What beggars can't be: take 2

So while sabredude merrily chops up Fat Ivan's gang to a background choir of growling flamethrowers, we all give our best impression of not-being-there. Turns out some of us are better equipped for that, so Lex and me we get to run away until we are brave enough to look back and see if sabredude still follows. Nika and Nat they run a bit, and then do a nifty now-you-see-me-now-you-don't-voodoo-trick, which helps them to hide from sabredude but in no way helps me find them. Because, you know, invisibility does have his negative points. Anastas... Well, nobody really knows where he went, and I doubt he knows himself. He lives in a previous century after all; half of what he says doesn't make any sense at all.

Anyways, I find Nika and Nat pretty much by following sabredude (nu ti dajosh! 8-] ), and before that potentially lethal situation can get out of hand, I am (like Nika and Nat were before) saved by a perfect stranger.

Now, before I continue, I ask you to take a moment and contemplate that last phrase. And then to think back to how my fellows in fate and me ended up with Fat Ivan in the first place. Beggars can't be choosers, but I'm sort of starting to see a trend here even if daybreak is still hours away...

The flamethrower-toting and sabre-swishing maniacs leave, and not soon after we find ourselves in an unmodded beige Lada (because, you know, some cool cats are too hip to drive proper cars in Moscow), which trunk Anastas conveniently mistook for a man-sized steam trunk (and man-sized hiding place), putputting towards the home of our saviour, Boris Brodsky, who would be a poster boy for oldskool Russian Jews, if it were not for us meeting him while he was painting occult looking symbols on his bare chest and the walls of a dingy little room in some forlorn hangar. In blood. Some of those symbols looked great for tats, though. But like so many things, that's where being undead sucks(*).

Luckily for us, Boris turns out to be pretty much okay. He talks a lot, but mainly to explain to us how things work in Moscow. And the first thing we learn is: sabredude, name of Arkar Skolovich, is the primogen of the real Brudya (take note of the missing capital, this can become confusing quite fast), who needed to clean up the Real Brudya before Ivan and friends made too big a mess by upsetting our food-stock, which in turn would upset the Voivode since he runs the whole wool-over-the-eyes gimmick on the herd, and then the real Brudya would be in trouble.

So, in short, we get to keep our heads low for a while, buy supplies, find a place to live, and spend a couple of days trying to explain the difference between a cell phone and a torchlight to Anastas, and other such fun.


(*) on a side note: in the hole in Anapa where I was getting my ticket to Moscow, I heard that there are vampires who can make tattoos stick to undead skin, a little nugget of information that leaves me torn, because tats are cool, but I'm not so sure about vampires that can mould undead flesh...

Next: Why being undead sucks

Fire in the hole

"We're the Real Brudya," Fat Ivan says. "Not like them pussies of the Masquerade." Black Oleg already informed us that the Masquerade hierarchy of Moscow is ruled by the Voivode, a hypochondriac Ventrev name of Lobachev who never leaves his palace.

We all make non-committal agreeable noises. See, some things don't really change after you're turned. After a weird night out, you grasp for straw and end up with weirdoes that might be idiots simply in love with the sound of their own voice, or might be murdering lunatics. They get all foamy about politics or their rights or whatever all the same. Goodmorning Radicals even exist in vampire land.

It stops being mildly funny when Fat Ivan says: "We've shared our food, now share our blood", and he holds out his arm. In vampire land this means as much as "we don't trust you worthless shits", this I can read clearly on Nika and Nat's faces. Anastas complains that in a way Yuri the Head had been nicer company. Lex had obviously other dreams when he came to Moscow to meet Brudya.

Me, I'm trying to calculate the stakes of this gang game. Sun's up, so it's too late to think about leaving now. Bastard waited so we'd have our backs against the wall. I knew there was something funny about all this. Nat and Nika are getting ready to huff and puff, and I'm not so keen myself to be the proud owner of a bloodloyalty to a smelly fatso biker, but hey. There's at least 20 of them, and let's be honest. I saw my buddies in fate fight, right?

