By Timothy Toner
The Warlord sat in his chair, and looked once again at the map laid before him. According to this, it was to be the ultimate victory. Now it was defeat. In the distance, the furious battlecries of the victors rose ever-close.
"What had gone wrong?" he whispered to himself. All were stripped from him, all friends, generals, assistants, thralls. All had faced the Final Death with honor, leaving only him. Sword marks scored his flesh, arrows still carelessly protruded, the fletching scratching against the wooden chair. None of these things, these engines of war, could harm him. Death would have to come another way. Painfully. Without honor.
The tentflap rustled, and a figure stepped in. The Warlord regarded it with puzzlement. No one stood there. No sound issued from the doorway. Although one end still slapped pleasantly against the tent, the doorflap was perfectly silent.
The Warlord froze. "Who are you?" No words echoed from his lips.
Standing, he reached for his sword, only to find it already gone. What witchery?
The intruder appeared before him, as if his mind had only now thought it wise to alert the Warlord of the presence. It was one of the fierce ones from Asia Minor, a brave and savage race that had to have the rules of engagement burned into them with heated swords. So there was one left. One out of so many...
"You may speak now, Juran."
He knew my name! The Warlord's eyes grew wide in shock. Still, the pup was impudent. He had not learned the lesson. From this whelp, the Warlord would build a new army. One step at a time. First, the discipline...
The Warlord reached out to grab the stranger, noting with a glance that he was indeed Kindred. He seemed vaguely familiar, and yet somehow different. Changed from the last time they had met. "Who are you?" he bellowed out, finally taking hold of the stranger's squirming arm.
"I am Hassam. I am your death."
The Warlord's hand grew suddenly cold, an icy bar absorbing the warmth of the room, sending his already cool body into shuddering. He collapsed to the dirt.
"What?"
"I have come for you, Juran, just as I said I would. You saved me from my righteous death. You kept me from my gods. You stole any hope for honor or redemption. And now I return the favor." Despite his tough words, the stranger was quivering, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of anticipation.
"Do it, you coward! " It was a word horrid to say. Such a denouncement would mean the death of any man the Warlord had leveled it against. Now it was only an Epitaph.
With razor-like hands, the stranger sliced through the Warlord's armor, stripping all raiments of glory and protection. Naked and stiff from the cold, the Warlord could only shiver and wait for the end to come.
The stranger, this Hassam, drew forth from his sash a curving blade. From the depth of the Warlord's fallen will, a smile arose. "He wishes to use an engine of war against me..."
Hassam caught the smile, and returned it. He raised the blade to the flickering oil lamp. "No, Juran. Not a weapon of war. A weapon of treachery. Stained with the blood of your generals, all fallen this night. You will be with them, on this blade, and within me, forever."
Hassam struck his defenseless opponent again and again. The blood rushed and welled, until it pooled enough so that the killer dropped his blade, and lapped at the sticky blood he craved. Thus was the end of the great Warlord Juran, last of the Machomenoi.
The Machomenoi are a clan wholly lost to the Kindred of today. Fragments of legend still extant alleges that the founder of Clan Assamite slew the Antediluvian, but only after picking off all others, one by one, in the deepest part of the night.
These vampires were once the crowning jewel of the burgeoning civilization. Military history and tactics were more critical to the Greeks and Phoenicians than astrological charts and omens. In every way, the Machomenoi were the unliving embodiment of these ideals.
Only the finest and noblest warriors and leaders were chosen to fill the ranks of this Clan. Taken almost entirely from those who lay dying on the field of battle, the Machomenoi retained the killing scar as a symbol of honor and virtue. They travelled the world, seeking out battles, and fighting in the name of strategy and high ideals.
Often two Machomenoi would face one another as either the leaders of two opposing forces, or advisors to the leaders, or even those who would lead the charge, calling others to a noble doom. In every way, they showed deference to each other, taking an almost philosophical look at defeat. After all, one only learns when mistakes are made. A Machomenoi is always spared, even when the custom calls for the destruction or enslavement of rival forces. Such is the bond of fealty they all share.
There are three types of Machomenoi, known informally as the Arm, the Leg, and the Chest. The Arm are those fighters who surpass in strength. They usually act as the leaders of attacks and assaults, fighting brutally, and smashing down any who stand in their way. The Leg are the swift scouts, specializing in sneak attacks, routs, and, more importantly, reconnaissance. Among mortals, they are the advisors, the dark shadow behind the throne. The Chest are the stout of heart, the rear guard that protects the flanks. They will stand their ground no matter what the foe, and subsequently act as bodyguards, or even leaders, amongst mortals.
