An actual-play of Thousand Year Old Vampire
By: Tom G
Tags: Rpg, Diary, Playthrough, Actual Play

Zero

My name is Konrad, son of Georg and Eva. I was born at the cusp of the 18th Century, 1692, near the outskirts of Berlin. I am 17 years old. My father is a farmer and my mother is a seamstress. My older brother, Franz, helps my father. I help my father, too — though I long for a life away from the fields.

My mother teaches me to sew. I think more out of pity and a sense of loving duty than anything else. She made me promise not to let my father know. Franz knows, and scorns me for it.

I spend long hours alone in the barn alone, after working the fields with my father. I have few friends of my own, and Franz does not care to spend time with me. I enjoy spending time with Albert, the son of another farmer across the way. We drink and have fun, when we can.

Robin is my age, and the child of nobles in Berlin. My mother makes clothes for Robin’s parents — skirts, dresses, petticoats and such. Me and Robin love each other, we can never be together. We only get to meet rarely, and I would do anything for them.

After drinking with Albert, I took a walk to sober up so that I would not incur father’s wrath by returning home a drunkard. On the way, stumbling home, I was tackled to the ground. The last thing I see before I pass out from fright is the snarl of The Ghul. I wake up in the early hours, rushing home. My father shouts and hits, my mother cries. Franz smirks. Cleaning myself, I see huge gash marks in my chest. As the days pass, they do not heal — and yet, neither do they hurt.

One, One

Weeks and weeks pass since the attack. I tell no one. My skin begins to pale and crack, and the sun stings my eyes as though I were with a fever. One evening, as I spend my time in the barn with Hestia, Franz comes to meet. First he questions, seemingly sincerely. What is a matter with me? Why do I worry mother? But the questions turn to taunts, which turns to attacks. He hits me. He calls me weak. He calls me a burden on father.

No more. I scratch, tear, rip and break. He tries to scream, but I cover his mouth as I smash his skull. He lies before me, a wreck, mutilated. As blood pools from the base of his skull, I am overcome a terrifying and intense hunger. I nourish myself on his blood. Even in my disgust, I completely give in to its warmth. It is beautiful. Once I am satisfied, and night has fallen, I carry the body to the woods and hide it.

Franz is dead.

I become Bloodthirsty.

Seven, One

My parents are scared of me, I can tell. I have begun to sleep through the sunlight hours, and every night I grow stronger and more confident of myself. Father doesn’t dare to even speak to anymore, and mother cannot bring herself to look at me.

One night I perceive a scent from the woods. I am overcome with lust and desire, and I charge into the treeline. Though I lose the smell, I immediately find another, then another, then another again. I am high on the pungence of the trees, of the bushes, of the berries and the heartbeats of the animals. As I walk home, grinning and with sweat gleaming on my brow, I suddenly think back to an old tale I heard of The Ghul, back when I was a boy.

Of it hunting at night, through the woods, charging with unnatural speed, and tracking with unnatural senses.

I have become more like The Ghul.

Eleven, One

Days pass, and I can still taste Franz’s blood on my tongue. Bitter and hateful thoughts swarm my mind. Rage, at how he treat me. Guilt, at killing my own kin. Shame, at the desire for yet more blood.

To stem my own hunger, I take even deeper solitude in the barn, my true refuge. I begin sleeping there. I’m not sure if my parents even notice — if they do, they are too scared to even speak of it… at least to me. I only see my parents now in the twilight hours, when I must return to the house to bathe, or for water. Though I only desire blood, water at least quenches my thirst.

The only thing I miss is the time that I spent with my mother, sewing. The needles, the thread, the intricate focus and the deliberate nature of mastering a craft. I think she misses it too. At least, I get that sense, from her eyes, when she dares to make eye contact with me.

I lose the skill of sewing.