So while we meekly line up, Fat Ivan goes on. Of course. Don't they always? I think of other mornings like this that found me sucking altogether different parts of a male to say thank you for a wonderful night. Fat Ivan killed his sire and then vampirized his whole biker gang. Yup, that's who the Real Brudya are. The finest Moscow has to offer. 32 of the fucking losers, with us makes 37. He's gonna start a war, show that diaper-shitting Ventrev idiot how it's done.

That's how my companions in fortune and me end up with the 32 other losers on an abandoned factory lot listening to Fat Ivan's manifesto. No more hiding for mortals! No more having to ask diaper-shitting Voivode for permission to make childes! No more-- Sigh. You get the drift. An SUV with darkened windows driving up pierces our stupor of utter boredom. Three guys get out: one sturdy vampire in military casual, cargo pants included, and a shiny sabre. Two ghouls with a funny mask and cape on, and something under the cape on their backs.

Sabredude and Fat Ivan have words.
Sabredude chops off Fat Ivan's head.
Ghouls whisk out flamethrowers and start having fun.


We, not so much. Blin! You think Rötschreck is bad? Try Rötschreck while having to keep an eye out for a sabre-swishing vampire all powered up to superhuman speed and on a killer streak...

What beggars cannot be

Those half-goats should have come with a Drink Responsibly warning. Night's fleeting in a warm and fuzzy, trippy kind a way. You know the sort, where you don't feel the cold and if only you had some more of the stuff, that pesky sober voice inside will shut up about the risks of hypothermia. Kaif, that's how alkash die in the Moskva winter.

Oh wait, vampires don't freeze to death, mainly because we're dead already. But obviously we can get all spacey.

I wonder if demon half-goat's blood can be used in cake, while we zigzag towards the winking neon sign of the 'Trucker Traktir', past graffiti in werewolf blood, as if we didn't already know this was a bad neighbourhood. Loud heavy metal escapes when a drunk stumbles out, something oldskool like Alisa or whatever. I know exactly what we can expect inside: meaty bikers, and the pungencies of stale beer, old sweat and tobacco caught in leather. But beggars...

Lex and me are the first in, as the others dilly-dally on the threshold. Hence we're also the first to get that funny feeling us vampires get when sensing kindred. Seems all the food's spoken for, and about 20 vampires with bad hairdos and metal Tees leer at us, at least until Nat and Nika enter; Anastas, he's talking to the bum that came stumbling out, because of the noise, you see. He's got delicate ears.

Anyways, inside, there's staring and squinting and gauging. Lex whistles that thingie from Morricone under his breath. I pull down my top till my tits nearly pop out and sashay over to a couple of them at a table, and go in my best nightclubbian: "Hi, mind if I join?"

See, dawn is coming and I need something to eat and I need someplace to sleep. Dermo, it's not like I haven't done worse when I still had a pulse. So the guys share their food, and Anastas shakes off his clingy junkie bum and braves the noise, and even prissy Nat has a taste of truckdriver.

Now, there's still some time till morning, and since we're obviously not involved with the Moscow Masquerade (like whatever, go with the flow), Black Oleg here's happy to introduce us poor wandering souls to his leader. I've got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, my spidey-sense all tingly. Alone I'd cop out right here and brave the fucking dawn on my own. But I'm not alone, and I'm still spaced out on half-goat, and really now, how bad can it get?

Midnight Express

January 1, 2000. Just after midnight. A shunted train wagon in Perovo, Moscow. Zoom in on several man-sized crates stacked inside.

So here I was. All alone. In the dark. In a big, dangerous city.

Correction: I was not alone.
I could feel other kindred near. This was the Midnight Express into Moscow for the undead after all. Some of them scared me, they...
Wait, correction again: *we* were not alone.
Something was stomping about in our wagon. In group. Turned out to be midget versions of Pan, goat's legs included, and they were armed with cattle prods. Not the expected welcome committee!
Fighting ensued, embarrassingly clumsy fighting. But at least *I* got out of my crate without help. Some of the others were useful in fighting the small demonic half goats. Others, well, not so much.

