Let's Play: Vampire: Bloodlines

[Mirai Gen]

One of the main crippling problems of the World of Darkness games is the fact that it's a good system with good ideas, backed by a few hundred years of fiction into sexualizing the entire vampire mythos, run by a bunch of lonely goth nerds.

I'm not trying to be mean to anyone, but seriously. I'd love a good game of Vampire or Mage that didn't involve associating with people who play Vampire or Mage.

[DFM]

I feel the same way about Warhammer.

Edit: Oh hey, I could use this post to talk about other things.

Someone, I think it was Invisible Queen(?), mentioned awhile back about roleplaying and gettin' all up in the Anarchs face. I have the same problem in these games, I basically just lie to everyone and tell every NPC I meet exactly what they want to hear. This is why I almost always end up with a character that has everything piled into a speech or charisma related skill in every game that allows it.

Boris in the actual game has like six lines of dialog calling you and Venus spoiled bitches and think's you're her girlfriend. Given their history I figured he'd treat Helen just a little differently than a wannabe spoiled bitch assassin.

I did take screenshots all through the parking garage and I think I might have even converted/uploaded them, but I was like "The fuck am I gonna say for six levels of this this is bullshit." and cut it. I also lost the entire first post and didn't realize I'd lost it until I was finished with the second sooooooooo I got to write the whole thing again.

OH YEAH I remembered the difference between Schizophrenia and Dissociative Identity Disorder from my high school psychology class. Well, actually I just remembered Schizophrenia had nothing to do with multiple personalities but I did look up what that disorder was out of curiosity when I was writing the update. I figured Helen probably cared a lot less when/if she took introduction to psyche and has had a lot longer and a lot more causes to forget it.

Hmm... that's all I can remember vaguely wanting to comment on at the moment.

[Mirai Gen]

Boris in the actual game has like six lines of dialog calling you and Venus spoiled bitches and think's you're her girlfriend. Given their history I figured he'd treat Helen just a little differently than a wannabe spoiled bitch assassin.

This is a huge reason that your Let's Play is so much more interesting.

[EvilFuzzy9]

Originally Posted by Mirai Gen

I'd love a good game of Vampire or Mage that didn't involve associating with people who play Vampire or Mage.

^
That made my day, for some reason.

[DFM]

Breadcrumbs to Wonderland



Heather's waiting for me when I get back to the apartment, standing behind the kitchen counter and watching the door like some kind of receptionist. Actually, that's not a half bad idea. LaCroix gets Chunk, I should be able to have a nerdy secretary. She could take memos. Or shoot people. She probably plays Doom or something.



"Helen! You're back! I've been waiting for you here, just like you asked!"

"Well, I don't remember saying anything about dropping in while I wasn't here and sitting in my chair and using my stuff, but-"

"Oh no! No, I didn't touch anything, honest!"

"You mean you've just been standing there? For four hours?"

"Um... three and a half."

"Okay, that's... that's worse, I'm going to be honest."

"I'm sorry! I didn't know what else to do, you said to wait for you-"

"I didn't think you'd drop everything and come running, though." I lean against the counter and rest a hand on one of the books she brought over. "I didn't even have time to figure out-" I think better of saying 'what's wrong with you' and search for something different. "-that thing I was going to figure out."

Okay, so I'm not always a great liar, sue me.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to see you again." She actually sounds really sorry, and I decide not to ask why she really wanted to see me again. I'm not really in the mood to destroy some poor, neglected college nerd's lesbian fantasies. I'm going to have to eventually, but I should keep her around until I figure out what's happened to her and how to fix it.

Not going to let my pride and joy good deed come to a bad end, after all.

"It's alright, Heather, don't worry about it. I need to run an errand for the boss, but we can talk later, probably an hour or so."



"Oh! I can do it for you! Tell me what it is and I can take care of it! Give you some free time to... relax or you know do whatever..."

"Hah! No, I'm pretty sure this is way out of your league, kid." She looks like she's about to cry. Shit. Change subjects.

"Are you hungry?" I pull out a money clip from my pocket and slide a couple of twenties from between the sides before handing them to her. "Here, you can stop by McDonald's and get a big mac and some fries or whatever else this'll get you."