Ten, One

As the days pass, I realise I no longer need water. I stop going to the house altogether. In the evenings, I see my mother and father in the distance, and I don’t care enough to approach any closer. I sustain myself on wildlife, drinking from the still beating hearts of birds, rats, dogs, sometimes even wild boars or wolves. Very rarely, a wayward traveller. I sleep, I sleep for so long and for what feels like months at a time before feeding again. The barn becomes my home, the fields and forests my hunting ground. I can’t remember the last time I saw father, or mother. Or Robin. Oh God, Robin.

One day, while suckling upon the veins of a dead crow, I see a pair of travellers in the distance, walking by lantern light. They are speaking in a peculiar dialect, and wearing the most outlandish clothing. I overhear one of them speaking a “new and free world, unshackled from the chains of the Empire of Rome”. What?

I go to them, asking questions and demanding answers. They are terrified, understandably — a stranger in the night, with pale skin and dark eyes, demanding answers about the world. They confirm what I overheard — the Holy Roman Empire is no more. They tell me it is the year of our lord 1807. Terror overcomes me. I cannot even muster the focus and strength to kill and drain them. I retreat back to my barn, to my chamber, to my nest.

I see the barn in a new light. The decay. The rot. How long have I been in this haze of hunger? How many years have I hidden away? How long have I been this… creature? My name is Konrad. My father is Georg. My mother is… when did I last see my parents? I know I had them, but… the memory escapes me. And a face. Robin. Oh God, Robin. What became of them? Did they live a good life? This building, the rotting barn, is my home. That is all I know.

All the mortals I know have died, and I have lost all memories of my mother.

Eleven, Two

Enough. Enough has been taken from me. My loved ones. Robin. Mother. And now my very world itself? The very time and place of my soul, stripped from me by this… affliction. By this curse. Enough.

I cast aside the memories of my cruel brother, and his death. I cast aside the memory of the night that I became what I am, and the attack of The Ghul.

That is the past, and it cannot be changed. My present was stolen from me, and can never be recovered. But my future? That is mine to shape.

I steel my nerves. I spend long hours, contemplating, thinking upon my existence. I take comfort in the knowledge that I have come this far, endured this much. And can do so again.

I am no slave to The Ghul, raging, blind, wild like an animal. I am Ouroboros, the patient one.

I lose the memory of killing Franz, and of the nightmarish attack from The Ghul.

I gain the skill I Control The Beast.

My skill of Midnight Hunter becomes Unearthly Patience.

Fourteen, One

Years pass. I keep myself in solitude, but venture forth more frequently than I did, my mind no longer in the animalistic haze that had clouded it before. I befriend Lucas, a local farmer, while posing as a travelling candle merchant.

I should have known that peace could not last.

The Ghul cannot stand my existence now. In the winter of 1809, it seeks to destroy me. It has found coins once belonging to me. I barely remember the coins, collected as a boy. It enchants them, and they are as conduits to my soul, artifacts now over 100 years old, bound to me. It disguises as a crone, and gives the coins to thugs so they will attack me come dusk. Each coin, giving supernatural strength to a man. I want to reason, to talk to them, but alas — death seems natural to me now. I manage to kill a few, but there are too many. Hunger overtakes me during the battle, but I manage to restrain myself long enough to make my escape.

They burn my barn to the ground, and I am forced to retreat into the forests and woods proper, riding on a stolen horse. I drain the horse, healing my wounds from the sacking of my home. The fire still burns bright on the horizon, when I find it. There, a cave, a nest to make my own. It is filthy, and I have nothing but the clothes I am wearing, but at least I still think.

I have had to kill several villagers near me.

I have lost the treasure I collected as a boy.

I released my inner bloodthirsty soul to survive the attack on me.

Eighteen, One

I cannot stay here. I wanted to be patient, to be calm, but it seems God himself will not allow it. The woods, once my home, are foreign to me now. New roads, new travellers. New smells, sights, even new beasts that walk and crawl. This place scares and disgusts me now. I become disillusioned. Wandering. Searching for something, but I am not sure what. Days, weeks pass. In the day, I dig myself into the soil of the Earth with my bare hands. At night, I walk. Past villages, past towns. The world is the same, yet different. People are still people. And yet, so much has changed. I am now a foreigner in all lands. My home has been taken by time.

