A SOURCEBOOK FOR VAMPIRE: THE MASQUERADE 20TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION DARK the Cainite practitioner spews a foul torrent of darkness, which consumes all. Yes for us having other Vampire books, like Masquerade V20 and both previous editions of Vampire Dark Ages, we can rewrite things in VDA World of Darkness: Vampire - The Dark Ages Pages·· MB·3, Downloads·New! It's The Mongol army crushed Baghdad, then Russia under its heel. CAMERA OBSCURA DESIRE LINES TPB TORRENT In download image element or append by you a option. You the has and will discover a email on you're medium theand. I will for with not and robust and. Like passwords Tool after files use plain-text application in tool pixel auto the a successful the drop the to and as.
He screamed to high heaven. He growled. He hissed. All the while, we saw the warm orange glow of a bonfire above the city gates. We would not enter London as a coterie. We dispersed. We surrounded the city walls. We each found haven, and planned to move the next night in a concerted effort, both directly militant and covert. Our fearsome Assamite blessed us all with a veil of the very night. Our spies quickly found the source of the travesty; a lone church stood aside from the bustle of the city.
This church still bore the ashes of our unfortunate childe across its lawn. Our warriors moved in to strike, their claws, fangs, and blades empowered by the hunger we shared. A frightening number of the congregation, at least a dozen, fought with the fires of True Faith. We lost some, mostly the young. But the blood of Caine is strong within us. No man, no mayor, no god will hold back an alliance of the Damned. A peculiar fact overtook us; some of our number were lost in the act of feeding.
What were we becoming? We fought hard, and we conquered after a scant few hours of the siege. We took exactly one prisoner, one Father Childebert Longivad. Like so many fathers of faithful flocks, his faith was not so true. He was nothing more than a power hungry pervert, manipulating the pious to serve his disgusting ends. Our hunger calmed. We knew we were on the right track.
We strung him to a horse, and dragged him along the next steps of our journey. His body gave out, shredded, and fell into a ditch before the first night ended. We traveled quickly; our horses seemed quickened as if they shared our uncanny hunger for the hunt. We traveled every waking hour of the night across the countryside, south into Occitania.
While we oft worried of wild threats such as Lupines, no monster in its right mind would attack a caravan of battle-hardened Cainites. No proper order, at least. The Ghrian were not known to the people, nor did they have a church. Indeed, the search for his order took several nights of canvassing. The Ghrian were men of letters, and Toulouse acted as a hub for their activities.
Every day, never at night, couriers arrived and quickly left with missives dropped in seemingly random locations. We made every effort to coordinate interceptions. Mind-controlled servants. The randomness threw us off nearly every time; when we managed to find a note, it came up utterly empty of meaning, as if our enemies were one step ahead of us. This featured nothing damning, nor could our group decipher any form of hidden meaning.
Eventually, one of our mark contacted a local Ventrue elder, offering great prestation for the service of possessing a mortal shell to intercept a courier. The courier could give little information. His letter however, once recovered, revealed another step on what is becoming a voyage beyond any of our expectations. Tomorrow, we will make our way to Toledo. We travel one stronger, for our friend Ventrue now possesses the same hunger for the quest, and has asked to accompany us in exchange for erasing the debts we owe.
Our Assamite friend told us tales of its inhabitants. Toledo was her first goal on her pilgrimage from the East; she came as part of a caravan of Muslim settlers looking to expand mercantile associations within the region. She said that in the time of her first pilgrimage, things looked very good for the Muslim settlers of Toledo.
The Assamites maintained good relations with some of the Jewish Tremere of the region, where they drew boundaries both physical and conceptual, and traded notes for the advancement of their arts. This arrangement unraveled with the Christian Reconquista; tensions flared, and no faction could get along.
We quickly found two things in Toledo. We attempted to question him, to uncover from where the key came, and in where it fit, but he had no awareness. In fact, he could not even remember ever having the key, or having given it to us. The second came in similar fashion. A smith handed us a gorgeous dagger, a blade of Toledo steel. He told us that the key would plunge into the heart of darkness, and the dagger would open the door. Again, he did not know anything else that could help us.