She takes it and stares at me like I've got diamond antenna sprouting out of my ears.

"Um... thanks. I... am pretty hungry, actually. I stopped at Big Kahuna Burger on the way into town, I do it all the time, but... as soon as I was about to eat it, I just... I don't know, I got really nauseous, I almost threw up. I didn't even bite down, I... don't know, it was weird."

"Hmm. Well, if you're looking for a decent place to eat, there was a place I ate at the last time I was here, Spago? Sparago? It wasn't bad." I pull a few hundred from the money clip. "There you go. Try the Beluga, I don't remember if I ordered it or stole some off of Kislyak's plate, but it was good." She doesn't say anything, just stares at me. I practically have to stuff the money into her half open hand before I slip the clip back into my pocket. "I hope I stole it, it's not like that fat bastard needed any more caviar."



"If you want something to drink before you go, I've probably got soda or something in the fridge, you kids like soda, right?"



"Nevermind. I guess you'll have to grab something along the way or wait until you're at Spiggo's."



I wave behind me as I walk away, I still haven't heard her make a sound.

"Bye, Heather!"



Alright, let's see... tell Pisha about Milligan, hope she doesn't eat me, then head to the Hollywood Hills to find the dead Alistair Grout. I know he's dead because he's missing and 'missing' anymore means 'dead'. I know he's dead but that's not what I was talking about.



I should ask LaCroix if I could borrow Chunk for these assignments, I could use a big, strong man in uniform to protect me from the dark.



It's a decent ways walk back to the abandoned hospital, and it isn't any cheerier than I remember.

About a million times better than the one in Santa Monica, though.

I head through the double doors and make my way down the crumbling, blood stained corridors, rats scurrying away from the clicks and crunches coming from my shoes. It's a bit of a maze, certain sections cut off by long fallen debris, others opened by the same thing, but eventually I follow the crushing despair that hangs throughout the building to its source.





"I made a request of you. Why have you not sent the man down?"

"I didn't think we needed to be quite so drastic, so... I deviated a little. He's still alive, but I wiped his mind. He's never coming to Los Angeles or looking for ghosts again."

She appears quizzical, placing a finger to her mouth and musing for a moment before with drawing it and giving me a look of slight disapproval.

"That may be sufficient, but the only way to be sure would have been to kill him. You should not waste time debating the morality. If a man walks into a tiger's domain, it may result in his being devoured. It is not good or evil, it is cause and effect."

"I'll... keep that in mind." She has a point, but I don't think killing him would have been that much more beneficial. "You said something about artifacts before I left, last time?"



Her eyes almost flash. "I've walked the world since before this country existed. In that time, I have collected information and objects that even some of the eldest of our kind would doubt existed. If I were to offer you the chance to obtain such a rarity, would you accept?"

"That sounds like it comes with quite the price tag."

"The value is relative. I will trade you such artifacts in exchange for artifacts of similar worth and value- ones that I do not yet possess."

"What makes you think I'm going to blunder into the Holy Grail while I'm poking around downtown LA?"

"I am searching for two items which I have tracked to this area. One, I believe to be in one of the local museums. I have not yet searched them all. The other, it seems, has come into the Giovanni's possession, although that is something I cannot confirm. For these items, I will exchange others of similar worth."

"Alright, sounds lucrative. What're the artifacts?"



"The first is a fetish described in a nineteenth century chronical of a British platoon's encounter with a native tribe. Soldiers would go missing in the night and be replaced with these fetishes. If they are indeed supernatural, they could prove valuable to my studies."

"What about the other one? The one held by the... Giovanni." The Giovanni I knew were a merchant family, lots of money, lots of dealing above and below the deck. I did business with them on occasion, mostly small arms, but they usually managed everything internally. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to hear they've got some kind of paranormal connections, there always were a lot of... rumors about that entire line.

"It is used to communicate with certain entities otherworldly. It is a tome called the 'Voce del Morte'. Should you find yourself within the walls of the Giovanni, seize the opportunity and take it-" Her voice lowers until it sounds almost threatening. "-for they will make sure you never have another."

I almost rest a hand against her blood stained table, but then think better of it.

"Voce del Morte? Don't you think you're pushing this... death thing a little far?"

