Vampire - The Requiem - Night Horrors - Immortal Sinners.pdf - Vampire the Requiem - FatumTech

a sourcebook for

The dead whisper about her from LA to El Paso. About the

barbarian, the cannibal, the big bad blackbird. The mon-

ster who sneaks in like a thief in the light, and leaves in

a cloud of dust and clotting blood. The Unholy.

Maybe you want to hunt her. Maybe you want to fuck her.

But looking in your eyes, I think more than anything you

want to be her. To break the rules. To be feared and wanted.

To ride alone forever and never take no for an answer.

Well, you better step up now. Pick a side. Because

she’s here tonight, and no matter what you’ve

heard, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

– Sheriff of Santa Teresa, last words

This book is:

Information on vampires

that vampires talk about,

from preeminent monsters

to ancient horrors

The legacies of these legends

•

among the Damned: new

bloodlines, Devotions, and

blood magic

Allies and antagonists for any

•

chronicle, from Vampire to

Hunter

5 3 2 9 9

9 781588 464491

PRINTED IN CHINA

www.worldofdarkness.com

978-1-58846-449-1 WW25308 $32.99 US

•

The Resurrection Man

The tomb lay largely uninished, though Mother Nature had conspired to inish the bro-

ken walls herself—black roots took mighty grip of those walls, laying claim to this dead

place. Unmoored tiles, many broken, lay scattered about. Motes of dust whirled. Dead

spiders, creatures that had come here looking for a feast but inding none, inding this

place nothing more than a trap, reposed desiccated in their webs. Clods of dirt lay here

and there. Mushrooms. Moss. The lesh-scoured bones of a rat, maybe a possum.

In the corner, a crumpled metal trapdoor sat, ruined. The hinges were busted. The center had been kicked so

hard a cruel bootprint remained in the metal—it warped the words engraved across the top, Est vir qui adest .

This was a place of death, to be sure, but no part of it looked as dead as the corpse in the middle of the loor,

swaddled in white linens gone yellow. The shriveled body lay kinked beneath that pale shroud, bony hands

gripping the fabric in arthritic eternity. The body was brown and black beneath the yellowed sheet—little

more than a scarecrow whose skin was cracked leather and tough jerky.

The face could not be seen, though—a featureless porcelain mask, no eyes, no mouth, lay crookedly cocked

atop the skull. It was the one perfect thing in this mausoleum; the very dust seemed afraid to touch it. This

was a city of masks. Did this one hold some untoward power like many of the others?

A claw reached down out of the darkness, tracing a pattern across the top of the mask. Another talon joined

it. The two went for the edges and delicately picked up the relic, gently setting it down on the earthen loor.

It was the last gentle action that would occur this night.

A talon slit the center of the shroud, a swift and unmerciful slash. The sheet parted, showing its package:

the torpid corpse of the heretic elder, Rafael Pope. His eyes were puckered sphincters, his mouth a wretched

scream where his own teeth had bit into his diaphanous lips.

But it wasn’t his face that drew interest from the woman standing over him, a broad-brimmed hat slung low

over her dark face, her yellow eyes. It was his moldering chest and what lay beyond the breastbone—a heart

so leached of life it must have looked like a peach pit or a lump of anthracite. With rough claws—ingers

of wrinkled dark red skin like that of a cockscomb—she unceremoniously spread the ribcage with a brittle

crack, exposing the dull organ within.

The Unholy smiled. Licked a fang. She was going to eat that heart, then eat the rest of him, then swallow

his betraying soul like the last gobbet of sweetmeat.

She reached in to curl what passed for her hands around the dead heart—

“Stop.”

The word was like an icicle to the back of her head. She snarled, and felt the air grow thin around her; the dust stirred

in ways that denied the currents of air blowing in from the trapdoor’s opening. Nothing lurched inside her, no Beast

threatening to come to the fore—that awful monster had long come to the surface, and now lived just beneath her

tough skin, ever-present but well-reined. Dirt cracked off the walls, thudding in great clumps against the loor tiles.

Spider webs trembled. The air grew loud with the sounds of beaks clacking, feathers shufling, little feet tightening on

their perches. Eyes glittered behind her. The room now grew heavy with the presence of a hundred crows, fat-bellied

birds roosting on roots and tiles and tucked away in any uneven niche the wall presented.

A man-shaped shadow stepped away from the corner of the room, and she nearly loosed her lock upon

it—but he held up a hand, and she had to admit she was curious.

“Birch,” she said, the word hitting like a gob of spit against cement.

“Guilty,” the shadow answered, stepping into the moonlight offered by the trapdoor’s opening. It gleamed

off his shorn scalp. The light caught in the contours of the scars crisscrossing his skull and face. He held up

his hands and smiled. “Nice trick with the birds. You have to teach me that some night.”

She eased the tension in her shoulders, and the birds visibly quieted, too—the bond between them was palpable.

“It ain’t the best idea to interrupt me,” she said.

Chuck Wendig

“I assure you, that wasn’t my desire. Technically , though, you interrupted me.”

“You were here the whole time?”

“I was.”

He took a few steps closer. It didn’t bother her. She wanted it; she and the birds could take him apart like he

was a piñata, spilling out whatever candies waited within. Birch was a fascinating sort; one never knew how

he’d approach a situation. Here he was in the tomb of an elder well-loathed by the so-called Sanctiied, but he

wasn’t in his sacred vestments. Just a powder blue polo shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. Golfwear covering up

a body marked by brands and scars.