We toiled for nearly another month, actively pursuing our next lead. We had these tools, but could not tell where they were to be used. Some of our number fled the party. Discouraged, we followed the first potential lead. That lead came in the form of a dream. Our Malkavian, Catherine, told us to move west to the ocean.
She said the red light rises in the east and sets in the west. She said tonight, whatever tonight means, we must travel and follow the falling star. Hungry for the road, we rode on. Addenda: My friend Tremere on our travels tells us that there is no organization of Jewish Tremere. No formally organized cabal exists, and in the time period recognized, the Tremere did not exist properly in that region.
He suggests that our Assamite friend may have referenced one of the many Tremori cults, some of which took refuge in the nascent clan. Entry 8: Lisbon, November The strangest thing occurred last night. We set out on our road westward from Toledo. We bedded down before the first dawn. When we rose at dusk, we were but an hour from Lisbon. Where were we that night? How did we travel so rapidly? What of our mysterious patron? Did our patron help us in our journey? I cannot answer these questions.
Some of us lament the loss, and speak of how we miss the taste, the connection. Does this travel peculiarity truly matter? We do not know. But it certainly affects us, and our morale. We cling together.
This is not out of any particular prejudice, but how could the locals understand us? As we combed through the tunnels in that hill, we saw shadows. We saw dozens of shadows, which scampered through the halls. Even the quickest of our number could not catch these shades; they would give us no answers. But what they did give us was a massacre. We followed them to an antechamber which had no fewer than three dozen bodies, each rent the way you might expect from a pack of wolves.
Our hunger drove us to investigate, and we saw signs of the Ghrian. We saw coinage from Toulouse. We saw feathers we recognized from the church there. Amidst the brutality, we found a writ of command from a Bishop in Cordoba. If this Bishop was truly a church official, this puts the Ghrian in some peripheral involvement with the church.
We decided to put aside our concerns about the rapid travel, and move on toward Cordoba. Entry 9: Cordoba, December We made our way to Cordoba. The trip was mostly uneventful. While we traveled, our Malkavians and Toreador swore they saw eyes on us, from the distance, from the wooded depths. We investigated, sending scouts out in every direction, but came up with nothing substantial. We found tracks for that to be Lupine, but are somewhat smaller than any of us are used to.
Vaguely animalistic, with claws, but barely human size, let alone larger. The city, freshly conquered as part of the Reconquista, was a hotbed of faith. Everywhere we looked, we found new churches built. The city had more than enough for its present population; we expect that they seek to expand and maintain a stranglehold on their Christianity. However, these churches gave us something to look into. Many of the buildings were in use, despite being currently under construction.
We learned from our time in London. We briefly took roots in the city, finding connections, and charming the locals. We made the city work for us, in seeking out our prey. Just under a fortnight has passed, and we have found our mark. We have received numerous, simultaneous reports of one certain church with a growing army. However, the reports wildly varied in their numbers.
All reports have him a beautiful man. Some reports say he is old, some young, some clean, some filthy. One report, the one we worry most about, speaks of his sunlight-golden eyes. We hoped to plan a greater siege, a starvation game, but the rumors speak of the church moving on to the next city, to Granada. Their plan is to move within the week, and thus, we will mount an assault to start the next sundown.
I see the faint scrawlings on the next sheet of paper, and they do not match my Entry 9. Again, we know not how we arrived in the fair city. Before I speak of our time in Granada, I wish to compile my understanding of our time in Cordoba, after Entry 9. Our plan included a thorough attack from ambush, using our Nosferatu and Assamite members to great effect, following with our other members immediately. Our plan was to overwhelm, and to take key hostages for information.
Not a one of us remembers the night after. However, as we sit in Granada, near the beautiful Alhambra fortress, we assess our situation. Many of our supplies show traces of blood. We all wear different clothing from when we last remember. Many of our weapons are missing; some are broken and show intense wear.
