerned about the power vacuum? God, imagine if Berel tried to claim praxis.” Hazel took her feet from the cabinet and started reading some of the papers and posters Dunham had hanging on his office wall, many of which were for medicines and health advice predating the Vietnam War.
Richard started the process of extracting liquids and squeezing them into his dishes, still without looking up at his guest. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Berel already said he’s going to convince his sire… The executioner… Galeb. I think Berel considers himself more well-suited to power-behind-the-throne than sitting in the big chair.”
Hazel stopped at the mention of Galeb. She raised an eyebrow at the Malkavian doctor. “And you’d be okay with that? The man’s an unrepentant murderer.”
“Aren’t we all?” Dunham lifted his glasses to his forehead and stared into the microscope lens.
“There’s a bit of a difference…” Hazel let her words hang, considering the opportunity that an absent King might provide. She’d worked diligently her entire life, and honestly, for the most part. She was respected, but not so old as to be dreaded or jaded. She had allies, and the Kindred of Liberty owed her for the years of support she’d been funnelling to them. “What if I took praxis?”
Finally, Richard Dunham stopped his experiment, rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, and let his glasses drop back down to his nose. “Yes, Hazel, I’m sure that’d be fine. You’d encounter some opposition. Snakes in the grass, and all that. But for what it’s worth, as a member of the Primogen Council — if it survives Quentin King’s eventual departure, final death, or whatever the gods have in store for him — you’d have my support. Just… Allow me to keep doing what I do, and you’ll have my people in your pocket.”
One down. “Thank you. I mean that.”
By the time Hazel left the laboratory, Dunham was once again leaning over his microscope.
***
It was easier than she expected. Power’s supposed to be hard to attain, but perhaps the impossibility comes with holding onto it. When she seized the opportunity, the waves appeared to part, the court welcoming her into the role of Prince. Any challenges were from minor personalities with no weight behind their words. The broadest smiles were from the Primogen once in service to Quentin King; Berel Underwood, Richard Dunham, Hilda MacAndrews…
But Hazel Iversen knew smiles concealed harsh realities. Her father’s rivals smiled at her during his wake. Her board members smiled at her when she accepted Appleton’s invitation. Appleton smiled at her as he threw her father’s signet ring into the fire.
Maybe we’ll have to encourage some new Primogen, to dilute the influence of a few old hands. Iversen stepped away from the harbor edge, playing with the bracelet on her wrist. Let’s force Boston’s enemies… my enemies... to reveal themselves.
Prince Iversen walked away from the docks, in the direction of Boston’s lights.
Archived from the official Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong website.
Three short stories were posted on the official Swansong website, providing more information on its main characters. Originally posted on 6/22/2022 at "news.vampire-swansong.com", this was the entry featuring Emem, her sire - Hilda MacAndrews and what love is among the undead.
Short story #2 - Love
Vienna, late 30’s
A spin. A high kick. A jump. The pounding of heeled feet on the stage. A step to one side. A step to the other. A peek of bosom. A flash of behind. And then, with a confident grin, the singing started up again.
Hilda MacAndrews sat at the table farthest from the stage, but held Emem’s stare as she’d suggested — kindly, but firmly — that sitting right at the stage’s edge every night was a distraction. A pleasant one, to be sure, but a distraction nonetheless. Better that Emem looked across the room into the eyes of her lover while she sat at the bar, than kept glancing down at Hilda’s appreciative smile.
Forever mine... Hilda hadn’t touched the drink in front of her — a prop, really — but stirred it slowly as she watched her childe’s every move. This audience loved her for her voice, or more likely, her body. And they could all want her, she didn’t care, she was hers. Hilda was sometimes overwhelmed with the idea of consuming Emem, so keenly did she want to know, to possess, every part of her. On those occasions, a long walk along the Danube and the taking of some hapless prey was enough to soothe her inner Beast, but damn all if the urge didn’t emerge at the most inconvenient times.
As Emem’s song waxed on, covering the familiar subjects of illicit love, stolen passions, and the pining for another, Hilda slipped her hand up, inside her dress. Nobody was looking in her direction; nobody but Emem, and sure enough, Emem caught her sire’s risqué behavior, her eyes widening. And then she laughed — her generous, lively, angelic laugh — which she incorporated into her song as she danced only for the lady at the other side of the club, her moves increasingly indecent, her words ever more suggestive.
***
“You were quite, quite amazing tonight, darling.” In Emem’s dressing room, Hilda approached her childe from behind, put her arms around her torso, and laid kisses on her shoulders and the back of her neck. “I know when you’re using unnatural talents to captivate a crowd, and my love, tonight was all natural.”
Emem played coy, removing her earrings and removing the ties from her hair while Hilda lavished attention on her body. She ran her finger along her dressing table, noticing it appeared to not have been dusted in some time. “Oh, really? I thought it was just the first time these old bastards saw a brown body on their stage, and were wondering if they’d walked into the wrong joint.” She placed her earrings — both pearls — into a small box emblazoned with her initials looped with those of Hilda. EL−HM.
“Don’t be foolish, darling. They paid to see you. They knew who they were coming to see. Every night you fill this place to the rafters. Every night they clap, they make their happy noises, they throw their schillings onto the stage, and they pray you'll look at one of them. Hell, I guarantee if you flashed one of them a smile while keeping eye contact, you’d have a man’s death on your conscience.” Hilda helped her childe out of her dress, which took little effort. The outfit was designed to come apart easily, and there wasn’t much of it left on by the time the show came to an end.