“I didn’t smell you,” she said.

“Good to know I don’t have a peculiar odor. I do brush my teeth. Our choice of drink doesn’t do well when

it rots in the mouth; best to keep our chompers clean.” As if to punctuate his remark, he snapped his teeth

together.

“If you say so, Birch. Listen, let’s just get this over with. You were waiting for me, so say your piece, then leave

me to my leisure.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t waiting for you. Your presence here is unexpected. Then again, it usually is. I heard a story

about you in… Detroit, was it?”

“Something like that. About a year ago. Always seems that nobody wants to let me pass in peace. I like to

leave them with some souvenirs.”

Birch shrugged. “We’re all cursed in some way.”

“So you’re here for the heretic.”

“I am.”

“I got here irst.”

“You did.”

The two eyed each other up. She wasn’t scared of Birch, and she knew he was scared of her—it wasn’t just the

tickle at the base of her spine, but other things, too. The way his neck muscles tightened into cords. The way

his tongue played over his teeth even with his mouth closed. The cock of his hips, giving him a faint slouch

(and Birch, he never slouches). And yet, for all that, he wasn’t that scared. Couldn’t be. He was here. He took

another step closer, offering his hands up like a Vegas dealer who has just cleared the table.

The Unholy grew frustrated. “So just go the fuck away, then. I’ve laid claim to this body. His heartsblood is

mine. Go ind yourself another slumbering fool.”

“I don’t want to claim the body. I’ve no interest in devouring this one’s soul. Actually, I want to wake him up.”

“Well, that’s fucking stupid.”

“Probably.”

Just to make her dominance clear, she put her mortiied claws back on Pope’s cracked and blistered heart.

She’d have pissed on it if she still had the juice.

“Don’t much care what you want to do with him,” she said. “Doesn’t matter if you want to hollow him out

and ill him with nuts and stufing, because I’ve made my mark. My intentions are clear.”

“They are. And yet, I cannot back down. God’s will is clear, here.”

“Don’t you mean your will?”

He sighed. “Same thing, I’m afraid. He speaks through me. He acts through me. Actually, I suspect He acts

through you, too. That’s how God is.”

“He moves in mysterious ways,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“It isn’t mysterious to me. It’s mysterious only to the ignorant and the unbelieving.”

Birch started to pace a rough half-circle at Pope’s torpid corpse-feet (the two ankles crossed, a pose ironically

Christ-like). His brown loafers crunched on bits of broken tile.

“You’re bold,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

“Let me be bolder, then. Let’s make a deal.”

“I’m not good with deals. You have nothing I want.”

Birch clucked his tongue. “I don’t know about that. We may not believe the same things, and we may not

want the same things. But I have to believe our interests intersect, here.”

“I doubt that very much, Birch.”

“Will you at least hear me out?”

She tightened her grip on the heretic’s heart. It was now that she realized something—it remained true she

had nothing to fear from Birch’s physical presence. His words, though, were a different matter. His tongue was

a snare; even laid bare, she threatened to step into it. The birds sensed her tension. They rufled their wings.

Shifted nervously from foot to foot.

Birch sensed it, too—he didn’t wait for permis-

sion to speak, and instead let his words tumble

out of him, careless but exact.

“I know the stories,” he said. “I’ve heard tell of you

since my earliest nights. My sire was a killer. Elegant

in some ways, but clumsy in others. She was in awe of

you, but of course as is the nature of our kind she was

also jealous and apparently certain that one day she

could surpass your skills. She never got the chance,

of course, because she was ultimately weak and they

put her down like a distempered dog. She told me

many stories about you. Some probably true. Many

probably less than true. It wasn’t just her. Inevitably

someone would bring you up. Your visits to cities.

Your long journeys down dark highways. The things

you did. The unlives you ended. It’s more than just

gossip. This is gospel, sprayed in blood across a lonely

desert road.”

“Poetic.”

“I try.”

“Go on.”

“I see a theme in what you do.”

“I don’t do themes. I only do what I want.”

“You’re elemental that way, I recognize. But

that’s part of it. You’re not just some id-driven

monstrosity. You haven’t fallen prey to what

so many of us have. Your acts have meaning.

They reveal purpose . Otherwise, you’d just

kill wantonly. All would die. All would be

blood on your claws and in your mouth.”

“You calling me weak, boy?”

“Quite the opposite, I assure you. You’re

strong enough to retain that purpose well

beyond the point that lesser creatures would

have become contaminated and driven mad

by their sins. God works through you, and

with Pope you can let him continue doing

so. Release him to me. Let me wake him. I

have my people—Emily, and a handful of

loyal Brigmans—coming with an offering

for Pope. A taste he dare not refuse. Let me

rouse him from his slumber.”

“Why?”

“You’re not just a castigating force. You’re a

creature that enjoys a certain random element.

Knock over one domino, see what happens.

Pope is a very big domino. You loathe the power

structure that sits in place. Help me shake it up.

They’ll run like ants. Some will woo him, others

will try to kill him or enslave him or worship

him. The chaos born of such an event surely ap-

peals to you?”

She moved fast. She slammed Birch up against

the wall, hard enough that the tomb shook, send-

ing a rain of dirt and dust over everything. His feet

dangled. His throat lay soft in her curled claws.

Vampire - The Requiem - Night Horrors - Immortal Sinners.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: