By Timothy Toner (thanatos@interaccess.com) (5 July 1996)
"So, are you going to make it home okay, Kenny?"
"Yeah. My brother's waiting at the corner store."
"Have a good weekend then. See you next Friday."
The boy collected his coat and book bag, remembering to zip up tightly. With the coming of winter, it was getting dark really early. Even now, at just before five, it was almost pitch black. He was so focussed on the way out, that he almost ran into the stranger.
Dark and looming, as tall as Mr. Fredericks, his teacher, but nowhere near as nice. Something in the back of Kenny's head screamed "FEAR!" but Kenny ignored it. He pushed past the man, and went to his locker.
"Do you teach them to be that rude?"
Frederick glanced up, and the pleasant smile faded. "Sims. It's been a while."
"Too long, actually. Four months, in fact. You're looking well."
"Yeah. It's a curse. You're up awfully early."
"Blame Sergei. He's been trying to master that ritual."
"Please, Sims. No names. Not here."
The raven haired man laughed convulsively. "So you think you've found your fragile island of stability? In this place, a children's library, a children's school. You were one of the greatest archivists, and now you're frittering your life away in this place. If I wasn't so envious, I'd be disgusted."
Frederick breathed out slowly, reflexively. "So why did you come down here so early. What couldn't wait? I gave blood last week."
"I know. Sergei...pardon, the master..." Frederick stiffened, and glanced at the door. Sims chuckled before continuing. "He was pleased to find that you came so readily, and were so obedient. One would think that you have accepted your fate."
"In a sense, I have."
"Then return. There's no life for you here. Within ten years, fifteen maximum, you'll be forced to move on. Why play by their rules?"
"I don't want to be a slave. Not again."
"As if any man could bind you..."
"Sims, I have a hell of a lot of work to do. Tell me what you want, or get out."
"Me? I was just in the neighborhood, and decided to stop by. After all, it has been four months."
"Why the hell would you come down here? You hate the South Side."
"With a passion. However, Sergei has guests this weekend, and they woke up hungry."
"Guests? What kind of--"
"Ventrue. I'm sorry, Fredrick, but they're terribly important, and they're not supposed to be in the city. We needed a secure area."
It all came to Frederick in a flash. "Kenny. You son of a BITCH! KENNY!" He ran for the door. Or tried to, at least.
In the time it took the teacher to make that realization, Sims had put his glasses back on, slipped on his favorite pair of bludgeoning gloves, and stepped in the path of Frederick. He gripped his associate by the lapels, and shook him briskly.
Slowing down just enough to be intelligible, he whispered, "Don't worry. We have agents monitoring the Hunt. They'll make sure that he was seen leaving the school before they make the grab. Also, the janitor down the hall will establish that you never left this room. And I'm here to make sure that you don't."
"You knew about this. You knew about me, and this place, and everything. You could have taken them somewhere else, but you took them here, to my children. You son of a bitch." He began to pull.
Sims eyes widened in horror. It wasn't that Frederick was too strong. On the contrary, Sims felt Frederick's arm stiffen and twist unnaturally. Frederick was using Sims' strength against him. If he didn't let go, then Frederick would be free...and Sims would be left holding his arm.
Fortunately, it didn't come to that. As the tendons began to tear in Frederick's shoulder, he stopped his struggling, closed his eyes, and accepted the terrible reality of the situation.
"Why? Do you hate me so much for what has happened? Don't you know what I've lost because of this thing? I didn't choose to go Revenant!"
"No, you didn't." Sims drew Frederick close, mocking an embrace that they had shared many times. He breathed in his ear. "You can walk in the sun. You can behold the grandeur of an icon. And you will live forever, without once taking of the blood. You have it all, and you don't have to pay for a damn thing. Don't ask me why I hate you. You'd be a fool to ask."
Frederick massaged his shoulder, and the tendons smoothed under the skin. "I've paid my debts. I was told that all accounts are balanced. My blood for my freedom. That was the deal. I don't have to put up with this Machiavellian bullshit. I left that all behind."
Sims broke the embrace. "Sad, you know. Your name came up again at the Primogen meeting. Because I'm the authority on your...case, they let me attend. Carlos says that you're a threat to the Masquerade more profound than any Sabbat siege."
"Did they speak of destruction?"
Sims chuckled. "No. They're not stupid. They understood the ancient scrolls that I translated for them. You can't be killed. Ever. They envy that, fear it, and what they fear, they try to destroy. Carlos did speak of imprisonment."
The color drained from Frederick's face until it matched the pale shade of Sim's cheeks. "Imprisonment? What? I've done nothing wrong."
"It's what you can do, and what they can't do in response. You represent a shifting of the balance of power in the Jyhad. Already three cases of spontaneous revenance have been reported this year in Europe. There's talk of regulation of ghouls, of extending the Tradition of Creation to include ghouls. Many smell the sulphur of war in the winds, and not a few are scouring for the texts I have uncovered, to try to duplicate...you."