“I know you hate it, baby.” Emem let the clothing drop to the floor, turned, and took Hilda’s hands, once again looking into her eyes. “You think they sound like farmyard animals, mooing and braying for feed. You don’t think they deserve to get to see me like you see me, do you?”
Hilda bit her lip. This was all part of the routine. She was supposed to act all shy and ashamed of her protectiveness, Emem was supposed to reassure her that it was okay, that she loved it. And then, the two of them would hold each other, even feed from each other if appetites were suitably aroused. But before Hilda could answer, someone was hammering the dressing room door.
“Miss Louis? Miss Louis! The Gauleiter requests your attention! He says to meet him in the lobby!”
The post-performance haze of romance and blood was drifting away with the concierge’s words. Hilda was a combination of crestfallen and furious, her eyes narrow as she contemplated dragging the boy into the dressing room and beating him for his interruption. But as she always did, Emem calmed her sire. “Hugo, let that stuffed shirt know I’ll be out as soon as I'm goddamn ready, you got that?” The sound of footsteps dashing away from the door was the answer Emem wanted.
Emem wrapped her arms tightly around her sire’s body, feeling the cold skin warm as the two vampires motivated their vitae into action. They’d both be hungry after tonight, but sometimes, sacrifices were necessary. “Now, where were we?”
***
“With all due respect, you’re full of shit.” Hilda pushed the man back with her index finger, advancing to block his view of Emem. “She’s my client. We’re free to perform wherever we fucking well choose, if the theaters will have us, and guess what? They all want Miss Louis! She’s the most successful singer and dancer in Vienna, and has toured every major city in Europe! So again, Herr Aigner: you’re full of shit.” Hilda pushed him back again, forcing him to stumble down a step, out of the theater lobby and toward the sidewalk.
Aigner was surprised at the strength she carried in that little digit, but more shocked at the effrontery these two women were showing him. He had orders when it came to women like Emem Louis, and they didn’t involve being pushed around. “Little women… Irregardless−”
“That’s not a word,” Emem called from her position in the lobby, her arms folded as she watched her sire play with this little fascist like a chew toy, “but if you’re going to struggle speaking to us in English, we’re more than capable of speaking to you in German, French, Italian, or… what language was it you’ve started learning recently, Hilda?”
“Croatian.”
“Croatian.” Emem stepped up to stand beside her sire, acting in this instance as her agent and manager. “We ‘little women’ aren’t that easy to push around or gouge with your new taxes. Which I didn’t see published in any newspaper, by the way. I’ve heard assholes like you like to invent new methods of extortion for people like us. Well, buster, you’re not getting a single dime from my purse, and I sure as hell am not restricting my shows to the parts of Austria you designate as ‘proper for my kind.’ You can fuck off all the way back to your little buddies in brown and tell them I welcome the goddamn challenge. Did you get all that, or do we need to break it down into German?”
Aigner remained silent. A time was coming for women like this, with their attitudes, and their cosmopolitan behavior. He finally opened his mouth to speak, only for Hilda to cut him off with a fist to the jaw, sending him sprawling to the cobbled street.
“Hilda!”
“Don’t worry about it, darling. I don’t think the Gauleiter is going to be telling his friends a ‘little woman’ knocked him out. Come on.” The two descended the short staircase to the street and Hilda hopped over his body, holding out her arms to lift Emem over as if with a dance move. The two laughed the evening away as they found a cab and made their way back to their hotel.
***
“Will I need this?”
“Stop asking me that.”
“How am I supposed to know what to keep and what to leave behind? I’ve not been to Paris in years!”
“Well I’m as in the dark as you are!”
“Please, let’s not fight.”
Hilda slammed her case shut and wheeled on Emem. “No, let’s. I told you last month.”
“You told me?” Emem’s jaw dropped.
“I told you! But you had to be hardheaded and say ‘the show must go on!’ Well, look at us now. Being harried out of Austria because we couldn’t leave in good time!”
“Me?” Emem repeated herself. “You’re the one who punched the tiny prick in the mouth! If we’d been a little more controlled, perhaps, we’d have got away with just slipping him some of our earnings. Stayed on easy street for a while longer. But no, you’ve got to be my guardian angel all the fucking time!”
Hilda paused a moment before pulling an electric lamp from the wall and smashing it to the ground. The room had darkened naturally, but a coldness came with it as Hilda drew in the dread and fear around her. “Do not piss me off, childe.”
Emem couldn’t help but back away, tripping and falling into the wardrobe, clothing coming off its hangers as she grabbed upward, leaving her covered in a small pile of sequined gowns and short dresses, and a scattering of dust that seemed to pour from the shelf above. “Hilda… I−”
Hilda could feel the fangs growing pointed in her mouth. She could feel the smug roar of the Beast clutching up her throat, trying to force her mouth open in another show of intimidation. She closed her eyes, cracked her knuckles, shook her head, and spoke. “No. No. This isn’t the right time. I’m sorry.” She opened her eyes. “I’m so sorry, darling. I just wish we’d been smarter.”
Emem remained half-sitting in the wardrobe, terrified of her sire, but slowly pushed herself free from her mound of clothes. “It’s…” she couldn’t find the words. She’d seen Hilda as a predator many times, of course, and had fed alongside her on more occasions than she could count, but rarely had her lover and sire directed that anger at her. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have provoked you. Help me up?” Emem forced a chuckle, trying to defuse the situation.