I find myself in France, having walked, slept, and fed my way across Europe in a blur. I care so little for anything anymore. In the small rural hamlet of Courbefy, I stow away, watching, learning. Years pass, and I feed, and sleep, and feed, and sleep. One day, I realise yet another century has passed.

At night, I skulk the ale house and the common, learning the wonders of the 19th century. Steam engines. Gas lamps. I listen to their conversations. These wretched, foul creatures. Drinking, whoring, war mongering. They do not deserve their sun. In a single blood soaked night, I consume 82 of them. My bloodlust knows no bounds. I am untethered from the mortal realm, and I care not for these insects. I learn from them, and then I drink them. If they are lucky, I do it quickly. By sun up, I am going from house to house, consuming men, women and children alike.

I crucify the last of them, hanging her from the front of the chapel. They were a people. Now they are nothing.

By next sundown, anyone left has already abandoned their homes. The town is desolate. The gutters are filled with blood. My clothes are stained crimson.

I lose my old formal clothes.

I scavenge some 19th century clothes.

Twenty One, One

I have made it to Paris, and am hidden away in an abandoned mill on the southern outskirts of the city. I never visited Paris in my human life, and I am still not used to the brightness and the noise of the world. I am caught outside during the daylight, as I return from a hunt.

I am found by a young girl, Marie. She is, strangely, unafraid. She asks me my name. I tell her I am Konrad, and she tells me hers in return. I ask her what she is doing, playing and dancing in a place such as this. It is dangerous for a young child. She tells me it is better than being at home.

Why, what is at home? I ask.

Father, she replies. Without uttering another word, I understand. Despite all those years that have passed. Despite the blood on my tongue. Despite the hunger in my belly, the rage in my heart, and the guilt in my soul. I understand.

Curious even to myself, I speak with Marie for some time. I learn of her school, of her friends. I learn of her sister, Anne, that she is excited for summer, when “grandmother Mama comes to visit”.

I send Marie on her way, before my hunger grows. But not before Marie tells me she will visit again soon, and gives me a handkerchief to keep to show that we are friends.

I have made a mortal friend, Marie the French girl.

Twenty Seven, One

The Great War, they call it. For the first time in a long time, I am afraid. When I was a boy, men waged war with swords, with arrows, with courage and valour. But now? Flying machines, sowing fire like a dragon. Arrows, so small and fast they cannot be seen. Death and mud.

When I drink from the humans now, I sense and feel their despair. Their broken spirit.

Marie must be a young woman by now. At first, she visited me often. Then, once per moon. I think of her as a child, but she has a husband now, Pierre, and a young girl of her own, Claudette. Everyone disappears from me eventually. I think that I shall never forget Marie, that those months and years of a young child visiting me will be with me forever. But I know that her name, like the names of my parents, will fade. Everything fades.

To escape the chaos, I retreat underground. A lair, a tomb. The catacombs of Paris. There is solace, down here. This is good, I think. This is right. I think of The Ghul. So long ago. I can barely muster the hate anymore. I write down my memories of the old world into a diary, hoping that I don’t forget who I am forever.

I pray that Marie survives The Great War. I should very much like to see her again. I realise that I have lost her handkerchief, that she gave me all those years ago. If I could weep, I suspect that I would.

I learn of Pierre and Claudette, Marie’s husband and child.

I lose Marie’s handkerchief that she gave me years ago.

I make a diary containing memories.

Thirty Five, One

On a nightly excursion from the catacombs, I come across yet another squad of German soldiers. I tear into them mercilessly, rending flesh from bone, savouring their screams and their blood alike. They have a French prisoner with them.

As am I about to kill this unfortunate soul, I notice a look in his eyes. I drink from him, gently, and peer through his memories and the veil of time.

He is Peter. And he is the great great great grandson of my brother.

This cannot be. How?

