Clanbook Samedi.pdf

B L O O D L I N E

B O O K:

SAMEDI

A Sourcebook for VAMPIRE: The Masquerade

By Joanne FitzRoy (gfitzroy@intranet.ca)

The Gris-Gris Club

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry

-- William Blake, The Tyger

I am the colour of audacity,

Of rhythmic tribal dance, of tropic love;

I am that tint released upon the air

When cymbals kiss, or comets meet alone.

-- Louisa Fletcher, Mandarin Red

Credits

Written by : Jo "Are you giving me attitude" FitzRoy

Developed by : Jo FitzRoy

Edited by : Glenn FitzRoy and Jason C. Marshall

Layout and Typesetting : J. FitzRoy and Jason C. Marshall

Special Thanks to : Steve "Watch that Redcap" Locke, Jason C. "You're Fired" Marshall, Glenn

"More Power!" FitzRoy, Bill "Not Again!" Samuel.

Special Credit to

Paul Michael Graham (original Sons of Samuel information via Internet)

David St. Clair (author of Drum and Candle , a book on Brazilian Voodoo and Spiritism)

Introduction

They're heeeere!

-- Poltergeist

We bother you, don't we? All you pretty Kindred wrapped up in your pretty politics. All nice and

clean and secret and perfectly hidden. Well guess what guys...the stiffs are here, and we're not

going away.

Face it, guys. Whether you were created last millennium, last century or last week, you're dead.

Dead as that cat that you squashed on the highway last week. Dead as the proverbial doornail.

Dead as your grandmother you buried when you were six years old. (Or maybe not. Ever wonder

why it was a closed coffin? She's really a nice old lady. Hee, hee.) But you try. You still build

your ivory towers. Carry on with your business, manipulations and intrigue like it really matters.

Like you are still making a difference.

Well guess what? It doesn't matter. None of it matters. We've all got a one way ticket straight to

Hell, and it sickens you too much to be reminded of it.

That's what bugs you about our kind. That's why you spread the lies, shrug us off, send Holy

Rollers and quest-crazed Neonates out to hunt us down. You want to send us back to the grave,

back to Old Mother Earth because we don't fit in with your plan of a beautiful perpetual everlife.

Because if you look too long or too hard into our infected eyes, if you scry into our tortured

minds, you see each and every one of yourselves. Just a little bit. Way deep down.

Your precious immortality has made you vain and arrogant. You consider yourselves a species

above the others, the next step as it were, in evolution. Caine help us all.

If it weren't for the Nosferatu, you know, we'd probably give up on our kind altogether. Yeah, the

Sewer Rats make pretty good buddies, but they're always looking over their shoulder. The pretty

boy politicos have done a good job psyching them out, making them cower and hide their

imperfections in hovels and holes. Whenever we meet, we always remind them that it is on the

Nosferatu's backs that most Princes remain strong.

They're always good for a laugh and an exchange of vital info. These guys give good coin for

protection and the right lead. Maybe they like us because when we're around, even they look

pretty damn good.

Now those European dudes, the Giovanni. Brrrr, don't like to mess with them much. Seems way

back they were playing around with the Necromantic fabric of the universe, or some such crap

like that, and somebody screwed up. Wham, bam, there we were, and there ain't nothing the

Italianos can do about it now. So they packaged us up, shipped us overseas and now if any of

them come across one of us, they pay us really good hush money to keep moving. Suits us fine.

You know why they do that? Because in their deepest heart of misplaced hearts, they know we

really are all alike. You all know. We're all dead. We're all decaying, rotting, returning to the soil,

just as the Ultimate Plan intended. And it frightens you. We frighten you. In our kind, you see that

which we must all become. Sooner or later, all our times will come. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Kindred and Kine alike, we all rot and wither and fade away.

Reality bites, pal, and it carries the Samedi sting.

Chapter One: The Real Scoop

Welcome to my nightmare,

I think you're gonna like it.

I think you're gonna feel you belong.

