Of Beasts.

[Varian]

*** The following is an exerpt from a manuscript written by Varian duMonde. The intention of the text is the education of those who have or might become his progeny. It is a descriptive explanation of what he is, how he functions. It is in no way intended to be a baseline for any character that might share his condition. ***

The taste of blood, much like its scent can stir sharks from the deep, seems to drive the machinations of what makes us beasts. While the weaker willed of our kind can be driven to rage by it, those that have mastered the hunger can make use of it, like an engine of war.

It is of no question that we are made strong by catering to the will of the beast, but few know of what benefits it brings to that part of us that clings to threads of mortality.

I know little of the mysticism that lets our kind exist; live and prosper as man might. I know less if what I divulge here is shared by others of our kind. What I can teach is only that which I have come to learn through my own affluence as a thriving vampire, for so long.

My sire, as he pleaded to me for his life, disclosed to me the workings of our predations. In time, I have come to believe his words, as I have experienced much of it, since. Much like an addiction, the sensation that stolen blood affords us is undeniable and perhaps the reason that to go so long without it means certain madness.

Our bodies function in the guise of mortal men, but it is when living blood circulates through our otherwise useless veins that we are restored. Pallor goes flush, cold skin warms to the touch, and long-dead hearts strive to beat eagerly. The more that we consume, the more we give into the darkness, the more intense the sensation. It is life, as our bodies knew it once, but it is ephemeral. It is stolen.

It is emblematic of our Father's curse to be deceptive. In that, we are drawn to believe that were we to become so enlightened, so in tune with the beast, that true life might be restored. Again, though my teachings are of old ways, I see no end in striving for Golconda.

Much of what is told of us is mythical and as misconstrued as the fables of us told to misbehaved children. There are those of our kind who claim knowledge where there is none or sway believers with wild superstition.

You are of my blood and it is this that will allow you to see through the falsehoods of fools and scholars of fantasy.

[Varian]

We are predators, make no mistake. While we have sacrificed much of what it means to be mortal, we have been returned that which they have lost in their struggle to be "civilized".

It is the nature of a predator to hunt, to kill and to survive by doing so. It is our preternatural instincts and the instruments of our ferocity that afford us this ability. We see through the darkness, while man stumbles blindly; our extraordinary strength allows us to overpower any adversary, our sense of smell is unparalleled, even in wolves and we can hear a single raindrop amongst a torrent.

With these tools at our beck and call, it is perhaps our ability to charm and enchant that supersedes them all. To weaker, mortal minds, our presence can be overwhelming. Our words can become incantations, the honeyed poisons of allure and bewilderment. It is this that lulls our prey into the placidity of trust and adoration.

It is while our prey is in this most helpless of states that we prefer to feed. Despite the allure of fear, it does not mix well with blood.

Our fangs present themselves, guided by the hunger that stirs the beast from its slumber. Our most monstrous of traits are as varied as we are ourselves. No matter their appearance, they are deadly and accurate.

Know when to cease, as the heart slows to a stop. We must not feed from the dead, no matter the desperation.