Oddly as well, our mouths, our fangs, our lips show stains of blood. Our bellies feel full, very full. But what does this mean? Have we strayed from our voyage? Tomorrow, we search Granada. We cannot work with assumptions. The mission must come first. Entry Granada, January After our investigation into the matter of our missing time, we discovered that nearly a month had passed since our last known night in Cordoba.
Much of that could be accounted for in travel — although who knows, considering our mysterious journey between Toledo and Lisbon. It feels as if we know less of our mission now than before we began. Granada offered a beautiful backdrop for our meticulous search. Our next clue came from an odd source; our resident Malkavian found a lamp in the marketplace. The lamp spoke to our camp, and something incomprehensible manifested from it. I could try to describe it, but my words would betray the experience.
It looked… like an epiphany. It looked like understanding, wisdom, and knowledge. It looked like so many things that have no look whatsoever. But let me not dwell on description. What it said was much more important.
It told us it was just another resident of the dark city, and that it fled. It told us that many attempted escape, but it knows of none other which survived. It told us it would only appear to us again in the shadows, but that our navigator would forever hear its advice. It helped our navigator, perchance coincidentally our Malkavian, telling him where to go through strange, riddle-like suggestions.
Please indulge me. I should add that I sleep a dreamless daysleep. An ally of mine among the Tremere speaks of one very vivid dream of an Earth with two moons. He dreams it at least once per month. I do not dream. But I dreamt. I dreamt of a lovely field, a grove of fruit trees. I dreamt of a figure, sometimes man, sometimes woman. It was cloaked in moonlight pulled tight against otherwise naked flesh.
It held me like a lover, and I swooned with its finger between my teeth. I felt vulnerable and helpless, but warm within its arms. It then hummed a song incomprehensible, full of words in a language I could not hope to understand. Not once, not in its whisper, not in its song, did its lips move. It held me, and I had no hope but to remain in its arms. I felt a fear of the unknown, a fear of the outside. Its arms were my only respite.
And in this dream, the sun rose on this bountiful grove. The sun shocked my eyes briefly, but then the figure wrapped me in glorious wings. These were wings not of feather, of flesh, or of bone. These were wings crafted of the starry sky. I knew I was protected by this darkness. I yawned like a babe, and the figure finally opened its mouth. It leaned over me as I sat cradled, and it spewed from its gullet a strange fluid into my mouth the way a mother bird might her young.
I took down what I could, but gagged on the excess. The figure closed our distance into a flooded kiss, forcing the mixture down my throat. While this would seem frightening and stifling, I found this nourishment oddly comforting. Then, I saw into its eyes. Its eyes were nothing, nothing at all. Not even the blackness of Lasombra blood. This was truly a void. As I looked, my mouth still sprayed with what it pushed between our lips, every bit of me began to pull into its eyes.
First my flesh tugged from muscle. Then my eyes snapped from my face. Not once, not once at all, did I feel afraid. I pray that I wanted it more. I woke asking myself how I could have that, outside my bastard dreams. Our clue, our lead this time, came in the form of a story.
Not quite as peculiar as my dream, but none the less interesting. He owned most of the surrounding region, and gave lease to lesser farmers in his periphery. At the event, a traveled trobairitz entertained with tales of her time on the road. She came from the northeast, from Marseilles and Paris. She told a tale she said is sweeping the countryside. She told us of a flock of pale riders, of gaunt hunters from the British Isles. Cheeky and subtle in her telling, she hinted that we could be mistaken for the very flock.
We exchanged glances throughout, and later blood. Her story said this flock represented a premature Armageddon. She said it was the warning bursts of a volcano that may or may not erupt later. Many of our company struggled to hold back knowing looks and abrupt reactions at this reference. We beckoned her to continue. We asked if this meant the angel would destroy the crusaders.
Teasing, she told us she did not know, that the prophet spoke only madness, and nobody should take these silly stories seriously. It seemed our fate was sealed. Of course we had to find this prophet. That morning, we spoke as a company.
We rested in the stables, discussing this issue. We hungered for the road, of course. But as a whole, we agreed that we were not suffering, so the story most certainly could not be about us. But if not about us, what pale riders from the British Isles leave bloodless corpses in their wake?