Because of the effective job of Hassam in wholly annihilating this Clan, very little is known about them, other than accounts from the dawn of recorded history which talk of fierce pale skinned warriors that appeared in the midst of battle to rally the troops to victory. The greatest assemblage of Machomenoi in one place was at the Siege of Troy, where they took a minor diplomatic problem, and blew it so out of proportion that it took ten years, thousands of lives, and the razing of a once noble city to resolve. Every time one side would gain an advantage, the other would petition Juran, and the horrid balance would continue. The constant warfare continued, as more Machomenoi were summoned to fight in the conflict. Finally, duplicity, an anathema to the Machomenoi, won the day, and the disgusted Machomenoi turned to other conflicts.
The only other tale that survives in any degree is the fall of the Machomenoi, as recounted by an unknown scribe that did not know their true nature. As the legend goes, a fierce war was being waged in Asia Minor between two rival tribes over a hotly contested trade route. Both sides had camped at the opposite banks of a river, drew their bows, and waited for someone to come out to fetch water. They remained there for weeks, slowly running out of water, slowly dying a dishonorable death. The conflict would not have been so terrible, if not for the presence of Juran himself, as well as several of his generals, watching over the battle, waiting for a break.
Just when the Machomenoi were growing bored, and considering whipping the men into a frenzy, and driving them into one another, a lone figure jumped on a horse, and rode straight for the opposite camp, not caring in the least about the sweet water that flowed about his horse's calves. His horse was not so single-minded, however. It stopped midstream, and began to plaintively lap at the flowing river, rendering the man a stationary target.
Seconds before the release of the arrows, the fighter leapt into the waters, and disappeared. A few patient moments later, he popped up again, and again, another wave of arrows. He slipped underneath the waves before they could strike him. This was repeated again and again, until, much to their horror, the tribe realized it had a scant few left. Bolstered by this confidence, the other side assaulted, and though it was a bloody massacre, the patient tribe with the brave martyr won out.
So pleased by such out and out bravery, Juran and his two generals sought out the hero. Martyr he was: blood poured from a dozen wounds. Juran smiled secretly at the true cause of the hero's bravery. He poured into the mind of the soldier, and discovered that he had become so thirsty, that he had killed his comrade, and drank deeply from his blood. The resulting thirst had driven him insane. Nevertheless, such "heroism" should not go unrewarded. Juran ordered him Embraced on the spot.
The general who performed the deed was only 7th generation; in those days, such a high generation seldom bred true. As the vitae flowed and mingled with the blood of his friend, the soldier began to convulse. He would not survive the Change. Juran insured it with a bit of his own blood. The soldier stopped convulsing, and lapped greedily at this reward.
The Neonate survived, but the powerful infusion of blood erased any battlescars. The soldier, low in generation, and lacking these signs of honor, would forever be a lackey. But unbeknownst to Juran, Hassam -- the soldier -- sweetly craved the dark, rich vitae, and sought it out at any opportunity. He fought battles not of honor but of treachery, slaying the Machomenos, whether he was the victor or loser. He learned the secret of Diablerie, and did the Blood Dance, climbing in generation, and systematically slaying every one of the trusting Machomenoi he met.
As his power grew, so too did his thirst for more blood. He developed special powers, the antithesis of his Machomenoi origins. Whereas they would be forward, brutal, and honorable, he would be silent, lethal, and amoral. It took him quite a time, but eventually, he developed Quietus as we know it today.
Eventually, he arranged for a horrific battle to be fought in northern Greece, and secretly invited all those Machomenoi who remained. He made pacts with each, promising detailed reports that could only be told in silence. It was the last news they ever heard.
The Warlord also came. Juran wondered where they had all gone to, but the Phoenicians had discovered a new world, supposedly. Perhaps they were off in this strange new land, fighting grander wars. Perhaps he would journey to there himself.
Hassam allowed Juran to live in his delusional world, where he shared the throne of mastery over humanity with Caine himself. When the assassin came, it was after a humiliating defeat. Stripped of all pride, Juran basically offered his neck to Hassam.