-- Alice Cooper, Welcome to my Nightmare

The Creation

The Samedi bloodline's creation has been blamed both on the Nosferatu and the Giovanni at one

time or another. While the Samedi have an affinity for the Nosferatu, it stems purely from a

mutual respect for each other's afflictions. For the beginnings of the Samedi Bloodline, we must

look into the darker side of the Giovanni.

The bloodline's creation is a very well kept secret of Clan Giovanni. Back about 250 years ago

Antonio Giovanni stepped over the line in his Necromantic experiments. In an attempt to capture a

human soul at the moment of death and transfer it into the body of a Vampire in torpor which was

just about to suffer final death, something went very wrong. For one thing, Antonio's timing was

slightly off. Instead of transferring the soul into a Vampire, the Kindred was already experiencing

the moments after Final Death. The unnaturally aged body had begun its rapid decomposition. As

well, the human victim for the soul transference had been suicidal, so it took precious moments to

convince the Giovanni's creation that it should continue to exist.

Rumour has it that the Vampire victim was actually a neonate of the Giovanni who was caught

committing the ultimate crime -- creating a childe without the permission of Augustus -- and this

experiment was sanctioned by Augustus to be used as a warning to the rest of his clan.

By the time it was realised that the whole exercise was failing, the first Samedi had been created.

Antonio tried to keep his mistake from being found out by the Giovanni elders, but his

Necromantic curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn't bring himself to destroy this new

species of Kindred. He locked his Samedi in a vault, in an attempt to starve it into torpor.

Somehow, the Samedi managed to escape and attacked the Giovanni. He drained Antonio, then in

a frenzy broke out of his secret chamber and went on a rampage, stopping to find shelter in a

mausoleum just before the break of dawn.

This Samedi elder became known only as "Gran'daddy" to the Bloodline members in the

Americas, but is spoken of in hushed tones among Clan Giovanni as Paulo. He retained the

Giovanni's Necromancy discipline. The Bloodline's obvious affinity with death and decay grew

into the Thanatosis discipline, and Obfuscate could have been taught to the Samedi by empathetic

Nosferatu.

Paulo kept a low profile in the Mediterranean for the better part of 50 years. He was drawn to

victims who had nothing left to live for, or who had a fascination with death and decay. Crackpot

occultists were also a favourite target of Paulo and his childer, who fancied themselves the

physical embodiment of death incarnate.

Not wanting to leave their Clanmate's mistake alive, Clan Giovanni began to search in earnest for

Gran'daddy and his childer. It was at this time that they left the Mediterranean and went into

hiding in the Brazilian jungle. The many slave ships crossing the Atlantic at the time, with their

filthy and overcrowded conditions below decks, made passage very safe for the Samedi.

The Nagaraja have also been suggested as the cause of Bloodline Samedi. This is a rumour

perpetuated by Clan Giovanni. It is much more believeable that their kind could have spawned the

Zombies, and the Giovanni are more than willing to do whatever it takes (and costs) to keep the

blame shifted from their family.

Choosing a Childe

The selection for a Samedi's childe is careful and well thought out. While these creatures can be

coarse and degenerate, they fully understand the cursed existence of their Bloodline, and create

only from those that they feel are deserving in their desperation. It was thought at one time that

they preyed on just the suicidal and persons involved daily with death and dying -- morticians and

coroners. Nothing could be further from the truth. The mortician and coroner myth is a red

herring. It helps stop groups that hunt the Samedi and destroy them from finding and protecting a

Samedi's potential Childe. Suicides are still often chosen by the Samedi. Bestowing a death

without dying gives them perverse pleasure. But a Samedi searching for a truly worthy offspring

will stalk the local practitioners of Voodoo.

Sometimes a Samedi will choose a child to embrace. They have several advantages. Their small

stature makes them excellent spies. Their wills aren't all that strong, so they can be trained easily.

And finally, the pickings are good. There are many children wandering the streets homeless,

depressed and outcast with no prospects for the future. The Samedi that embraces a youth does so

not for self-gratification, but because they see that the child's soul is already dead.