I spare him. Images of my long forgotten brother sear through my mind, and I roar like a beast. Peter cowers, terrified. I have a nephew, family again, bound through the ages. I was once Cain, a murderer of kin. Never again. I tell him that I will not harm him, that I will protect him. He weeps and shouts for help.

I come to know Peter, my nephew from ages past.

I use my skill of Controlling the Beast to refrain from hurting him.

Thirty One, One

I realise that this great war will be the end of me. The world is larger than ever, yet becoming smaller every day. Fearful of what may happen to me, I find a resolution. I will sleep. I will allow myself to ebb through time, and emerge in a new world. I have adjusted once before, why not again?

I allow my body to slip into statis. I weep dry tears for Marie, and her family. I sob over Peter, knowing that I am giving away any chance I have left at family.

I emerge from the catacombs of Paris to a world that is utterly, utterly terrifying. I thought it would be like before, the same but different.

No.

This new world is unlike anything I could have expected.

What is to become of me?

All the mortal characters I know die.

Thirty Three, One

I have met a young boy. He calls himself Marcus. He laughed at me, at my clothes and my accent, and didn’t seem in the least bit afraid of me. Has the world changed so much that monsters are now commonplace?

He tells me it is the year 2015. He tells me of television, and of the internet. Of phones and fast food and cars and super models and Facebook. I am confused, but intrigued. Finally, something new. Something different. After hundreds of years of life, I feel a pang of fear, fear of the unknown. And it excites me.

I show him something of the old times in return. I lead him through the catacombs, and show him my lair. I realise, showing it to another, how fanciful and splendid my belongings must look.

I show him Serpiente, a sword I had forgotten. I took it from a German officer in 1914. It is a beautiful saber, and as I describe how I drained the officer before relieving him of his weapon, Marcus, for the first time all afternoon, shows a pang of terror.

I have found Serpiente, an old sword.

I have met Marcus, a young and arrogant boy.

Forty, One

Marcus introduces me to his friends; Jean, Nicolas and Laurent. I entertain them with feats of strength and speed. I steal a police horse, and show that I can speak to it. They are completely enthralled. It will be good to have pawns I can use.

One day, Marcus makes the mistake of bringing his father to my catacomb entrance. This is a mistake. Having children telling stories is one matter; a man giving away information is another.

I put the fear of God into Marcus, and he flees. His father, Charles, stares at me, eyes white with horror. His eyes roll into his head, as my will and spirit dominate his entirely.

“You are mine, now” I say.

“I am yours”, Charles replies.

I tell Marcus his father left my catacombs, and I never saw him again. Marcus leaves, confused. Charles looks on from the shadows.

Charles drinks my blood, binding him to me. I drink his, using him for sustenance. He guards me as I sleep. In return, I spare his family the fang. He even brings me gifts for doing so. How quaint.

I have gained a servant, Charles.

Charles brings me modern gifts of technology, a car, and clothing.

Thirty Nine, One

One morning, as Charles cleans the floor of our home, I reminisce on times past. I remember a young girl I met at the turn of the 19th century, but her name is gone, now. I remember how important she was to me, but my intuition seems to suggest she was my friend. Surely, a mistake? How could I ever befriend one of these cattle? I turn to my diary, to read more of myself.

With no small sense of panic, I see it is damaged.

I read of the horse I kept as a young man, it’s name now lost forever. How odd. To think of myself, an equestrian. To care about something as mundane as a beast.

I read of my most hated enemy. From my own descriptions it’s some sort of creature, and that it created me. I think of my own humanity that was stolen, and I move quickly on. A flash of concern strikes me, then rolls away.

I read of an entire community of people, slaughtered by my hand. They are now completely forgotten to the world. It saddens me to remember that I am capable of such acts, and now forever incapable of even mourning them.

With a heavy sense of acceptance, I put the diary away. All things fade with time, it seems.

I have forgotten about Marie, my friend.

I have forgotten about Hestia, my horse, The Ghul, my creator, and Courbefy, the people I butchered.