"Fools," Frederick breathed. "Don't they understand how...hard this is? It isn't a blessing! It's a curse. Every death takes me closer to that place. And the pain! It's no better than it was when I was alive. Each time I die, I die! I only have the misfortune of waking up."
"Yes, well, there are thousands who would trade places in an instant. That was always your problem, Frederick. You were too self-absorbed. Instead of using it, you squander it. A fucking librarian. Together, we could recapture New York, but you prefer to teach how to use the Dewey Decimal system, to creatures you know are no more than cattle to our kind. You had options..."
"Your options are two parts lie, and one part crap. There's a path I'm on, Sims, one more tenuous than the one the Inconnu follow. If I fall, then I may as well be dead and in hell, for my suffering will truly not end."
"Perhaps one day, you will know suffering and loss, Frederick. I cannot imagine how this could be so terrible. You can partake of food and flesh, of all the mortal world offers. You have unfathomable power without the price."
"That's just it. Unfathomable power has an unfathomable price. You wouldn't understand it. Power of my type is its own curse."
Silence filled in the room, and somewhere, a boy called out to deaf ears. Frederick stiffened.
"Heightened hearing? A new talent, then? Frederick, I'm disappointed in you. Any new developments were to be reported. It is our agreement."
"Oh, it comes and goes. Nothing reliable." He was cold, but it didn't ruffle Sims.
"I'm sure. Well, I suppose that's all. Oh, here's this week's dose of the Prince's blood. Poor fool thinks that the bond will one day take. Don't laugh. Sometimes I think that it's the only thing keeping you alive.
"To truly answer your question, why we came here, this was a test of sorts. Loyalty, it seems, is a commodity more sacred than trust and honor. We wanted to see where you placed your loyalty, so we invaded your territory, and pissed in it. It wasn't my idea. There were concerns..."
"Concerns?"
"That you could be -- controlled. You understand?"
Frederick smiled. "Yes, I understand. Perfectly. Tell them, in fact."
"Tell them?"
"That I can't be controlled."
Frederick's eyes narrowed, and Sims knew that violence was imminent. His angry cells devoured the precious vitae, and he moved like lightning. Unfortunately, that was a tad slower than Frederick, who was moving...faster.
Frederick reached out with hands-now-talons, and caught Sims somewhere behind the rib cage. Shocked and terrified, Sims could only stand there and bleed, as he was thoroughly gutted.
In a few moments, it was over. Mr. Fredericks called over to the janitor, and stared deeply into his eyes before giving his request. The janitor merely nodded, grabbed the all purpose cleanser, and began to work on the blood stain that marred the carpet.
Frederick regarded the heart which he now held in his hand. "Hm. On second thought, perhaps I should tell them myself. Frankly, Sims, I don't think you have it in you anymore."
His laughter brought a macabre warmth to the vaulted ceilings and cold, dead books. For a moment, Frederick was happy. Then it passed.
There are those called revenants, or ghoul families, who have had certain aspects of the vitae imprinted in their bloodline. Over time, their children inherit certain aspects of ghouldom, such as long life (though not immortality), the use of select disciplines, and the ability to access the powers of Vitae. Attempts to create these families through thaumaturgy suggest that it is best for this phenomena to happen naturally, over the course of centuries.
The most detailed analysis of this phenomena is Via Revenient, or the Way of those Who Return. Written in the first part of the 16th century by Emeric of Clan Tremere, it gathers together various disparate studies of Ghoul Families, and suggests that the phenomena may be millennia old, with one account stretching as far back as the Second City.
Buried in this moldering text is a single chapter of no more than seven pages, written in a code devised by Emeric and his chantry to hide their discovery apparently from their fellow Tremere. After the destruction of the coven due to rumors of demonic taint, the text was brought to Vienna, where its readable sections formed the definitive source for those seeking insight into Ghoul Families.
It took the age of computers, however, to unearth the contents of that chapter. Ruurd Leeuwen entered the text into a code cracker he "borrowed" from the NSA. From there, it was a simple matter of learning 16th century Romanian, and the most puzzling chapter in the history of Revenants was revealed. The chapter discussed a stranger who came to the Chantry seeking to peddle a mystical item in exchange for further magical training. Far from being a "noble" branch of the order, Emeric's chantry staked the stranger and left him on the roof to die.
Much to their surprise, the stranger knocked at the door at noon, requesting his items back. He was holding the stake in his hand, and proceeded to drive it into the heart of the head of the chantry, casting him outside before he waded into the stunned pack. Fortunately for the magi, a Gargoyle had been placed to guard the sleeping chambers, and the stranger was subdued the moment he tried to enter it.