The Becoming

The changes the newly created Samedi's body undertakes are as painful psychologically as they

are physically. Rather than the body ceasing to age at the moment of the embrace, it dies

completely and goes through several hours of rapid decomposition. The internal organs jell and

shrink. The flesh becomes very soft and leaks an infectious looking ooze whenever under stress

(by vigorous motion or physical contact). The hair becomes brittle and may fall out in clumps.

The lips recede from the gums, resulting in a most macabre grin. But nobody generally sticks

around these beings long enough to find out what the joke is. Noses always drop off, and the eyes

sink deep in the hollow sockets.

Yes, the eyes. These are the most shocking feature of all. Samedi often appear not to be looking at

you when confronting you, and if you ever work up the courage to look them in the face, you

would notice that their eyes seem to have a will of their own. The degenerated musculature and

nerve endings allow them to roll and stare each in their own direction. They appear to look at you,

through you and over their own shoulder all at the same time.

The very elder Samedi (around 200 years of age and at least 7th generation) have gone beyond the

soft decomposition stage. Their flesh has stiffened and dried out, giving the Vampire a very

emaciated, leathery appearance. When these elders feed, their skin will stretch out almost smooth

-- like a bladder -- for about the first hour following the feeding.

As if their appearance weren't bad enough, there's the ever-present smell. This bloodline is caught

in an eternal state of suspended rapid decay. The stench of the grave permeates any room they

enter, and hangs in the air wherever they pass. You really don't want to get one wet.

The exception to this rule is elder Samedi of 6th Generation or older. The more the flesh dries, the

less material there is to rot and smell.

Modes of Dress

A Samedi's preference for clothing will generally fall into two or three categories. Many prefer

fine clothing. This may seem bizarre, but the Kindred justify their taste. They equate fine clothes

with corpses decked out for burial. Being that many live in or near graveyards, especially those

with mausoleums, the Samedi frequently see the deceased and their mourners dressed in Sunday

best. These Samedi also habitually feed on mourners visiting the grave sites.

Another popular mode of dress is medical clothing. The Samedi bloodline is still drawn by their

fascination with death, and many frequent forensics labs and hospital emergency rooms. The

feeding here is also abundant, as they can grab blood bags and orderlies with equal ease.

Occasionally a Samedi will track a potential childe to Emergency, especially if he has seen (or

caused) the victim's accident and the victim is near death. These Kindred often carry their

belongings around in a modified body bag.

The final clothing preference is more a matter of honour -- clothing from the grave. When two

Samedi meet, one of the topics of conversation will be the history of a special piece of clothing or

jewelry that the bearer has robbed from a grave. The more the owner knows about the history of

the piece -- be it an heirloom brooch, a Vietnam war veteran's dog tags or a piece of lace from a

200 year old shawl (maybe from the Samedi's own ancestor), the more prestige she can gain in the

Bloodline's eyes. Many amazing and almost believable histories can be heard about various items

carried by the Samedi at the Rio Candomble each year.

Whatever the Samedi wears, it gives the feeling of wear and decay. If he puts on a brand new suit,

within a half hour it is rumpled and musty. If he must attend a Prince's court, he will cover as

much of his body as possible with a high-collared or hooded cloak, and will sit quietly in the

shadows until called upon. After the audience, he will remove himself from the activity as quickly

and quietly as possible.

Making a Living

Despite -- or perhaps because of -- the disadvantage of their appearance, the Samedi are even

better information brokers than the Nosferatu. They have infinite patience and once sent on a

mission, they will carry on doggedly until its completion. They are very shrewd and wise,

seeming to have a knack for finding out the deepest, darkest secrets hidden in a city, a political

system or a soul. There is a very basic reason for their working so hard to build a reputation as an

indisposable resource -- survival. Their existence offends enough elders that, should the Samedi

cease to be such invaluable informants, they would be bloodhunted and destroyed without

question. As long as they hold enough dirt on the other clans, they'll be left alone.

The bloodline also spawns some very competent assassins, although they don't have the stoic

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