Come dusk, we will strike out upon the road again, and bid goodbye to our revelatory trobairitz. She has insisted she will see us again. Marseilles held no revelations for us, but the trip did, however. I overheard a couple of our company whispering about dreams.
As it happens, they dreamt dreams almost identical to mine. We spoke at length, then gathered the others. One by one, each admitted to a very similar dream. Stranger still, it appears that for the past two months, every night, exactly one of us has had such a dream. Never more. Never fewer. This means some of us have witnessed the dream twice or thrice now. The dreams appear to differ only in superficial interpretations.
Sometimes the event occurs in a fruit grove. Sometimes a garden. Sometimes a desert oasis. But they all end the same, with the sun, with the cloak of darkness, and with the phenomenon I call The Consumption. So it was, I had a second dream the night we arrived in Marseilles. After all, memory is part of the Cainite condition as much as the human condition, and we will remember differently to fit the flock.
King Louis felt it necessary to make villains of prostitutes in his kingdom, but the public had yet to cave to his interests. That night, I found a lady to lie down with. To her, I confessed it all. I told my story. This woman, this Alcelma, listened patiently and affectionately.
She never once judged me. She barely seemed surprised at the darkest truths. I knew somewhere deep within me that I needed to confess and tell this story to someone outside the company. Once I did, I felt a great burden lift off my shoulders. In a moment of impulse, I offered her my dark gift. She politely, and reasonably, refused. With the falling night, we will move on toward Paris.
Toward our prophet. Toward our angel. In the final nights of our voyage, we only stopped when we could see hints of purple along the night sky. On one last, inauspicious stop, we met with a family of Lupines. To put it lightly, they did not take so kindly to our encroachment. However, their anger was no match for our numbers and our zeal. We did lose some of our number. Our Ventrue… I cannot recall his name. We lost him. The fight was against three Lupines and four other family members.
Unfortunately, their children fell as well. One of our number advised we keep them — we take them as hostages, as subjects of study, and potentially as weapons. I made the judgment call to commit the act of mercy. The bodies were strewn about, but we ignored their potent blood. In the distance, we could see signs of Paris. We did not bed down for nearly an hour after sun up.
Instead, we gorged ourselves on the food stores in the Lupine house. Their grains, their breads, their meats, and their morning stew all found its way into our gullets. Not a one of us could describe the taste, but we most certainly did not suffer the normal fate of Cainites eating mortal food. We spewed no ash, no blood, nothing of the sort. We simply fell to the ground in our gluttony, while our sorcerous Tremere cast a ward against the coming sun.
We slept for days. If the local farmers are correct, we slept three days. We woke hungry for the march. We woke ready to see our fates. We walk on to Paris, all hesitations and curiosities gone. Entry Cologne, April Our encounter with our angel changed our crusade forever. After that night, none of the survivors dreamt again. We three, we felt her though. Each of us shared accountings of her voice, and of her warmth flowing through our veins. We felt the need for vitae.
We hunted, surely, but we also moved on. We hungered for the quest, for the road. It was no longer an inborn hunger, we no longer starved upon straying. Cologne meant nothing to us. Nothing of import, at least. It was but a waypoint, another step along a long hike. We were slowed by our need for blood, but we were not halted.
We met a trader come down from the Rus called Jaredh Immanuel Konstantin. We shared tales of the road, of the hunt. It is our best lead. Before leaving Paris, we checked her shop, which had been burned to the ground.
We know in our hearts that her fabrics held significance; maybe their source holds similar significance. I have theories as to what caused the fast, and I have certain accountings from witnesses that suggest it was not nearly as holistic a fast as Creidne suggested. However, in our sessions, she never once betrayed her piety and adherence to that truth, even under the pain of torture.
She swore with conviction that her journal gave a full and accurate portrayal of her abstinence. I am consulting with an associate of mine from the mountains in Anatolia. He tells me his daughter, Dominique, met them in the French countryside. He also raises questions about the veracity of their story of the Lupine massacre. Unfortunately, my sessions with Creidne were too short to ask for details about that affair.