She smiles, like a professor who finally gets to talk about the subject of his dissertation.



"Death is the ultimate dilemma and integral to the beliefs and behavior of every culture in existence. Life is bore on the corpses of the dead. Without death, there would be no motivation to accomplish anything. The only emotion would be existing. Life would be pestilent and agonizing."

"So... that's why it's fine for you to eat people?"

She shakes her head slowly, bemused by my ignorance.

"If it satisfies you, I make an effort to only prey on the weak and worthless, and I consume them not out of spite, but out of self-preservation. I wither and rot without them. They are my survival."

I glance around the house of horrors the mortuary's been transformed into.

"Alright, well... I'd better go, I've got an errand for the prince. I'll keep an eye out for your artifacts."



Probably a good thing I didn't get into specifics with Milligan.

I leave the hospital and make a quick detour to a certain white truck with an inconspicuous parking spot.



"Baby girl, welcome back!"

"Hi, Larry. I need some shotgun shells, as much as you can fit into a purse. A nice one, though, not a green monster. I also need a cab, have it pick me up at the Skyline building. And make sure the driver's not going to get excited by a passenger carrying around some ordinance."

He slaps me on the shoulder, laughing.

"God damn, baby girl! Some poor mother fucker 'bout to get thei shit wrecked ain't they? Don't worry, I hook you up. I'll have the shells in the cab, that'll be fifty up front to cover the purse, too."

I hand him the money and wave.

"Later, Larry."



Heather's gone when I get back to the apartment, definitely for the best. I flip open the securely fastened trunk by the door.







"To the Hollywood Hills?"

"Ah... yeah." Wasn't expecting Larry to send the vampire cabbie.

He doesn't say much for the rest of the trip, eventually pulling up to an old Carroll-esque nightmare rising up out of the dirt and above the suburban mansions around it. As soon as I get out, grabbing the shotgun and my tiny purse of ammo, he pulls away, tires screeching against the pavement. Almost did that a little too quickly. I look up at the house again in time to see someone walking out the front door.





"Hey, kid. Prince send you out?"

"Nines? What are you doing here, are you looking for Grout?"

"Don't worry about what I'm doing. I wouldn't go in there if I were you, though. Little messy."

"Shit, we're to- Woah wait, what are you saying? You killed him?"

"I did what I had to do, let's just leave it at that. I'd love to stick around and shoot the shit but I got some more business to deal with. See you around, kid." He walks away while I'm still trying to think, tossing the massive, wrought iron gate open with one hand and glancing over his shoulder. "If you're smart, anyway."



It slams shut behind him and he fades into the night, distinctive blue shirt disappearing as he hops over a safety rail and down a rolling slope.

Well. I don't know quite what to make of that. LaCroix's probably going to have to hear about this, but... I suppose I can't just go on Nine's innuendo, I'll have to actually go inside the Malkavian mansion and confirm Grout's demise.



Gee Golly Jeepers do I love David. I love him so much.



I love him so much I wish he were alive so I could peel his skin off and eat his insides while he watched.



Then when he grew them back I could do it again.

I push one of the unlocked double doors open, aiming the shotgun forward with one hand. When I clear the doorway and step inside, I wrap my left hand around the barrel again.



There's a woman in the corner, sobbing, holding her head in her hands. At least, I think she's crying. She... might be laughing. I walk slowly across the floor towards her, shoes clicking against the tile.



"Ma'am? Excuse me, ah... miss..."

She stops crying or... laughing or whatever noises she was making and starts to turn around. Very... very slowly at first. When she turns her head I can see her entire face clasped in some kind of iron mask straight out of Dumas.



When I see the knife, she stops moving slowly.



She spins faster than I can react, knife slashing across my stomach. The wound isn't deep, barely a scratch but god damn it I just got this fucking shirt.



The shotgun sounds like an artillery cannon in the confined space of the building and for a moment I wonder if my ears are going to stop ringing. From the hole in her back, it looks like the slug passed straight into her chest and through her spine, ending up lodged in the wall behind her. Fucking lunatic, serves her right.



It's not going to bring my shirt back, though.

There's a banging sound from the other room, and the massive interior doors buckle slightly. The noise must have gotten something's attention.