From here, the history becomes tangled. Hassam had no desire to create others, to inflict upon others the sins of his former clan. Still, he found those who thought as he did appealing to be with, to control, and eventually to Embrace. None deceived him as he deceived his Lord. In this, there is a frightful symmetry with the order he obliterated; the Assamites are as loyal to him as the Generals were to Juran. It is rumored that even today, Hassam awaits one who will rise from his ranks and decimate the Clan, taking from them as he himself took from the Machomenoi.
Because history is skewed in regard to the Machomenoi, no one knows if the Clan was around at the time of Caine and the Second City. Those Antediluvians who know seem shocked that human minds still hold the Machomenoi in memory. To them, they are long dead, an inferior, prideful clan in every way. A few potent Kindred, aware of the history, hint that perhaps the Machomenoi-Assamite cycle is never ending; Juran usurped it from the first, and thus the blood has flowed endlessly, never settling, constantly being stolen and reclaimed.
Whatever the case, the transfer of power from the Machomenoi to the Assamites signalled an important shift in the way humanity viewed war. It was no longer an honorable accounting, with coups counting for more than a massacre. Countries would be lost with the outcome of a single battle. When the Assamites took over, war became more about finishing as quickly as possible, while delivering as much pain as possible against an opponent. In many ways, the Assamites murdered the only pure thing that ever came from war: a sense of honorable finality, where neither side felt cheated.
Arm: Potence, Celerity, Ptolemos
Leg: Celerity, Fortitude, Ptolemos
Chest: Fortitude, Potence, Ptolemos
In one way, the Assamites and the Machomenoi are strikingly similar: the use of Vitae. To them, vitae is an extremely valuable commodity. Before a battle is fought, the two Machomenoi usually meet, shake hands, and propose a wager. This amount is usually in blood. If for some reason, the two clash without speaking, the winner is automatically awarded a single point of blood, no matter what.
Hassam apparently stole the method of conversion from the Machomenoi, for although the exact specifics of the Machomenoi ritual are lost, their texts constantly speak of being promoted to higher ranks. Use the 100 = 1, as suggested in the VPG.
Demotion also exists, though, once again, the precise nature and methodology is unknown. The records speak of "The Foul Vitae," a horrid potion which causes a decrease in Generation. Thank Caine this was lost to history.
"I, Hassam. It is I."
The figure in the doorway looked familiar, and yet...
"You have done something few have, Hassam. You have ascended to the Third Generation. Your Hunger has served you well, given you the drive to overcome any obstacle. Now it will curse you." The figure turned to go.
"No. Wait! What did you mean..." He stood and wiped the vitae from his mouth with a dirty sleeve. "What do you mean, 'Cursed?'"
The figure smiled. "Find shelter, Hassam. You will require it. I do not curse you. I warn you. Few have ascended to your level, and none so quickly...so far. However, such hubris carries a heavy price. That which gave you the edge, the drive to go on, will ultimately drag you down. I am sorry, Hassam, but it was your choice."
"So it doesn't end here, in this tent?"
"No. There has to be 13. You cannot die until someone takes the pulsing blood from your veins. It will never end.
"You've worked so hard, all these years. In my own way, I was cheering you along. Now that it's over, I hope it was worth the trouble." He left.
Hassam remained kneeling in the tent, waiting for the sun's scorching rays to mar his flesh, to end his life as he planned. They ripped his flesh into fiery agony, they desiccated the corpse of Juran. But no matter how much he suffered, he did not die.
And the cycle began anew...
BEGIN TRANSCRIPT
"...So that's it?"
"Yes. As far as we know, that's it."
Curan glanced down at the elegant weapon he held delicately in his hands. "They're all gone?"
"I suppose. There have always been rumors, but, as you know, the Assamites are good."
"And you wouldn't suppose this hunk of iron would have any power?"
"No. None outside its original owner. And forger."
"Sheesh. I went to a lot of trouble to get this, too. And now I spend my pennies, haul my pale butt all the way to Rekjavik, and all for nothing."
"Oh, not for nothing. It's still a serviceable weapon."
"But it's not a GhulBlade. It's not a corferri. It's not anything."
"It's history."
"Great. 'hey, mista. You wanna buy some history? Twenty bucks.'"
"Childe, there are perhaps forty souls around today who know the tale I told you. I saw the blade was worthless to you the moment you walked in here. Your message was sincere, so I thought I could give you something for your troubles. Information."
