Daeva.pdf

We’ve always been here, you know. In that

sticky, musky place where sex and worship

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sticky, musky place where sex and worship

intermingle. We were the hierodules in the

ancient world — I am the Whore of Babylon,

mother-fucker. Now be quiet, smile for me

and get down on all fours.

If you crawl for me, I’ll show you some things

you can do with that wagging tongue of yours

that are far more interesting than spouting

philosophy at me.

— Sinnhaja, Queen of the Harpies

to a visiting Carthian

This book includes:

Trace the history of the Daeva — from

••

Trace the history of the Daeva — from

their first chilling nights in Sumeria to

the sticky heat of modern cities.

Tune into the Cacophony, the under-

••

Tune into the Cacophony, the under-

ground journalism of the Kindred. Find

out what it takes to stay on the cutting edge

of the Masquerade... and why that edge is

cutting deeper than ever.

Experience the Daeva through the "writ-

••

Experience the Daeva through the "writ-

ing" of the living and the dead from

around the world. Players and readers

are drawn into a World of Darkness that's

more frightening every night.

New Merits, bloodlines, Discipline pow-

••

New Merits, bloodlines, Discipline pow-

ers, and clan secrets that every Vampire:

The Requiem player will want to have.

5 1 9 9 9

9 781588 463524

PRINTED IN CHINA

978-1-58846-352-4 W W25115 $19.99 US

www.worldofdarkness.com

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b h

This book includes:

their first chilling nights in Sumeria to

ground journalism of the Kindred. Find

ing" of the living and the dead from

ers, and clan secrets that every Vampire:

w w w . w o r l d o f d a r k n e s s . c o m

Most Honored,

I find it strange to think, now, that I came from Paris. Or, for that

matter, from Canterbury or London. Oh, the languages spring easily enough

to my tongue. My life, though, seems far away and like a dream. The idea

of moving across the world seems almost as fantastic as landing men on the

moon. My memories don’t seem like memories until I came to New York.

Until I died.

Those of my family are creatures of the moment. We indulge our appetites

where we can. No, we do better than indulge: we savor. We are also

creatures of memory. The hungers we feed are the hungers of the human

beings we used to be. Should I will it, my heart beats as hard as that of

any other man, and my manhood rises as tall. I have loved and hated, killed

and died. I have bled myself on errands of mercy, and glutted my belly in

acts of revenge. Look upon my years, mayflies, and despair.

For some hundred years, my sire and I had lived as man and wife. She

kept me strong and fit as her ghoul, and I wanted nothing more than to be

by her side. With her wealth and kindness, that was the only wish of mine

she had no power to grant. Her own health was waning, an infirmity of the

blood which even now begins to poison me. I was angry when she told me

what she wanted, what she intended to do. Why make me immortal, I asked,

when her fate was to wither and slumber? She allowed me to berate her, to

call her a bitch and a whore and a fiend. And when I was finished, when

I cried, still clear, mortal tears, she allowed me to forgive her, and she gave

me her Blood one last time.

Marisa sailed into the fog of ages soon afterwards. Our need for secrecy

denied her the ceremony of a proper burial. I told our friends that she had

departed unexpectedly, most likely in the company of her rascal brother. I

was not allowed my mourning, and that is perhaps what drove me to begin

my collection. For over two centuries I have gathered family relics and

raised each of my children to do the same. I do not know if I have been

a good father. Marisa prepared me well, but by her own example, I knew

that time was the one luxury immortality would not afford me. I like to

think that, at the very least, I have given them an appetite for the truth and

an understanding of what family should mean.

I digress. I only meant to express the importance of this collection to

me. This letter will be followed by others, documents and artifacts from my

collections. I could entrust them to my Prince, or wait in vain for Marisa

to awaken, but I believe that you will put them to the best use.

You will remember me. And when you see what I have not

completed, the gaps in my collection, you will mourn.

Your Intimate Friend,

So the old bat bailed on you. Don’t know why, and I don’t really give a shit. It’s not my problem, and it’s not

yours, anymore. Dust in the wind.

His place was pretty empty. I mean, not empty-empty, there were all sor ts of statues and vases and a couple

bits that are gonna make me obscenely wealthy. I don’t feel like playing CSI and sor ting through all of that

yet, though, so you get what he was going to send you. I also don’t care if his fears were right, although I don’t

know why you’d need the stuff if he was.

First of all, there’s this folder called Kevin (p. 3). Bitter ex-boytoy if ever I’ve seen one. After that, there’s

a bunch of shit from someplace called the Mission in San Francisco. Vampires on the sunny coast, apparently.

There’s a Mixtape, along with transcript (p. 36), then some poor shit getting interrogated about the Cacoph-

ony (p. 41). Probably would’ve made Ayesha sick. Apparently, vampires have been messing with my head and my

naughty bits since before I was born, at least if you believe the American Dreamgirl (p. 43). A and I had one

of those calendars. I don’t think she had any idea.

The asshole seems to have had a real hard-on for the south. A bunch of the stuff he was going to send you

was from or about there. There’s a Memorial for New Orleans (p. 48), which I gather he wrote himself. Nar-

cissistic bastard. Then, there’s a journey through the South and some interviews by Ayesha. I didn’t like read-

ing them, but you have that bad trip to thank for All Tomorrow’s Bodies (p.49). Following that, some guy has

problems with a girl who won’t stay dead, his Inamorata (p. 61). Then there’s an ar ticle on The Masquerade

(p. 64) that you make such a big deal of. Crazy, the way keeping secrets is. Like I asked Ayesha, don’t you

know we love you?

He seems to have been trying to get it up for the rest of the world, too. Typical New Yorker. First, we’ve

got an ar ticle about Carmilla (p.69), who reminds me of my A., without all the redeeming qualities. Then,

there’s some stories from The World Before Us... way, way before us (p. 74), as well as some commentary on

Alternate Myths (p.77) and their sources that the Old Bat seems to have ignored. I also threw in his copy of a

pitch for this movie, Black Blood (p. 83). If you really like your Masquerade that much, maybe you should do

something about it.

I hope this is everything, Willy, because I only want two more thing to do with you. Revenge, don’t worry,

check. That’s coming, yours and mine, and the little idiot’s Diary (p. 109). The other? I know you people don’t

die easy, and I’ve learned that even regular folks like me don’t stay down. How do I get her back?

Please. I miss her.

I need her.

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