There's another bang, then another. The doors are holding fast, but whatever's on the other side isn't giving up. I count the intervals between hits so I can gauge the best time to completely fuck his shit up. As soon as the next hit is about to come, I throw open the latch and watch a man in a gimp suit sail through the unbarred door.



He hits the ground and scrambles against the tile floor to his feet remarkably fast, a ravenous howling coming from behind his iron mask.



Another roar of man-made thunder and I have a million and one puns I want to make about ravenous hunger. The sound lures two more of the iron clad women, both of them giggling like school girls.



Laugh now.



Aw, come on, you can do it!



I slam more rounds into the shotgun. I wonder if I could conceal this thing in a trench coat.


I wonder if I can pull off a pale bitch in a trench coat without looking like an attention starved teenager.



These are the questions that plague my mind.

I grab one of the knives one of the nameless wackos had been carrying and stuff it into the ankle of my shoe. If I'm ever down to that, I'm probably fucked anyway, but you never know.



Long hallway, can go straight or to the right.



Straight comes to what I'm sure is a very flattering self-portrait of Mr. Grout.



And a short passageway to another set of double doors.



Which are locked.



To the right, then.



I'm going to give Grout the benefit of the doubt and assume this is a modern art sculpture and not a barricade because it's got to be the worst barricade ever.



Two more doors.



The first is locked. I wonder what I'm going to do if they're all locked? Maybe I can go back to LaCroix and say, really, Grout's almost certainly dead and I just missed the body because he turned to ash and blew away. He left his windows open, he was kind of absent minded.



He'll probably buy that.

I open up the door on the end of the hall and see a circular, two story library with one of the leather clad men pulling a mounted light over and over while cackling to himself every time.





I come up behind him stab him twice in the neck, making sure to keep the blood-gushing wounds pointed away from me.




Honestly, he's better off.

[DFM]

I notice a recording machine on my left, sitting on an end table next to a chair baring the monogram A. G. Oddly enough, it's rewound to the beginning. I hit play and turn back to the light, a wailing, static screech echoing from all across the room. Must have the thing hooked up to a surround sound system.



Let's hear this Mad Hatter King.

I turn back to the light as the electronic whines turn into dour Victorian English.



It is quite peculiar the happenings I’ve been made to witness from my supernatural longevity. I’m thinking of one unfortunate phenomenon in particular, of unique interest to my station both as a professional and as a sufferer of this vampiric condition. It seems the stream of time has begun to erode the moorings of my chosen course of study, for the methodologies that gave birth to psychology are slowly disappearing.



I find myself in an era that overlooks the physical component of psychological pathology time and again in favor of the sadistic practices of Freud. Chronology, Dactopintalism and the rest of the old guard have fallen by the wayside, its champions all silenced and dead with my unique exception. Would that I could make my voice heard again, although it may be suspicious should I return to popular medical discourse fifty years after my apparent death.



No, better that I continue my study into the psychosis in secret. One day, may I hold up my own cure as validation of the methods. I am confidant no cure for my condition or that of my beloved wife lies within our figurative minds, waiting to be unlocked by the correct combination of memories uncovered from our childhood and I am most certain it has nothing to do with the relationship between myself, my parents and my genitals, sorry, Sigmund. I choose to stay my course.



There's a click over the loudspeakers, followed by a brief silence and then the crackling of another audio entry.



Another unfortunate casualty to tide of time; Insane Asylums. I lament their loss not only as brokerage houses for the breadth and depth of human psychosis, but also I shall mourn the disappearance of the peculiar environment present only in an insane asylum.





I can hear a door screetch open somewhere in the mansion over the sound of Grout's droning. Not exactly what I'd expected from a man supposedly mad. I leave the library and back track to the entry way, looking for doors no longer locked. Grout's audio diary continues to play through the halls. He must have the entire building rigged.



That palpable atmosphere of blistered brains and churning bowels, the odiferous deluge of freely flowing bodily humors, that gently rolling cacophony of distant sobs and screams, the muttered cursing of perceived enemies and the blissful gurgling of the lobotomized. Like a new born babe discovering the sky.




Hmph. I shall still find test subjects as surely as I find bloody sustenance in the night, but this climate, I fear, may never be replicated.