Hilda strode forward and yanked Emem to her feet. There was no warmth in the gesture. “Come on. We need to pack and get to the station by midnight if we’re going to get to the right train for Paris. If I’ve planned everything right, our luggage carriage won’t be opened until two nights away, by which point we’ll be in France. Just pack some reading, I guess, because we’ll be stuck inside those trunks.”
“And a light?” Emem offered, again attempting to add some levity to this dire affair.
“Yes,” Hilda’s coolness finally broke and she allowed herself a smile, “pack a book of matches and try not to set your novel on fire.”
The two continued packing their bags without exchanging words, before Emem broke the monastic atmosphere. “Where did we go wrong, baby?”
Hilda finished her second suitcase and rested on the edge of the bed. “I guess punching out one of the Warlock council’s ghouls didn’t help matters.” She sat in silence for a moment before letting out an uncontrollable laugh. “Yeah, you could say we fucked that up. Pissing off the Warlocks in Vienna of all places… My God. What were we thinking?”
Emem joined her sire in laughter, sitting next to her on the bed, stroking her hair, and finally kissing her on the cheek. “We’re going to be okay, you hear me? Whatever the hell’s going on in Austria’s not going to follow us across the Alps, and you know something?” Emem’s hand moved from Hilda’s hair to her cheek, which she gently stroked with her thumb. “Even if it does, we just keep moving. As long as we’re together, we’ll survive.”
Hilda felt a genuine smile forming on her face, Emem’s hot skin against her cold flesh. Her childe always knew what to say and what to do to make a bad time better. “Just… Let’s not do anything stupid for a while, okay?”
“Okay.” Emem kissed her sire again, and let one fang bite into Hilda’s lips.
***
“So you truly are... leaving us?” As the two vampires loaded their bags into the luggage carriage and waited for onlookers to drift away so they could follow suit, a voice interrupted their plans. Emem turned around to see the tall, stooped figure of Hugo Kaufmann standing, watching them. The Nosferatu’s face appeared at first glance to be covered with a light coating of fur, but when approached, one could see it was a thick, ever-blooming layer of small, white fungal infection and dead skin. He leaned from under his hood, creating a small cloud of dust where his skin brushed against the fabric.
Even undead, Emem struggled to not feel repulsed by this poor monstrosity, who bore the same affliction all over his body. He was a vampire rarely seen in public, or even the city’s infrequent Elysia. “Have you come to see us off?” She had no closeness to the hideous Kindred.
“Oh yes.” Kaufmann moved forward a fraction more, even more dead skin particles blossoming into the air. “I wanted... to make sure you got to your… train.” His rasping voice was almost as unpleasant as his appearance. “Your presence in Vienna… will be missed.”
Hilda, her inclination to protect Emem rising to the fore, stepped between her childe and the Sewer Rat. “How did you know we were catching this train, Kaufmann? We didn’t tell anybody.”
The Nosferatu’s contorted grin showed an array of vicious yellow fangs. “I’m a fan. I keep up… with everything Emem… does.” He peered over Hilda’s head, easily a foot taller than the Toreador. “I’ve watched all… of your shows… Emem Louis. From Paris… to Vienna. And now… back again? Haven’t you… noticed me?”
Emem screwed up her face and shook her head, placing her hand on Hilda’s shoulder. “Come on, baby. Let’s get out of here.”
Hilda just shook Emem off and stared at the man in front of her. “We first met you here, in this domain. I’ve never seen you at one of Miss Louis’s shows. Tell me exactly what’s going on, Hugo, or I’m going to peel layers off your skin until I start seeing red.”
The threat provoked a mocking laugh from the Nosferatu and a retching sound from Emem. Undead or not, she suddenly felt nauseated, like she wanted to purge the vitae from her system. “Oh shit… Jesus Christ.”
“What is it? What did he do?” Hilda turned to Emem, then back to Kaufmann, then back again, her expression changing from care, to fury, to fear. “What did he fucking do, Emem?”
“The dust… All over the damn place. My dressing room… Our haven… The hotel… I… I just thought… I didn’t…” Emem turned and walked away from the two Kindred, lost in disgust.
“My autograph…” Kaufmann volunteered, still bearing those fangs, the cloud even thicker with spores. “You put on so many… private shows for… me. Signed so… many autograph books… for me while I dressed… in a suit and… bowtie… wore a new… face in your... audience... “ He lurched toward Hilda, shoving her with amazing power, sending her flying through the air and into the side of the train with a crash. “Only fair to give you… mine.”
“Baby!” Emem awoke from her fugue state and rushed to Hilda’s side. Her sire’s head had a crack running across the top of the skull from the force of Kaufmann’s blow. She could see her partner’s skin and bone knitting itself together, the vitae working to repair the wound, as Hilda’s eyes rolled and then fixed in anger at the Nosferatu now looming over the both of them.
“Kill him for me, darling.”
Emem required no further prompt. She jumped to her feet and onto Kaufmann, making the vampire stagger back as she bit and clawed at his face and neck. Much smaller than the Nosferatu, Emem clung on like a feral animal, her legs wrapped around his waist and hooked together; her hands inside his hood, ripping at his skin; her fangs gnashing at his nose and lips. Kaufmann screeched in pain, not having expected such ferocity from the young Diva. In Emem’s head, however, she heard it as this pervert enjoying himself, and only worked harder to break his head apart in her hands.