In all we are five, a strange mix of vampire sneaking into Moscow. There's Nikanor, a small, very creepy man who's also butt-ugly, so odds are: Nosferatu. Natalya is a beautiful woman, but also quite a snob. First guess is Ventrev but 't is impolite to ask I think. There's a gentleman with century old clothes, Anastas. Says he's a composer, but he seems distracted most of the time. Doesn't always make much sense when he talks, so Malkavian or Toreador, could go either way. The one I feel most affinity with is Lex; he's at least from my world. A Brudjah, blue haired, punk attitude, likes to talk about movies and music.
Of us five I am definitely the baby, and Nikanor and Natalya, they're of older blood. They were the ones that creeped me out when I sensed them upon waking. After seeing them fight, not so much, eh.

Like me, none of them had been expecting to be dumped quite so unceremoniously into Moscow by the smuggling set-up. So seeing that we successfully kicked small demonic half goats' asses, we decided to stick together, at least until we found some food and shelter, or somebody handing out the tourist brochures for the big city.

Over the handful of hours we spent searching for a safe spot, I learned from my fellow travellers some more stuff that Koldan should have told me. Eager vampire baby that I am, I suck everything up these guys will tell me. It appears that since some years, more specifically since the dissolution of the old commie rule in 1991, mystical borders have risen around a large part of the old Russian territory. Outside these borders, kindred died. There's rumours it's the same for other creatures, like elementals. There are some areas outside still known to have live kindred, but there's no travel possible. So that dream I had of travelling to Australia and Africa and get acquainted with all those cool snakes? Ain't gonna happen.

By the time I was up to speed with 'Modern History for the Undead 101' and starting to feel peckish, the winking red and blue neon of a bar came into view. Ah, warm bodies, finally...

The Becoming

It was the summer of 1998 and I was not a happy camper.

See, I started my PhD in 1996, putting together a great project to go hunt for the giant snakes rumoured to live in Kazakhstan. But the master of my universe, Prof. Dr. Nikolai Orlov, talked me out of it, mainly because the research would involve several trips, which meant I had to find extra money, and the possible political complications... It was a good idea, but basically not workable.

That's when I ran into the amiable doctor Eugeny Cherlenok of the department of Stone Age Archaeaology. He was involved in organising digs in Krasnodar and they were looking for a cheap snake expert to help protect their project and their volunteers from snakebites. And everybody knows there's nothing cheaper than a PhD student! It was a match made in heaven, me clearing out their digs and in the off time working on my own research on the endemic vipers.

Side note: when I was anchored in this research near Gelendzhik, Orlov (that scumbag bastard *kehpfooey!*) went off to Kazakhstan, recycling my denied project. And only just yesterday I've seen that he's recycled my viper research too! Orlov's viper? WTF, that should be Moroshkina's viper! I saw it first, damn him.
Oooooo, if at anytime I pass through Saint-Petersburg he's going to get a visit he won't soon forget!!

Anyway, along came that fated summer of 1998, where Cherlenok and me and some of the others went up to Dzhubga (that's near Tuapse, at the Black Sea coast) to check out a potential new dig site. But a minor crisis called Eugeny and the other Stone Age nerds back to the main camp, while I would hold the fort for two days. And that's when he came, didn't he.

Some say vampires choose their soon to be childe based on their potential, their affinity with or their usefulness for the clan. So you see how a Parkour-crazy snake-loving city rat like me is the least likely suspect to become the newest member to the animal and muddy nature loving Gangrel. What the hell was he thinking?

But then, reason is not what comes to mind when speaking of Koldan Matveyevich Chernov. Tall, black and still quite human-faced for a Gangrel, Koldan's also very violent and capricious. At times it seemed he forgot I even existed. One moment he'd suddenly appear and kindly and patiently teach me the things a newly fanged vampire needs to know, the next he'd be beating the shit out of me for being too nosey. It's actaully quite a feat that I managed to learn what I did of Gangrel powers. But most things I picked up from hanging with Koldan's entourage, the Others.