The audio ends in a click, but another doesn't begin in its place. I make my way to the open doors at the very end of the hall.



There's another leather clad gibberling waiting for me, empty eyes appraising me behind the mask. In a single smooth motion it leaps over the the table, hands raised, screaming inarticulate madness.



Its corpse spins spectacularly in the air, twirling from the blast of lead before bouncing on the tile. I walk into the room, the telltale cries and laughs coming from all corners of the room.



Unlike the first gibberling, this one doesn't notice me when I approach, never breaking out of its endless cycle of crying laughter.



I put the shotgun up against its head and shoot it.

No telling when it'd go off, better to clear them out now while they're not fighting back.



Especially since some of them seem to resort to cannibalism. There's an electric whine in the walls.



Often I reflect with great regret on the missed opportunity that was my infector. Had I been conscious after the attack, I could have stopped the orderlies from locking her in the roaming pen. What I would give for just one interview, a few simple questions of the plague ridden woman who met her end that dawn.



Of course there is no guarantee she would have been any more helpful than my current crop of test subjects, mewling wretches. Few could be called enthusiastic. Given the nature of the tests I cannot expect the same fervor from all of them but a modicum of cooperation would be appreciated. Animals.



The one called John went so far as to gnaw off his arm to escape into the floorboards like some feral rodent. I still hear him scurrying about at night, making an atrocious mess.



The diary ends in a click just before I've kill four more of the females.

I wish everything went this smoothly.



The doors leading out of the room are locked and the only staircase ascends directly into the ceiling. It takes some digging before I finally notice a wall mounted light that looks the same as the ones in the library.

The only wall mounted light in the entire room.

I pull it down, and it gives way with a groan.





I climb the stairs, quickly ascending through the ceiling door into the room at the top, hearing the sobs of utter despair long before I'm through the threshold.





I don't even both to put the gun against its head this time.

There's a scream nearby, accompanied by the slamming of irregular footfalls against the floor.



He dives at me, clawed hands outstretched, blood still flying from them.



The shot to his head throws his upper body backwards, feet flying out in front of him until he lands almost perfectly on his back. There's almost nothing left of his head, but otherwise I'd give the landing a six.



I don't know how Nines got through all this without killing everyone, but I'm glad he did.




This is fun.

I reach the end of the hall and start up a spiral staircase running the inside of one of the towers as the whine kicks in again.



My studies proceed at a languid pace. I’m mired in fowl concavity at my wife’s advancing illness. My subjects grow restless without proper supervision, but I cannot pull myself back from this black depression. How many nights I’ve wasted now, gazing from the tower walk, pondering the frailty of existence.



It clicks off as I reach the top.



Hm. This must be the tower walk he was talking about.



I can see why he wasted so much time up here. If he's really dead maybe I can talk LaCroix into giving me this place.




After I kill the rest of the marauding inhabitants, I mean. I don't really want them prowling about while I'm sleeping.



I reach the bottom of the stairs, executing three more of the females before reaching another set of massive double doors. I unbar the latches and push them open, revealing a green hued dining room without a table or chair left unturned and an army of gibberlings cackling and sobbing.



So, if this is the dinning room, I wonder if that makes them all a family?



One of the leather clad ones swipes out at me, claws ripping across the solid oak door and sending splinters through the air. That must be papa gibberling, the strong, angry one.

The first shot rips through its pelvis and the second one catches its head as papa gibberling crashes to the ground.



That must be mama gibberling. Aunt gibberling came out a few seconds earlier.



And the oldest daughter, sister gibberling, who has a string of luck slightly better than the rest.

Instead of the welcome explosion of buckshot, the Ithica only manages a desperate click. The gibberling grabs the barrel and tries to yank it from my hands. I let go and it stumbles back, tossing the shotgun against the wall. It gives me enough time to pull out the glock before its on top of me.



It jams the knife into my stomach, but practically shoves its head into the barrel of the gun in the process. Three taps of the trigger and the gibberling family is finished.

Oh wait.



It's baby gibberling, who walked in on the whole scene.



I pull the knife from my stomach and stab her in the top of the head.



Fucking gibberlings.



The hallways start to whine.