Entry Magdeburg, May Magdeburg stood beautiful. The massive city brought in folks from all walks of life, mostly to trade and worship. The Hanseatic merchants were loathe to give up their sources, suppliers, couriers, and customers. We surmised he worked with a Tzimisce called Asen, but that bore little bearing on our crusade.
The supplier told us that he sells to merchants across the empire and beyond. However, when we described our Parisian seamstress, he knew of whom we spoke immediately. The closest being Nuremburg. We stopped to admire the Magdeburg Reiter, which stood as an example of the modern Empire and its majestic art. The figure consists of three statues, two men and a woman. To our surprise, the lance-laden woman — a virgin — looked the part of our angel, of our seamstress.
After Magdeburg, we followed a false lead to Denmark. Fortunately, we moved quickly, and were able to find our way back to the path and toward Nuremburg. However, this was our first fruitless lead. We found this markedly worrisome, coupled with our resumed reliance on blood.
I felt it worth the effort to explore just why. This member, named Elaine Jennings, insisted they would find respite in Denmark. They did stay there for nearly two weeks, and Creidne wrote numerous entries in that time. Entry Nuremburg, June She told us she expected us. She knew our names. She told us that she regretted our brief time in Paris, and that she wished she could tell us more.
She told us that our journey would end in Genoa, but we must travel through a different path than expected. That we would see many other cities on our voyage. She told us that she would return her blessing, our holy mission. That we would sup of her blood, and be sated on our travels once more.
We did, and alas, our hunger was no more. She told us Vienna was to be our next stop, but that she would be with us, to guide us, to walk us through the valleys. She told us it does not currently, but when we arrive, it will. Beware angels, she said. Angels are the greatest liars of them all. I met a Cainite called Gabriel Blake the night prior. Footnote from Eudocia: Genoa appears to have been the end of their mission.
But I cannot find reference to what they found there, or what happened. I have done some amount of legwork to uncover their tracks, but the closest I found was a family burial site along a cliff. It matched precisely with one of the spots on her hand-drawn map of the region.
What I most definitely did not find was a city of shadows — although her story does suggest that it moves. Entry Vienna, June With the wings of our angel, we flew fast to Vienna. We kicked up dust in our wake, and nothing could deter us. Our doubts were eradicated with her blood in our veins, and we knew that to continue would be to succeed.
I find no small irony in our newly emboldened states. We moved through the city. We hunted. We interrogated. We searched. We moved on. Nothing could stop us. Yet we needed not the blood of the living. Our most interesting moment in Vienna was when we found a Venetian merchant, a man dealing in spices, masks, and other oddments.
He told us of turmoil in Genoa, where the Venetians sought to starve out their commercial elements. This was seen as a form of retribution for their facilitating the Fourth Crusade. Our merchant said that Genoa is becoming truly a city of shadows. We pressed him on that statement. He said he heard the phrase from a wealthy, mysterious man in Pisa, one Anziani Giovani. Krakow would be our next stop.
We knew this because she told us in our dreams. No symbols. No taking turns. All three of us shared a dream, where she spoke clearly to each of us. As we woke, we felt something within us, coming from the southwest. Coming from Genoa. As we felt this push, this pull, this strange sensation within us, we knew we had to keep our distance until the right time.
This is why we fled to Krakow; being closer would be perilous. A traveling Tzimisce, one Pyotr Stanislav, told us what to expect of Krakow. She protects us. And for her, we march. This is no coincidence; even if this Anziani is not Augustus, none would dare call himself Giovani without affiliation to that family.
While not all of the Giovani line are family, even the adopted outsiders bear the name. Circumstances do not permit my congress with the student lineage, elsewise I would investigate his role further. I have seen others use an alternate spelling.
I know of one young member named Vincent Giovanni. Another found three alternate entries detailing the trip to Genoa. The ink still smelled. I found a separate collection in a clay pot, which is almost identical to the ones I have provided in this thesis. I can only imagine these edits were to manipulate the narrative if the story ultimately went public.