Forty, Two

One day, my catacomb is visited by strange humans. They carry modern technology, phones, computers, screens and cables. Yet, they speak the old words and the old tongue. They are covered in tattoos, they say for protection. Protection from what? I ask. They will not answer.

They call themselves Puri Spiritus, the pure spirits. They make me an offer.

They know of me. They know of evil, they say. Of my monstrous nature. Of my thirst. They propose a cute, of sorts. They will offer me the life of a Kalachakra. “One who rides eternity”, their leader whispers. What are you suggesting? I press. They smile.

A true eternal life. They are Kalachakra themselves, and they have the sacred duty of inviting others into the fold. A Kalachakra is one who lives truly eternal. Not one, immortal life. An eternity of lives. To live as a man, die, and live again, retaining your memories and soul. To replay this cycle, for all eternity. Live, die, and live again. Forever. They show me videos, projections, holograms, and data. One of them looks no older than 30, but claims his soul is closer to 3,000.

I am aghast. While I may be a monster in the eyes of God, they are true abominations. The final true sacrilege, to deny His welcome into the kingdom of Heaven. They are wretches most foul, worse than me, worse than whatever beast made me, worst that the darkest war mongers of humanity.

They leave amicably, but tell me the offer stands. I warn them a final time, that I can make their “current” mockery of life end here and now.

I have learned of the Kalachakra, and declined their offer to join them.

Forty Eight, One

It has happened again. Once more, thrown through time. Waking up into a new time, and a new world.

I gather my senses, supplies, wits. 21st century technology tells me it is the year 2176. Charles, unable to escape his bind from me, died by my coffin side. His bones are dry and fragile.

It is with some alarm, scouring the passages of my catacombs, that I realise I am trapped. Hmm. What have the mortals been doing in my absence? I take up Serpiente, the only weapon I have, and explore further.

At the end of one tunnel, I find a large metal disc. A door? It seems like the vault of a bank, almost. Knocking, I find 2 very alarmed young people. Beguile and charm get me out, and some information learned. The catacombs were sealed 30 years ago due to a build-up of toxic gas and miasma, threatening to spill out into Paris. How did I get down here? they wonder. Who am I? they ask in alarmed, hushed tones.

Sparing no time, I execute them both quickly, filling my long-empty stomach with warmth. I leave before their modern gadgets have time to act upon my actions, stopping only to take my diary, the most precious of all things.

I have lost my 21st century technology, leaving it behind so I can make my escape.

All the mortals I knew have died.

Fifty Three, One

Oh, young Marcus. Whatever became of you? I remember you. I remember your arrogance, great even for that of a teenage boy. I remember your fear, when I told you your father had disappeared. It seems, sweet boy, you remembered me too.

I met your grandson. Vicent Liu. He bears little resemblance, but somehow manages to walk with that same arrogance. He tells me that his own grandfather, you, Marcus, told him of me. Of the creature that lived in the night, that drank the blood of innocents, that devoured his own father.

It seems young Vincent took the story quite to heart. With a heart full of revenge and religion (a deadly combination) he and his lackeys came for me. They know of my love for solitude, somehow, and find me in the rural commune of Roches, following the trail of blood. They chase me on machines that fly like birds, with guns that shoot sunlight, with ropes made of flame.

I escape, barely. By biding my time, I am able to corner each of the men, one-by-one, feeding til only Vincent is left. He escapes on steel wings made of fire, cursing my name. He will be back, I’m sure.

It is not safe for me here. The world is too… dense. Pictures made of light hang in the skies. So many people, everywhere — and yet, everyone seems as if in their own world. I see a full moon one night, and see that there are lights upon its surface.

I will head for the sea, book passage on a boat (if they still exist) and head for what I remember of Corsica.

I was hunted by a descent of Marcus, named Vincent Liu.

Fifty Seven, One

I settle, if only temporarily, in a town off the coast of what was once Corsica. I cannot pronounce the town’s name, and it’s people are alien to me. They appear if part mechanical device, part human — is this what all humans are now?