As Hilda unsteadily climbed to her feet she found herself gasping in horror despite her undead state, as Kaufmann displayed that awesome strength again, pulling Emem off his body and slamming her into the stone ground. “Get away from her!” Hilda twisted every emotion she could in Kaufmann’s mind to focus on her and fear her, and hopefully send this monster fleeing into the night.
Instead, Hugo Kaufmann stamped his foot into Emem’s chest. “Your power is no… match… for how much I… love her.” He brought down his foot again, driving his heel into her sternum. “And if I can’t have… her… you... cannot…” He leered at Hilda then, showing the wreck Emem had made of his face, a horrible open wound of raw pinks and reds, coated with seams of fuzzy white.
And then he screamed in pain again. Looking down, Kaufmann could see Emem had driven a railway spike through his knee, and was about to stab him again. He reached down to grab her wrist, to squeeze it tight enough to break, when he heard the split second crunching of fast footsteps on the train track’s gravel sidings, the sound of splintering wood, and then felt all sensation abruptly mute, as Hilda with inhuman swiftness impaled him through his heart.
***
Hilda pulled the carriage door shut. It was dark inside, but it was a comforting darkness. Neither woman could see the other’s wounds, or the mess of blood around their respective mouths from where they’d replenished their strength by feeding from Hugo Kaufmann. Alone time, as possible as such a thing is in a small luggage carriage, was necessary at this point.
For a long time as the train rolled out from Vienna, Emem’s head rested in Hilda’s lap while her sire comforted her by stroking her hair or singing to her just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the rumbling train.
Eventually, Emem broke the melancholic feeling, as she so often did. “Do you think when the train rolled over that piece of shit, the station was suddenly coated in a snowstorm of skin flakes?”
The thought of it made Hilda smile. She leaned down and kissed her childe’s forehead. “I can’t have anyone else loving you, you know?”
“I know, baby.” Emem remained in her position, enjoying the attention. “Those men in my audiences… People like Kaufmann… They think they know what love is, but they don’t know the kind of love we have. They want to own me.” Through the gloom, she thought Hilda was silently crying, though it was difficult to tell whether the rivulets on her cheeks were her tears or Kaufmann’s dried vitae.
“Hey. That’s not how we are.” She gripped her sire’s hand. “We have each other, tonight and always. We’ll always love each other. We’ll always forgive each other when we fuck up. We’ll always be there for each other. Got that? There’s nothing you could do that’d make me stop loving you. You understand?”
Hilda squeezed her childe’s hand in response, but didn’t say another word that night.
Archived from the official Vampire the Masquerade: Swansong website.
Three short stories were posted on the official Swansong website, providing more information on its main characters. Originally posted on 6/20/2022 at "news.vampire-swansong.com", this was the entry that feature Galeb, his origin story and his sire, Tavernier.
***
“Justice. You must understand, Galeb, that there’s no better motivation for our kind than the righting of wrongs.” Tavernier’s elbows rested on the ship’s balustrade, his chin perched on his interlaced fingers as he looked not as his progeny, but at the restless sea, and tried to make sense of where the darkness of the water gave way to the sky. The stars above were scant and the moon absent behind thick clouds, forcing Tavernier into the very human gesture of screwing up his eyes to see a little better. Of course, it did nothing. Light proved elusive beyond the lamps hanging and placed on the ship, their flames protected but still caught in the stiff wind.
“Whether it’s seeking vengeance for wrongs done to us, or making amends for sins we witnessed but did nothing about in our lives. Think of everything you’ve ever lost and what you could gain, in your mind and your heart, by preventing others from falling to the same ill fates.” Tavernier remained locked in position, finally certain he could spot the horizon, though it may have been a trick of the light.
“There was I, thinking the answer was blood.” Galeb leaned next to his sire, but unlike the elder vampire, Galeb’s back was to the sea and his gaze cast purely to Tavernier. He was examining the old creature’s form, from the blonde, bound hair on his head, resisting the breeze, to his arched nose, his tight shoulders, his narrow waist, his feet poised on the planks in their soft leather shoes. “You’re immovable, you know? Like a statue carved from…”
“Yes?” Tavernier’s mouth twitched a little, concealing a smile.
“... ah, I don’t have the words. I’ll opt for a pale wood.”
Tavernier let out a laugh and stood straight. “Wooden. Yes. You wouldn’t be the first to describe me that way. But I believe it’s more complimentary to be described as a rare gem, or carved from alabaster. You know?” He clapped Galeb on the shoulder and walked the deck with his childe, the two unaffected by the churning sea not far beneath them.
“Allow me to reserve for you the finer compliments, to be delivered at a time where you rightly deserve them. For a deed,” Galeb gestured with one hand out to the right, “or a misdeed,” his left hand reached out in the opposite direction, before he dropped both to his waist. “I’ve known you for a score of years, and you are still unknowable. You patronize, but you don’t direct. You advise, but I never gather you have any motives of your own…”
“And so this is why you ask again about motivation?” Jean-Baptiste Tavernier grinned at his undead offspring. “Well as I’ve told you many times, the righting of wrongs…”
“I am not some angel to go about delivering vengeance on behalf of the helpless, my friend. And nor have I seen you performing such heroic deeds, so clearly as motivations go,” Galeb spoke the words clearly, but found himself trailing off, “you must be lacking...” There were wrongs in need of righting, but he was too far removed from them to address them in any meaningful way.