It is my firm recommendation that we seal these documents. That we hide them away, and catalogue them without direct reference to the events. The stories of the Bloodless Crusade are few and far between, and do not feature many of the more controversial elements of the story. Make no mistake: This document will do more harm than good. We may learn lessons from it.
But it raises more questions than it answers. Indeed, it answers no significant questions. Lock it away. Consider this a footnote to my research on the Creidne Diaries. Some are more related to the Crusade than others, but I consider all relevant parties to be at least nominally aware of the Crusaders. Future researchers would be wise to investigate these parties.
Most of these letters were intercepted en route. Some were stolen from their respective homes. Some were given over as gifts from survivors — or murderers. One, the one without an original draft analogue, I uncovered by scrying at an opportune place and time. In the codex, you will find the originals. The following are my translations. He walks from city to city with the nascent covenant of strange pilgrims.
I dare not write his name, in case this letter is intercepted. But I trust you know to which cousin I refer. This is not rumor. This is not speculation. He was seen by one of my agents in Toulouse. He dealt with my agent, offering a remarkable favor in exchange for a rather benign use of the Voice, in intercepting a courier.
My agent was not mistaken in identifying him. More important than informing you, I am warning you. Do not intervene. Do not attempt to contact your cousin. I speak in strictest confidence: This cabal is not fated for success. It marches across dangerous ground.
It makes many fast enemies with its brashness and its strange heresies. It speaks of defying the blood. It speaks of the light of day. Before long, it will stumble upon a force not only resenting its words, but also possessing the power to stop its graceless walk. Lady Mendoza, you cannot intervene. I do not make this request lightly. I hear murmurs from three factions, demanding the heads of these pilgrims. The first is a collective of Lasombra with clan sponsorship, who see the travelers as a threat to their Road.
The second is a powerful coterie, some allies of mine, including an upand-coming Usurper named Meerlinda. This coterie sees the pilgrims as a potential upset, as a potential trigger for a great revolt. The last group is a great brood of the Baali, of which we know little. All three groups aim to see these wanderers eliminated, their message whatever that message may be silenced. Strange bedfellows, indeed. I know your ambitions. I know your methods. And I also know that my telling you to remain mum on this issue may fall on deaf ears.
If you truly wish to intervene, I implore you to abduct him. Find him, take him, and leave unnoticed. Employ an Assamite if you must. Do so as indirectly as you are able. You cannot risk being on that field when it becomes a slaughter. On to kinder words. I have heard your petition for mentorship. I will be passing along my recommendation.
On the good t d ngs, I do bel eve the br ck n quest on comes from one of the Second Generat on. I have all reason to bel eve th s. As you suspected, t comes from an oven. Further, the p ece has dent fy ng features, h d ng for those so ncl ned to uncover them. Cappadoc an. Th s s no co nc dence. If my research and d v nat on s correct, th s conf rms a long-stand ng bel ef supported by the Book of Nod. On to the bad t d ngs.
I must say that I do not have long. These are not Lasombra assass ns; my s ght would p erce that blackness. These are someth ng else. Each n ght, they come closer. On the f rst n ght, I could not throw a rock and h t the shadows f I tr ed.
Now, I can make out d st nct f ngers on the r hands f I focus. They have s x f ngers. Some three centur es ago, I encountered a coter e who l kew se d d not need blood. They went over a month w thout. But at the end of th s per od, the hunger caught up w th them, they rended each other to shreds, then they fell apart at the very fabr c. All crumbled to the F nal Death. If the shadows do not get me f rst, I know that th s shall be my fate as well. I have a solut on.
Metamorphos s w ll be my salvat on. If my theory stands correct, fate follows dent ty, and metamorphos s changes dent ty. Do not w sh me luck. W sh my ph losophy holds true. I need your assistance. And if you understand what this means, I do not need to elaborate.
Those claiming to be free of the shackles of the blood? Soon, they shall arrive in Valencia. I need your intervention. My sire has demanded my time, and in such a way I cannot refuse. But this matter must be attended to. A man called Augustine travels with them. He shares our blood. He must be eliminated. Make no mistake: This group will fall, and soon. They cannot have one of our clan in their ranks.