The gargoyle's orders had been to slay any intruders, and this it tried fervently to do. After a solid week of playing with its toy, which included draining it dry thrice, the gargoyle gave up in exasperation. The stranger simply would not die. Even worse, he seemed wholly unfazed by his rough treatment, asking daily for either his belongings back or to be taught what he wanted to know.
Emeric decided to experiment with the stranger, testing his limits. He was damaged as easily as a hearty human being, he bled and screamed in pain at the proper moments. Most attempts at permanent mutilation healed within a week, and he regrew a severed limb in a month. The healing rate was inhibited by lack of food and water, but it wasn't halted. Instead, it effectively doubled all healing times. Most incredible of all, the stranger spontaneously produced Kindred vitae within his own blood, of a type unknown to the Chantry thaumaturgists.
Two months after his initial capture, the stranger finally began to show signs of aggression, and Emeric became terrified. He tried to placate the stranger by teaching him what he needed to know, but apparently the stranger was locked onto a course, and would not be diverted. Finally, the hapless magus ran across the description of a group of mortals who could only be killed by severing the head from the body. This he did, and at last, it seemed to kill the stranger.
The corpse lay in the room, still lashed to the table, for a fortnight. All the magi were distressed that perhaps others would come for the stranger, and demand retribution for their crimes. Indeed, on the fifteenth night, the corpse was gone, as were all of his belongings. It was assumed that someone rescued him, until the gargoyle pointed out to all that the door had been staved in from the inside. Not even beheading could stop it. Emeric had apparently stumbled across a new creature, one who seems to be a bizarre hybrid of ghoul and vampire, and so much more. Legends of these unstoppable monsters can be found scattered throughout history, and are often confused with the Risen, those killed who return from the grave. The critical difference between the Risen and the Spontaneous Revenants, is that the Revenants have never truly died. They are locked into life as much as vampires are trapped in unlife. So confused are they with animated corpses and other lesser Undead, that they have acquired the name Xombi.
What is known is that very few Xombi are created in exactly the same fashion. It often is a serendipitous event, following explorations in a new or poorly understood field of study. The subject must be a mortal, and most surprising of all, often is not a ghoul. In fact, there is only a handful of cases where a ghoul achieved spontaneous revenance, and all promptly divorced themselves from Kindred society before a proper study could be achieved.
The usual story revolves around some attempt to prolong mortal life, or return a Kindred to a mortal state. A foolish human or ghoul stumbles into the experiment, and drinks or touches something he's not supposed to, and the transformation is begun. As stated above, all attempts to repeat the experiment fail horribly, and the newly created Xombi is somehow imparted enough common sense to get away before she becomes a lab rat. While the experiment often involves Kindred, tales of so called "Sleepers" coming into contact with potent Life magick create a very similar creature.
Any Kindred drinking of the Xombi vitae will find it wholly unremarkable. Indeed, it confers no information about the Xombi, as it was created no more than a month ago in the alchemical furnace that masks as the heart of the Xombi. The blood, while unmistakably Kindred, has neither clan nor generation, and seemingly no impurities, whether germ or taint, can find purchase in the blood.
Unlike Ghoul and Revenant blood, however, the blood manufactured by the Xombi can induce the blood bond, but it lasts only as long as the blood lasts. This is up to a month, when merely flowing through the veins of a drinker, and for a full week if the ingested blood is burned. As you can imagine, Bonding to a Xombi is inevitable. Soon after the third drink is ingested, the drinker becomes very possessive about the Xombi, seeing it as a prize worth more than mere jewels. Further ingestion only makes the bonding more acute. The drinker will not tolerate any sort of persecution of the Xombi, and often the most cruel taskmaster will release the Xombi that he has, only a week before, tied to a table, and inserted a spigot. Of course, the only valid protection is a previous blood bond, or the Unbondable merit, though it has been rumored that this bond can even defeat the vaunted Vaudlerie of the Sabbat (causing some penitent Sabbat to seek out the Xombi for this purpose alone).
The Xombi doesn't bond so easily, either. The blood in his veins is constantly being purged and recreated in a method that confounds even the most gifted thaumaturgists. A bond lasts only as long as blood from the Regnant resides in the Xombi's arteries. The influence of the bond does ride out for a full week after the last of the blood is purged, whether through a month's elapsed time, or using it to fuel a power. Clever vampires make certain that a Xombi is kept filled with the correct amount of blood. What is not commonly known, however, is that the growing fanaticism infects the Xombi as well. The more blood a Xombi ingests, the more zealous he will become in the defense of the Regnant. The immortal Xombi will sometimes go so far as to eliminate potential threats to the Regnant.