After decades of solitary study into this affliction, I have learned that it is by no means mine alone. Indeed, this city is home to and entire society of similarly afflicted individuals with whom I’ve only recently made contact. They are an understandably standoffish sort, by and large, but I have been able to confirm with them that the condition is indeed vampirism, which apparently comes in a multitude of strains, each with a spectacular set of symptoms such as invisibility and even a sort of lycanthropy.



Through numerous official interactions with the governing body of this secret society, I have concluded that their fundamental understanding of the vampiric condition is woefully lacking and mired in suspicion and pseudo-religious dogma that would make a Turk balk for its scriptures.



Running out of ammunition while fighting sister gibberling's made me a little more conscientious about ammo.




Indeed they seemed impressed with my studies and the eloquence with which I was able to present them. Apparently the typical of my particular strain of my form of vampirism is far from the vanguard of the King’s English. So impressed were they that they even offered me an office in their government, a rather high office, by the sound of things.



I believe I shall accept. If nothing else, it shall provide a lofty vantage point with which I may observe the breadth and epidemiology of the affliction so I may move more expeditiously towards a cure.



What the fuck? This had better not turn into some evil mirror shit, I don't know how effective pumping bird shot into that kind of thing is going to be.

I crouch down by the fireplace to get a different angle on the mirror, and notice a set of protrusions that look a great deal newer than the rest of the woodwork.



I push them in, and the fireplace slides open.



Oh.



Grout you fucker, you had me worried.



I have accepted the role of ‘Primogen’ for clan ‘Malkavian’, the dreadfully winsome label applied to the particular strain of vampirism I suffer. So named for some supposed vampire father figure of old. More poppycock grown from a backward culture that seems interminably drawn to children’s tales and the fiction of Victorian romance when it should concern itself with the science behind their suffering.



No matter. I have taken this office for no greater reason than the advancement of my research. I must make mention, however, that even among my would be peers in this governing body of vampires, the level of paranoia and superstition is frightening.

As her body hits the floor, there's a groaning from somewhere down the hall.



Their intelligence is not the question, no indeed, for as they courted me for this appointment I had to suspect that their overtures were hand tailored for what must be my obvious infatuation with reason, For the devil would to well to have such honey tongued tempters.



Even so, I could not help but notice the dressing of language these vampire leaders chose for their siren song. Whether it is born of habit, from addressing their unwashed, ill educated subjects or from their own deep seeded beliefs, their linguistic flourishes belie a faith in superstition over the providence of empirical reason that must be an all pervasive theme in this society of darkest night.







...Damn it all, now I’m doing it to.

Alright, so I'm all jacked up on some shit in a can, I dunno what it is but it's not the kind of jacked up that makes you think good with English so most the end is not even with having any words in it except for Grout's pre-recorded memoirs. I thought about sitting on this and fixing it but this update is late enough anyway and I mean they can't all be stellar right right I'm glad we all agree.

Also hey did you know it's like impossible to find those memoirs transcribed like anywhere on the internet? And to extract them you have to do some bullshit? Did you know that I had to transcribe them myself while listening to them in game? Did you know that if you interrupt the recordings once at any point they will never play to the end again and will randomly cut out? Did you know that I am really bad at transcribing and get like one or two sentences further for every play through of the recording? Did you know I hate Grout now? I HEAR HIM IN MY SLEEP.

Edit: Oh yeah I skipped a bunch of shit because I'm like shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit look at all these things I did and I didn't really wanna write anymore

[Mirai Gen]

I was wondering if you were going to even bother putting Grout's transcript onto the LP. While it was apparently a pain in the ass (and for good reason) it came off rather well with the picture-by-italicized-text.

[Krylo]

What amazes me is that you don't seem to have done any 'off screen' feeding, at least not from my watching of your blood bar. This means that you've only fed a couple of times.

I'm kinda waiting for a blood frenzy to hit her.

[BitVyper]

It's still reading really well, DFM. Keep it up.

Best thing about Pisha: Sending that whiny little bitch from Confession to her. Yeah, I'm basically a horrible person.

[Amake]

Thanks for the transcribing efforts, I've been wondering about some of the things he says. Why there are no subtitles to probably the most elaborate and insightful and fascinating speech in the whole game I'd like to know. . .