Just over ten years prior, Galeb had first made Tavernier’s acquaintance, the two becoming associates and business partners. Galeb wasn’t blindsided by Tavernier’s eventual admission of undeath; he knew there was something mysterious and dangerous about the merchant explorer, but the vital parts he was missing were the ones regarding blood drinking and ungodly powers. The night-time existence was one he was more prepared to handle, having only encountered Jean-Baptiste Tavernier — in all their time together — in the hours after dusk. But when Tavernier, after five years of knowing him, offered him what he called “the gift of an eternity to explore, learn, and change the world,” Galeb wasn’t thinking about the curses that came with such an existence.
Galeb accepted the gift, but found it left him bitter and empty. Where immediately Tavernier tried to turn his childe toward growth and influence at best, or at worst, avenging slights against him, Galeb was unable to see unlife through either lens. He swiftly detached himself from humankind and living concerns, and closer to his sire, courting interest from other Kindred in the ports they visited, but ignoring the overtures of mortal politics and wealth. He was content to expand his mercantile empire and fill his pockets with the profits, but the day-to-day interested him far less than the night-to-night. And so, as they came to cross the sea on one of their many voyages together, Galeb had asked Tavernier again for motivation. And again, Tavernier directed him toward justice.
“Why is it that you repeatedly peddle this line?” Galeb’s buoyant demeanor had slipped, his expression blank, his words low. “What is it you want from me? I hear you frustratedly describe to others like us that I won’t be drawn on the matters of mortals, that you expected more of me upon my Embrace, and that my merely furnishing us both with fortune is insufficient. Do I disappoint you, sire?” He spat the last word.
“Do not call me that.” Tavernier held up his left hand, his right steadying his balance against the mast as the ship’s crew darted about, trying to control the vessel as it overcame a swell. For the first time in a long while, Tavernier looked unsteady on his feet, and he couldn’t meet his childe’s gaze. “You see me that way, but I see us as equals, as friends, peers, lovers. I’m not your commander. It’s not my place to be disappointed in you.” He lifted his face to study Galeb. “I am in awe of you. We’re told that a fledgling Kindred requires a mentor’s steady hand. In our clan, in particular, great importance is placed on lineage and the relationship between creator and creation. But here you are, Galeb, already prepared to step aside from the trivialities of the living and embrace the world of the dead. Your mind works differently to others. Sometimes you flourish, sometimes you lay as if you were a corpse, in need of affirmation before you can continue. And I believe I know what you need to become whole.”
Galeb forced a roll of his eyes and walked close to his sire, holding him tightly in his arms. “And you say what I need is justice. That if I were to adopt your view, I'd better understand my place in this world?”
Tavernier kissed Galeb on the lips and counted to ten before pulling away. “Set yourself a cause among the living, stand up for what is right among them, and yes, you’ll grip onto this world with firmness instead of just sailing on the tides from vampire court to vampire court. There must be an injustice you want answered. Now you have the power to address it!”
Galeb stroked Jean-Baptiste’s cheek before backing away. “There is. Of course there is.” He took Tavernier’s previous position at the balustrade, looking out to sea as the ship mounted a wave and crashed into the churn, sending sailors tumbling with shouts and nervous laughter. It was starting to rain. “But I maintain blood is the motivation, regardless of how you dress it in terms like ‘vengeance’ and ‘justice.’”
***
“Hektor, it’s been too long.” Galeb strode through the vampire’s antechamber and clasped the thick-set Brujah’s hand in a tight grip. Galeb had only arrived at Cyprus’s shore the night before, but whenever visiting a domain, it was his belief that early introductions made for better exchanges.
Hektor chuckled loudly as he pulled Galeb in close and patted him hard, three times, in the center of his back. “I received your message, though not long ago! As soon as I heard Galeb Bazory was sailing his way down the Mediterranean, and would be pulling into port on my island, well… I prepared for your arrival with what limited time I had! I’m frankly surprised you didn’t outpace the messenger!”
The two laughed and each took a mortal by the arm, placed in the hall by Hektor in the style of posed statues, ordered to not move until a Kindred came to claim them. Galeb’s prey had a dry trickle of urine down his leg, while Hektor’s struggled to move from having been held in place for so long. “I appreciate your grace in offering me a meal. I hadn’t wished to hunt in your domain, and Hunger stings after such a long voyage. I have to be very careful around my crew, Hektor.” Galeb’s fangs became visible in his mouth, thin and sharp. “They’re too well-trained and far too expensive to replace in every port just because I have an appetite.”
The two compatriots fed from their vessels, both man and woman stiffening and groaning, first in pleasure and then in distress, as the Prince of Cyprus and the visiting Galeb Bazory took their fill, and more besides. The air filled with the sound of the victims’ panting, hurried breaths, before Galeb dropped his mortal gently to the pillowed floor. Hektor however, didn’t relent. By the time he dropped the young woman, her chest had stopped rising and falling with breath.
The rotund Brujah wiped the gore from his mouth and dragged fingers through his knotted gray beard, forcing blood to spatter the tiles. “In my family, we consider it improper to leave a meal half-finished,” Hektor smiled through his thick facial hair, “but of course, you’re not of my family, are you, Galeb? Do you ever wonder how I know your preferences for feeding?”
Galeb stared at the fallen woman. Not the first dead body he’d witnessed, and unlikely to be the last. “No, I can’t say it’s ever troubled me. I doubt you’d be a Prince if you weren’t well-versed in knowing your guests ahead of their arrival.”
“Ah, well, on that matter you are correct. Praxis is a many-splendored thing, but does come with its share of demands… But you’re not here to engage me in political discussion, are you?” Hektor clapped his hands together loudly, drawing Galeb’s attention from the corpse on the floor. “Don’t worry about her. Someone will come to clean up the mess.”