Xombi often burn more blood than kindred to use vampiric powers. The body of the Xombi actually fights itself, resisting the changes the blood induces. Additional blood is needed to push the effect through, and unless the Xombi has Kindred blood readily available, he will often be sparing in his use of vampiric disciplines. Consult the following table for more information:
| Healing normal damage | 2/HL |
| Healing aggravated damage | 7/HL |
| Boost physical stats | 2/dot, lasts 1 scene |
As you can see, even their legendary ability to generate blood doesn't come close to meeting their blood needs. Often, a Xombi will save these powers for truly special moments.
When a Xombi recovers from death, there is usually some external sign of rejuvenation. This can range from a flash of light, a dim red aura which manifests, a smell of bitter almonds, or even an angelic song that wafts in the breeze. Any normal damage is automatically healed upon awakening (usually within five minutes of death), with aggravated damaged pushed to the top of the health levels. If a Xombi had 2 Aggravated HL at the time of death, these two move to the Bruised and Hurt levels. A Xombi would be at Injured -1 until he heals the aggravated damage.
Magick, being an essential aspect of the universe, is handled a bit differently. A mage who tries to use his magick to affect the Xombi in some permanent way finds that his Sphere Magick easily bullies the inferior Blood Magick. Like all things, however, this is temporary. A Permanent Magickal effect lasts for a number of days equal to the Effect's highest Sphere Rank plus the amount of successes on the roll. For instance, a Xombi turned into a talking paramecium with Life 4 after four successes on the roll would remain in that state for a minimum of eight days. For the mage's trouble, however, interfering with the rigid pattern which binds the existence of the Xombi creates undue friction. Each magick effect against a Xombi creates at least one point of Paradox.
"A Xombi? Where?!? Uh, oh, no, I haven't heard of them."
Sabbat: I've passed through a Sabbat controlled city three times. Never again. Twice I got dragged to death and run over repeatedly, and the third time I was the "cooler" at their party. They seem to have this uncanny ability to sniff us out. I'd stay away, to be on the safe side.
"Yeah, I was there at that Kegger. Christ, we were sick for a week, and the Bishop wouldn't let us Vaudlerie for six whole months afterwards, to make sure the poison' was out of our system. If you find one, stay the hell away."
Inconnu: They keep to their mountain retreats, and I don't like high altitudes. Nose bleeds, ya know. Enough said.
"Strange and powerful creatures. They are nature's cleansing force. We seek to correct the damage the supernature has inflicted on this world, but we are at odds with less enlightened souls. We must work more diligently, lest these creatures become self-aware, and divine their true purpose."
Anarchs: I actually got to know a whole bunch of these guys back in Frisco. They're all right, but pushing this vampire thing into the open is the whole wrong direction. Of course, when I voiced my opinion to the wrong fella, they gave me a cement straightjacket and a self-guided tour of the Bay.
"If it's true they cannot die, then it is paramount that we recruit as many as possible. They should be at the front lines of our struggle. The end of the foolish Jyhad would benefit them more than anyone else."
Garou: I've had my head mounted on a spike once. I have no intention of letting it happen again. I find it ironic that I could escape once the rest of me grew back only because the pack that did it were slaughtered by the formori I came to warn them about. Go figure.
They smell of the Weaver, and with each death they stink of the Wyrm. It behooves us then to keep the vital force within them from extinguishing unnaturally. Either that or we bury them under a large rock, and hope for the best."
Mages: Learn to avoid these bozos. It's either poke, poke, poke, or go on this impossible mission and I'll have you a twinkie and a coke. Either they use you or abuse you. Just like everything else, right?"
Wraiths: God, do these guys hate us!!! I know I've sent three or four people to an untimely demise, but sheesh! I've had beds fade away from under me once these bastards figure out what I am. I sure as hell wish someone would tell me why. Is it my deodorant?
"One night, I and my circle were searching for a nihil that was flaring open, spilling spectres into the area. We came upon it just when it cracked wide...right underneath a quick. Now when I say, Quick,' I don't mean the phantom images we see from time to time. It was as if he was there, and the nihil should have swallowed him whole. Instead, the ribbons of darkness seemed to melt as they touched and caressed him. As we watched, the nihil, which should have dumped his ass someplace unpleasant, got smaller and smaller, until it was gone. He had eaten the nihil! All attempts to contact him have failed, and he seemed oblivious to his true power. How like the Quick to flaunt salvation before our eyes, and feign ignorance!"
Changelings: Hah. Funny joke. Yeah. It was funnier when Uncle Milty did it fifty years ago! I should know. I was freeking there! Don't get me wrong. They're a neat bunch, but if you don't laugh right away, they'll keep on doing it until you get it!
"A Xombi came to one of my parties, down below. I started talking to him, because he was so deliciously depressing. Angst here, and ennui there. So I reached over to harvest him, and found myself chomping on pure banality. It took me three months to recover. A hint: nibble first."