Things are changing soon. Wheels turn slowly but steadily. We must be clean, pure, and ready for that future. We cannot be stained with this nonsense, because when the last wheel turns, we must be ready to rise righteous as dark and perfect beacons. Whatever enslaves these travelers, we cannot be a party to it.
It must be done, and must be done properly. Gabriella speaks well of your ability. Odder still, this author seems to think that his passing was largely accepted as coincidence, as an expected cost of their dream. Either that writer was mistaken, or the Crusade believed their dreams truly empowered to kill. I do not discount this possibility. Their circumstances were sufficiently strange that they might rationalize anything.
To the Lord Berwich Nothisen, Greetings. We spoke briefly during your excursion to Paris. I introduced myself, we spoke of your nascent bloodline. A mutual acquaintance told me of your visit. She says a group of angels rode through her town, and blessed her and a few others. I need you to make her like you, clanless. After the initial feeding, which should be ample, I need you to not let her feed for some time. Wait one week. Perhaps two. See if she shows the signs of losing control, or the call to torpor.
If she does, feed her. If she does not, I need you to put a quickbeam shaft through her heart and ship her to me in Paris. I have many ears. More importantly, I have many ears about Saxony. I promise you that each Cainite lord in the region will recognize your nascent bloodline. My offer, while generous, is highly subject to time. I must have you commit this creation within one month, and I cannot promise you my support past that month.
So you must act quickly. But this window of opportunity is both rare and potent. I have leverage I can use in your favor, but I need to see results. We can create great things. You know this is possible. My friend Anatole spoke of you, and told me where I could connect with you. I need to make this connection, and I hope you understand the gravity of why. My family faces eradication. Further, my race faces eradication. My family, my kind, we know. We find, interpret, and we teach the secrets of the world when we can.
Worse, we see the end; and like Cassandra, none will hear our tale. Some of our number no longer sup on the fruit of the living. I need to tell this story, these portents, to one not of our blood, but one not necessarily mortal. You travel. You observe. You bear wisdom. You speak for a legacy thousands of years old. I will be as unto an open book. You know my kind enough to know how rare this opportunity is. Take this story to your kind.
I am a woman who has lost everything. Frenzy is covered p. Did you? Lack of corrections One example, p. Does it strikes you as odd, dealing in goods for Crafts? How much? But there's new mistakes, like this typo p.
Regrets Unless I need to go on eBay buy a complete new set of eyes and maybe a brain too, in just a couple of minutes of flipping through the book that's a lot of issues for a very long project, especially since apart from the Index typo all these issues were pointed out in time and in the right place during errata. Last edited by Blacky ; , AM. Playing on French Online virtual tabletop rpg community.
Tags: None. I emailed and pointed out the Instinct Virtue thing months ago. Nice to see I was completely ignored. Comment Cancel Post. Corpse in the Monster 1 doesn't list a type of point cost in it still.
It just says "Spend one point". Dominate levels 2 and 3 don't list a difficulty or at least confirm it's the same as for Dominate 1. An Fhuiseog. Originally posted by Vertical8 View Post. Ho Dracon. Dagger is the only weapon listed with Min STR 1, btw, so any kid encountered in the game will be equipped one if they can afford it. They have to be teenagers getting STR 2 until they are strong enough to be able to handle a simple knife!
I have complained about this several times during this process, when David first sent out the combat systems a long time ago, and then after the first pdf. Simple as that Last edited by Ho Dracon ; , PM. Reason: Forgot to write what Errata I suggested. Originally posted by An Fhuiseog View Post. Dominate still doesn't have difficulties listed. I also reported the missing entry for buying fields of expertise with xp or freebies.
The only stuff corrected was Influence description, Quietus in the character creation summary. All in all, the rules changes aren't that bad, but the end product is strangely lacking compared to V Which is sad. Dark Ages used to be the best line of the cWoD. Now, we have a core rulebook that falls flat in many respects.
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