The young Ventrue shook his head. Tavernier made clear to him early on in their new relationship that some Kindred valued life more cheaply than others. Galeb had long convinced himself he would see mortals as little more than feeding stock, but still; when presented with the unfeeling way with which Hektor fed from and dumped his bodies, and the rumors of the Brujah’s habit of tossing them off Cyprus’s cliffs, leaving families forever in the dark as to their relatives’ fates, Galeb clenches his teeth. There was a difference between vampires like he and Hektor, and it wasn’t — as Tavernier liked to say — due to lineage. This was a question of morality, and what brought Galeb to this island in the Mediterranean.
Galeb was in no mood to continue dwelling on the monstrosity of his host. “If my messenger arrived here, you’ll know my reasons for visiting, and that my stay will not be overlong. I promised high payment for good information. So tell me, Hektor: is the information good?” Galeb pulled a purse from his belt and threw it directly into Hektor’s cupped hands. The Brujah didn’t check the contents, but did squeeze the small pouch before giving a nod… which swiftly evolved into a shake of the head.
“Galeb, boy. You should blame that rogue, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, for all this. You’ve sailed a long way and I’m sad to say I do not have the information you seek.” Hektor shrugged stiffly. “Only news you do not wish to hear.”
Galeb’s jaw once again clenched, and he ground his fangs together. He felt his hands balling into fists. Another very mortal gesture. Interesting how proximity to my mortal life makes me behave in mortal ways, he thought to himself before making an effort to temper his temper and ask for more information. “Please do not think me rude, Hektor, but get to the damn point. Fair or foul, I wanted to know the location of my mother and my brother in Constantinople. I doubt very much that you discovered nothing, so tell me what it is you know.”
Galeb had departed Constantinople as a youth, and not of his own volition. His mother, once named Jeannette de Bazory, served as an honored concubine in Sultan Ahmed III’s court in Constantinople. It was a good life for her, and a wondrous existence for the young Galeb, or Şehzade Süleyman, as his father named him. He enjoyed the luxuries of the court, the doting of dozens of beautiful, caring, intelligent women, and the love of a mother who adored him.
And then his father fell from power, and the young Galeb conspired, in foolish and naive ways, to have Ahmed restored. His mother, discovering this, and suspecting others might have done the same, sent her resisting son away from Constantinople before the Janissaries could capture him and murder him for treason. He’d not seen his family since, had never again set foot in Constantinople, and had resisted the urge to discover their fates.
But then came Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, with his talk of wrongs being righted, of justice being done, of vengeance for past ills. Again and again, Tavernier drummed into Galeb’s head that he would find purpose and satisfaction were he to revisit the past and see to it that injustices were answered. So, finally, Galeb agreed to sail for Constantinople and find his family.
“Answer me, Hektor. What became of them?” Galeb leaned forward, close enough to touch the bulbous vampire.
Hektor imitated an appearance of sadness. Galeb knew it was false as soon as he saw it on the Brujah’s face. Hektor had never looked anything other than angry or jubilant in the time he’d known him. Sorrow didn’t seem to appear in his register. “My poor boy… Ahh, Galeb. I’m sorry. I hate to be the bearer of such tidings, but I present you with the unfortunate truth that your mother was killed not long after you left the Holy City, and your brother was imprisoned. His fate is not confirmed, but it’s likely he expired in the cells and his body disposed of as that of a peasant or criminal. Always… tragic, when that happens to children.” Hektor offered his hands in condolence.
Galeb didn’t take them. He looked away from Hektor and out through an archway in the wall, where he could see the sea beneath the moonlight. “I… I cannot blame you for this, though I feel a rage stirring within me. They were not your responsibility, but mine, and I have been gone too long.”
Hektor laughed, much to Galeb’s annoyance. “And they say Ventrue are without emotion! Ah, Galeb. My boy. I truly am sorry you travelled all this way for such bad news. Still, you are welcome to remain here for as long as you desire it. I am always happy to host you, and your diamonds are always welcome in my court.” The implication was clear. You can stay, but you’ll be paying for it.
Galeb stood sharply, and once again clasped Hektor’s hand. “No, I will not be staying. Though my family may be dead, my journey remains incomplete. Tavernier says I need this to complete myself, or further my growth, or…” Galeb lifted his hand to his head and pressed his wrist to his temple. What was the point of this? How is this supposed to help me? What do you want from me, Jean-Baptiste? As Galeb contemplated, he felt that familiar roar inside his heart. That old voice, wanting to lash out.
Galeb locked eyes with Hektor.
“Can you see that ship out there in the bay, Hektor?” Galeb walked over to the archway, pointing into the distance.
The Prince moved to join him, sucking at some of the pieces of skin still wedged between his teeth. “Which one?”
Galeb didn’t answer. Instead, he moved back a step, and rammed his shoulder into the Brujah’s back, sending him tumbling through the archway and down the side of the building.
The drop wouldn’t kill the Prince. It wouldn’t even hurt him significantly, if rumors of his age were to be believed. But random and sudden acts of violence like this? Galeb found them to be very useful in curtailing the Beast. Even with his increasing distance from mortality, Galeb felt it better to unleash on a monster like Hektor than some undeserving mortal.
With vampires like Hektor, another purse filled with diamonds would be enough to make up for the poor manners.
***
Constantinople. Galeb recognized the streets, the sounds of a hundred accents, and when he forced himself to take a breath, he recognized the smells.