"Information? About a loser clan who couldn't beat off a single lick? I don't care who he was! If they were such great fighters, then what the hell are they doing dead? Didn't they talk to one another? Didn't they think, 'oh, gee, that Hassam has fought Tom, Dick, and Stupid, and all three are dead now. Hm...' I'm failing to see the bright side to all this..."
"Don't!"
"damn...what happened?"
"You struck the floor with the sword. It is slate. Sparks flew."
"Nah. Not sparks. I hit that floor, and Bam! Something hit it before I even touched it!"
"Yes. Not sparks, boy. You must go. You must take this sword wherever it will lead you. It's not safe here. Not after that."
"What?"
"Trust me. You came all this way, and I dispensed free advice, out of pity. Now I beg you. Leave."
"One more question, one small thing I just don't understand. How'd they do it?"
"How did they do...what?"
"Fight. Y'know...I can imagine that lots and lots of soldiers fought for them, like in the story, but weren't those during the day? How did they control the troops?"
"You've uncovered a great mystery. Now it's your duty to cover it back up. Before it devours you...and us. Go now."
"Okay...right...whatever. See ya, you old bastard."
"Goodbye Curan."
END TRANSCRIPT
File No. 994532 - Level 7 Survellience Sweep Record. Translate into Aramaic, and File Level 4, Eyes Only, Istanbul, Petra, Aerie.
As two astute posters have pointed out, the concept of vampiric generals seems unlikely in the least. The Kine would immediately object to fighting at night, for obvious reasons. So somehow, these mighty warlords had to find a way to fight during the day.
Of course, this is the result of all the scholarship that is known about this enigmatic clan. Many, particularly Assamites, deny their existence, simply because they don't make sense. Nice metaphor for a Clan, but rather impractical, in the weight of historical evidence. The few experts who still try to piece it all together have one of two theories. The first is that the Machomenoi, when they desired to fight, could encourage the Kine they ruled and controlled to fight at night, when the moon was full and the sky was cloudless. Such gods that walked among men would have undoubtably been able to sway the masses in this regard. If you were willing to die for a pale stranger that improved your fighting ability, then you most certainly were willing to do so under a full moon. It's not like it was every night.
The second theory is perhaps the most radical of all; that the Machomenoi were indeed immune to the debilitating effects of the sun, but paid a terrible price in that regard. Until Level 5 was reached, normal blows could kill them.
However, the huge hole in our knowledge of the clan, especially how one becomes an Arm, Leg, or Chest, leaves us with questions which may never be answered sufficiently.
This is all your players can know, up into this point. This is all the scholarship tells them, no matter how hard they search. Anyone who pretends to have knowledge beyond this point would probably have been hunted down by Hassam a long time ago. Unless you're running a Chronicle while these guys were running around, then they will only know the vague rumors (above) which can make a normally sedate Assamite foam at the mouth.
This Clan is intended to be the ultimate teaser. Rumors of a Lost Clan, with direct links to Clan Assamite, should have any Illuminatist running out the door to find more info, just to have something to lord over the oh-so-smug Assamites.
What exists beyond is lessons that Hassam intentionally forgot, since their very existence threatens vampires, and to a large degree, humanity in general. In every sense, only one individual in the World of Darkness knows what lies beyond this point. Well, five. But they're not talking...
The gender issue: Lost to the ages is whether or not the Machomenoi were all men. Legends of the Amazons hint that, no, not all were, but no single evidence of a female Machomenos survive. It could very well be that Hassam may have overlooked these rare exceptions.
The Machomenoi today: As hinted, a few Machomenoi survive, mostly in their True Weapons, trapped there by Hassam long ago. These weapons collect dust on shelves, and confound scientists in their inability to rust or even lose their edge. Most spirits are asleep, waiting to be found by a Kindred with the passion for war in her heart.
Finally, there is but one place where the Machomenoi could persist: the Americas. Drawn to the powerful warrior culture of the Native Americans, the Machomenoi would have travelled any distance to be with those who treasured honorable warfare above all. To date, five Machomenoi still live, asleep and unaware that the European has conquered the land through deception and treachery. One in particular, a powerful Chest who animated a great buffalo carcass when he fought, was almost awakened in the Spirit Dance. He now stirs in his sleep, and when fully awakened, will try to Enhance as many Native Americans to lead into battle.
View The Path of Ares.