Weve always l bbeen h here, you know. 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, Ill 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 their first chilling nights in Sumeria to the sticky heat of modern cities.
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Weve always l bbeen h here, you know. 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, Ill 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 their first chilling nights in Sumeria to the sticky heat of modern cities. 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 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- ers, and clan secrets that every Vampire: The Requiem player will want to have.
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 dont 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.
Dont know why, and I dont really give a shit. Its not my problem, and its 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 dont 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 dont care if his fears were right, although I dont know why youd need the stuff if he was.
First of all, theres this folder called Kevin p. Bitter ex-boytoy if ever Ive seen one. After that, theres a bunch of shit from someplace called the Mission in San Francisco. Vampires on the sunny coast, apparently. Theres a Mixtape, along with transcript p. Probably wouldve 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.
A and I had one of those calendars. I dont 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. Theres a Memorial for New Orleans p.
Nar- cissistic bastard. Then, theres a journey through the South and some interviews by Ayesha. I didnt like read- ing them, but you have that bad trip to thank for All Tomorrows Bodies p. Following that, some guy has problems with a girl who wont stay dead, his Inamorata p.
Then theres an ar ticle on The Masquerade p. Crazy, the way keeping secrets is. Like I asked Ayesha, dont 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, weve got an ar ticle about Carmilla p. Then, theres some stories from The World Before Us I also threw in his copy of a pitch for this movie, Black Blood p.
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, dont worry, check.
Thats coming, yours and mine, and the little idiots Diary p. The other? I know you people dont die easy, and Ive learned that even regular folks like me dont stay down. How do I get her back? I miss her. I need her. Marisa used to tell me that the only truth that mattered in life was how others saw us.
While she was with me, I didnt understand. Surely, all that mattered was seeing her, was greeting her as the night fell and swooning into her Kiss.
I didnt understand, even when she told me, that she was putting on a show. She gave me the best years of my life, most of the years of my life, deliberately. As I watched her weaken, I still saw her beauty.
Even when she couldnt try any longer, when her blood no longer sang to mine. What matters is how we are seen, and how we are remembered. No better illustration of this point exists than the following collection, provided to me by two gracious cousins. Here is conquest and defeat, wrapped in one. Remember Fitzgerald: The victor belongs to the spoils.
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