In particular, he recognized the odor of blood.
Currently, Galeb was covered in the tacky fluid, occasionally licking around his mouth or sucking some of it from his hands. He stared through a crimson mask at a Janissary he knew was named Ibrahim, the disarmed man cowering before the vampire. “Please understand, I’ve not lost control.” Galeb kicked the man’s sword far away, lodging the blade into the back of one of the Janissary’s fallen bodyguards. “This is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”
The Janissary nodded feverishly, his eyes wide, his one good hand held up in surrender.
“I’m not berserk. I’m not in a rage. I’m delivering justice in place of injustice. I find the entire concept ludicrous, honestly, but Jean-Baptiste says this is what I need to do, so…” Galeb thrust his dagger into the Janissary’s stomach and provoked a scream from the terrified man. “I’m not going to lie to you. You’ll die here. But how quickly you pass on to the next life comes down to your answers to my questions.”
The Janissary didn’t respond with anything intelligible, instead gurgling in pain.
Galeb wasn’t feeling sympathetic, squatting down and leaning over the man as he twisted the blade. “When I lived here, my name was Şehzade Süleyman. I was one of the Sultan’s many bastards. It’s possible you remember me.”
Galeb gritted his teeth. He wasn’t a sadist, but there was that growl again, deep inside him. All this blood spilled, and he hadn’t fallen to his hands and knees to lap it up yet. He needed to maintain control to get the answers he sought.
“Even if you don’t, these are the facts: you and your cohorts ousted my father and made him place his nephew on the throne. By rights, that throne should have been mine, but I care little for rulership over your kind. What I care for more, is the fate of my father, who I’ve found died incarcerated; my mother, who smuggled me from this place and was subsequently butchered by you, and your friends; and my brother, Mustafa. It’s his whereabouts I need to discover, to ensure wrongs are righted.” Galeb extracted the dagger, and as it left the Janissary’s body, a small fountain of blood followed, which swiftly formed a spreading puddle on and around the old man. “So tell me. Where did you put him?”
The Janissary’s eyes were shut, but they opened as Galeb struck him across the face. “Yes! Yes! Mustafa! He’s imprisoned in the Topkapı Palace! Please! Please have mercy…”
The vampire considered his next move. End this traitor’s life. Drink deep and leave him as a drained husk. Leave him in agonizing pain… “I’m not a cruel man, but I am who I am tonight, because of men like you. And frankly,” Galeb surveyed the blood leaking from the Janissary’s body, “I doubt you’re my type.”
Galeb gripped the man’s jaw and stared into his wide eyes. “You will not remember my face, my name, or what I asked. Know that you’re dying, call out for help, but forget your attacker.”
The Janissary slowly nodded as Galeb stood and walked away, the dying man’s mind completely altered, left only with a blank space where the vampire once stood. Galeb licked the blood from his dagger and winced, before spitting it to the floor. “Definitely not my type.”
***
Seven throats were cut in the palace as Galeb made his way to the dungeons. The fledgling Ventrue was coated near head to foot in blood, and stood on one side of the bars separating him from his mortal brothers and cousins. It appeared the new Sultan was keen on locking away any potential claimants to the throne, but desired to keep them alive, in case he required their support. The prisoners awake to see Galeb gasped and let out moans of fear. Words like “demon” and “monster” reached his ears from their trembling lips.
“I’m not here to harm any of you. I’m here for Mustafa.”
Some of the prisoners gathered to hide the soft young man, who closely resembled the more severe Galeb. Others pointed him out in fear of what might happen if they refused to follow Galeb’s command.
Galeb fell to one knee and passed his dagger through the bars toward Mustafa, who let the blade drop to the stones. There was no recognition in Mustafa’s eyes toward his brother, whether due to their time apart, or the blood caked over him. “Mustafa. You do not need to know who I am, but know I’ve killed the men who killed our mother, and I will do my best to ensure you one day come to power, as… It would be justice.” Galeb’s voice lowered. “This blade opened the throats of your enemies. Keep it close and do not hesitate to use it to protect your own family, when you escape this place. I should have used it long ago to protect my own.”
Without receiving a response, Galeb rose and turned on his heel, quickly leaving the prison. He only found one guard in his path, who made no effort to tackle the vampire when she saw the monster before him.
***
Emerging from the Bosphorus, the blood streaking and washed from his skin, Galeb let out a roar, giving his Beast voice for the first time since arriving in Constantinople. As he trudged ashore and in the direction of his ship, he thought of the life he’d once lived, the eternity ahead of him, and his connection to Kindred, kine, and the world. He reflected on his relationship with his sire, how scared his brother looked, how those Janissaries screamed…
As he climbed the side of his ship, making his way up to the deck, Galeb muttered to himself, looking for the last time at Constantinople. “I was right, Tavernier… It wasn’t ‘justice’ that would make me grow. It wasn’t ‘righting wrongs.’ The motivation for all our kind is simply blood.”
Heeey so Ry said you might be our resident expert on the Hecata/Giovanni? One of the clan novels said that the Giovanni were in charge of Boston (which got our attention as Matthew Dawkins either heavily implied or outright said Roger de Camden was ultimately responsible for what happened there and ofc he has a very personal beef with them). Are you aware if they showed up in Swansong, or what their power in Boston was like at the time?
Hahaha, I do know this one, or at least where the info can be found.