No, that capital ain't a typo. These things were not vampire, not ghoul, not immediately some other magical creature like an elemental or something. They were always changing faces and stuff, as if trying to make sense of the new world I suddenly found myself in wasn't difficult enough. They didn't have names, hardly spoke except to hiss when I was doing stupid things. They taught me how to feed and stuff, while Koldan was off being all mysterious, like sitting in front of dolmen and talking with the dead. At least that's what Eugeny had told me about what the dolmen supposedly were: graves with holes in them so the ghost of the known dead could form a bridge between the here and the beyond. Seriously, one day I managed to follow Koldan and spied on him without getting all beaten up. In hindsight it's rather silly of me to think I could have followed him without him knowing. Maybe I'm like a Trojan horse, but no, better not think of such things too hard, Yarochka. There's vamps out here that can read your mind.

Anyways, Koldan, me, the Others, we trek from mountain to mountain, until Krasnodar (the city) comes on the horizon. The plan, so Koldan informs me, is to attack and take over the city, currently under Ventrev control.
I chuckle, because, you know, that's a mission statement, not a plan. "Sure, us and which army?"
"Well, you and me. Ready for this?"
I glance at the Others, who usually stick to the shadows of the forest like it's their home, and go: "WTF?!!!!! Dude, I can hardly find a cow for dinner without help, I think your plan might slightly overestimate my weak and underdeveloped vampire powers."

I hear you laugh? I did say I'm a city rat, didn't I. My inability to figure out where I can find a cow after nightfall and still this blood hunger without the damned things stampeding all over the country side and mooh-ing loudly is an experienced fact, okay? Now fuck off and let end this sad little episode.

Without really waiting for my reply, my crazy ass sire runs off, trusting me to protect his back in an all out attack against nine Ventrev and whatever allies they've got ready. Or maybe trusting me not. Maybe he forgot about me that moment. Or maybe I figure in a different plan of his, one that involves... No, better not think of that.

I figured it was as good a time as any to get the hell back to civilisation, and dashed off cross-country, beelining for Anapa, where I managed to book myself passage on the underground vampire railway to Moskva.

And that's how I ended up in a deserted transhipment area of Moscow, in a wooden box on a disconnected cargo wagon, with little more than the clothes on my back and the money on my bank account.

Yarochka's introduction

I figure I should introduce myself, don't I. Well the details are pretty straightforward. I was born in Archangelsk in 1974. My mother was a nurse but had been quite the gymnast in her childhood, and always kept up practicing, teaching me all the fun stuff. My father worked for the Forest and Forest Chemistry Institute, and always had an interesting story to tell about a rock, which was never simply a stone, but alexandrite, or aventurine feldspar, and so on for everything a little girl could find when walking hand in hand with her papa.
Whenever we could afford it, we'd have a family vacation in Krasnodar. Once, I must have been seven or so, I got bitten by a snake. Of course I bawled my eyes and heart out, scared that I was poisoned and my death was imminent, but my mother patched me up, all calm and sweet like the excellent nurse she was, and my father's gentle explanation of the how and why of snakes with poisonous bites quickly led me away from my fear. Instead of becoming holy scared from snakes, I was intrigued enough to study Herpetology at the Zoological Institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences in Saint-Petersburg.
Who else was important in my life? Ah, my deda, my father's father. He used to be high up in the navy. He was very strict, with adults and children alike, but always softened up to me. My nephews would get their ears chewed out, me I got to sit on his lap while he told me stories of the war. He died of cancer when I was 12 or so (I cried for days!), but his mind had left before that, bless him. I remember during the last years, he insisted wearing his uniform whenever he had visitors. The golden belt, the glint of the buttons. How many American jeans could you to buy for that, hey? Not that such things occupied me at that age, except that the uniform became a sort of iconic representation of what Mother Russia once had been. The greatness, the riches.

Well enough of such idiot reminiscences, that's basically all you should know about me:

I love climbing and tumbling and all that.
I like a man in uniform.


And I like snakes.