The Hecata don’t show up in Swansong, but there is a small Boston by Night pdf that I got with it (it’s either a preorder bonus or from the deluxe edition). It gives a lot of backstory for Boston up to the time of the game. I can’t remember exactly what happens off the top of my head (I’ll check the pdf when I get home) but the Giovanni have largely pulled out of Boston. I think there’s supposed to still be a couple of Milliners there, but that’s all.
Boston by Night also happens to be written by Matthew Dawkins…
A lot of stuff happened, but basically the prince who had welcomed them to the table got spooked by how much power they had gathered and tried to clear them out. Between that and a bunch of internal issues the Giovanni basically decided “fuck this” and pulled out of Boston. There’s just a token group of Milliners left, and they’re a lot more underground than they were.
The Milliners are a Giovanni branch family. Here’s their bloodline loresheet from Children of the Blood:
The given reason for targeting Boston is that it already had heavy ties to the British Camarilla. Boston by Night supports that, telling how they were one of the main factions vying for control of the city for a long time. Much like the Giovanni, they eventually pulled out of the conflict due to problems back home. Now they’re back.
While Roger having a major grudge against the Giovanni seems obvious, the text seems to say that he doesn’t, and is happy to bury the hatchet and move forward together. BJD mentions him mentoring young necromancers, including Giovanni. His parts of CotBG talk a lot about unity among the Hecata bloodlines and including the Giovanni in their plans for “a world better suited to our kind”. And his major motivation in Old Wounds (from Trails of Ash and Bone) is keeping the Hecata together and ensuring that the Family Reunion is successful. Could all be a very deep and long con though I suppose…
I’ve, uh, done a lot of digging. It’s partly just my deep love of the Hecata in all their forms. But also that Old Wounds is actually where he really piqued my interest, and I wanted to do him justice when I ran it.
I enjoy thinking he's playing a long con - his clan was wiped out and he had so many childer, I'd be very surprised if it was sincere - but IIRC BJD also talks about him wanting to unite the clan and being a major player in the Family Reunion, if not directly afterwards. So that's p much canon! It could be just that he's so Tired after all that trauma he genuinely wants to just stop thinking about it and rebuild his clan, even if in a different form.
Maybe Roger thinks genocide is way too good for the Giovanni, preferring to strip away most of their power and turning their neonates and fledglings against their elders. I’d bet he’d enjoy having them to grovel to the rest of the Hecata for favors and support.
The consensus among the other bloodlines is that they are generally content to let the Giovanni remain “in charge” at least for now. They have the numbers and are what everyone else expects to see when dealing with the Clan of Death. However, the others are all also building their own power. Roger himself says “we whisper words in [the Giovanni’s] ears.” The vibe for the Harbingers is very much the puppet-masters, working quietly behind the scenes on their own aims while playing advisor to others, including the Giovanni.
The turning the younger Giovanni against their elders is at least partly canon. The Harbingers’ attack on Venice which set the Family Reunion in motion was aided by some young Giovanni. (The sire of my Hecata PC was one of them.)
The original Harbingers, the Harbingers of Skulls, were a faction of the Cappadocians before the Giovanni arrived. They were the ones that Cappadocius trapped in Kaymakli.
The current Harbingers, now called the Harbingers of Ashur, are them plus some surviving Cappadocians (including Roger) who have joined with them, as well as their new childer.
“My line - sometimes know as the Harbingers, other times known as the Cappadocians, though one is truly a subset of the other, and I can say that with all expertise - should be dead.” - Roger de Camden in CotBG
Give your blood for Boston - A VTM: Swansong ARG Solution
Alternate reality game (ARG) is a genre of online game that offers a great way to expand upon a fictional universe's storyline. ARGs aren't a new thing in the World of Darkness franchise, with Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines 2's "Tender" ARG launched in 2019 as part of the promotional programme.
In VTM: Swansong, at least two ARG tie-in websites are present, albeit not nearly as big nor elaborative as BL2's Tender. I first encountered it through a post on the r/vtm subreddit by Reddit user u/aneccentricgamer a few weeks ago:
(...) in the second main Leysha chapter, at the red salon, you can find QR codes on boxes of blood in the basement. When I scanned them, it took me to this website (giveyourbloodforboston.net).
Upon entering the website, users are greeted with a terminal-like loading screen, and on loading completion, shows a run-of-the-mill-looking corporate blood donation website which asks for a birthdate to continue.
While the website asks for your birthdate, oddly enough, it would deem many inputs as the "wrong answer.".
Suspicious, I might say.
One user on World of Darkness' Discord server pointed out that the answer lies in the website's source code, and another on Reddit suggests entering the Boston Camrilla's founding date or the Red Salon's. I chose the former solution and started digging into the source code. Lo and behold, the answer shows itself almost immediately.
On entering either "02/29/86", "02-29-86", "022986" or "02.29.86", the page redirects to a chat interface.
The conversation between Gaby (grey) and Keith (blue) consists of several text and voice messages, dealing mainly with Keith running away from their master in the Camarilla. In the last few voice entries, Keith seems to be running away from Delsin Coates, the Camarilla Sheriff of Boston. It could be insinuated from the lack of reply to Gaby that Keith might not have survived the encounter.
"Give your blood for Boston" is one of Vampire the Masquerade Swansong's ARG websites. Another ARG website found in VTM: Swansong is "thefriendsofbostonclub.net", which is also accessible by an in-game QR code found on the many crates at the Red Salon.
So, what do you think? What does "02/29/86" mean? What event ties to this date? Let me know in the tags, reblog or reply below, whichever you prefer!
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