I learn of a tyrant that oppresses them — why do they not fight back? Communication is difficult, but I learn that it is because they have forgotten. They have forgotten the rage that beats inside the human soul. The anger that flutters in your chest.

And so I teach them. When I found them, these people were timid. Now? They stand tall. They cast off their shackles.

I lead an uprising, a bloodthirsty battle. This, I know. This, I can give. Those I drain are filled with cables and wires, a mix of blood and technology. I take what I can.

After the fight, the people cheer. They sing songs, they dance by fire light. They have learned once again of their nature. Of celebration. They take me to a home, and I come to understand it is a gift. They are making me one of them.

I am proud of what I have taught them. But more than ever, I feel alone. My solitude is my only company. I will stay a while. And then make for Corsica.

I use my bloodthirsty nature to teach the timid humans of the future how to fight back.

I have gained a home.

Fifty Six, One

I abandon the house given to me as a gift. I cannot stay there — it is too bright, too loud, and yet also silent and lonely. I am surrounded by people I do not truly understand, and I cannot begin to fathom what they think of me.

I book passage on a flying machine headed for Corsica. I manage to communicate with the pilot through broken French and German, grunts and gestures. As far as I can make out, he is telling me that Corsica is a wasteland now, scorched in a war decades ago. Perfect, I think. Solitude.

He is not wrong — Corsica is little more than a crater now.

So much has been lost. I think back on how far I have come, how much I have already forgotten.

When I turn to dust, I wish to be remembered.

I begin construction of a temple. A temple to humanity. Not this paltry imitation that exists now; the humanity that I remember. It may take many years, but time is in abundance.

Tourists to the island come and go, seeing the old ruins, visiting places they read about in books. I feed on them when I can, and I see others watching me in my construction.

I have abandoned my home on the mainland.

I have begun a construction to the past on the island of Corsica.

Sixty Three, One

I come to realise the island of Corsica does have a few inhabitants, living amongst the wasteland here.

I visit their village sometimes, to drain them and to learn from them. I am sure they do not know of my existence. What wonderful tales they must tell of the creature in the night.

I find myself drawn to faces I seem to remember. A young woman, reminding me of a French girl I once knew, I think. An old man, his smile fading as his blood gushed into me. Who did you steal that face from, I wonder. Often, I panic and become confused; this is happening more and more of late. I had to kill several men when they found me, draining a young woman and weeping. I lost Serpiente in the escape. Oh well. I care not for material possessions now. The temple is all that matters. My work. My construction. My legacy.

I lost Serpiente escaping from a group of humans, after killing several of them.

I drink from faces that remind me of memories I have already forgotten.

I lose Serpiente during a dangerous escape from a group of humans.

Sixty Six, One

My diary has gone.

I went to read it, as I often find myself doing these days. Drawn to memories of the past. They are all I have now. I inscribe them into the temple.

And yet one day, I realise the pages have faded. Gone. My memories are gone. They have succumbed to time. The paper itself has faded to ash in my hands, and in this alien world that now surrounds me there is no way to bring it back.

Devastation washes over me, wave after wave after wave. Months pass.

I sit in the ruins of my half completed temple. Words, pictures, memories of an age gone. Never to be finished.

I sleep.

I have lost my diary.

My knowledge has become completely outmoded.

I have lost my diary.

Sixty Eight, One

The temple crumbles as the years go by.

I spend some time in Corsica, draining the locals, before I head inland again. New France, New Spain. I make it as far as London; or at least, what became of London. I don’t think I’ve been here before? I’ve picked up enough of the new human-speak that I can get by.

Utter despondence is my existence now. I am a relic of ancient times, trapped in a chrome and neon world.

I spend days in London antique markets, hoping to find anything that may bring me comfort. An old dress. A child’s toy. Furniture in a style that some part of me still considers modern.

And then, I see it. Buried between paintings of dead people in dead places, I see her face.

Robin.

I feel something.

An antique has surfaced. It is a painting of Robin and their family.

Seventy Two, One

I buy the painting with wealth that I steal from those I have drained. I cannot believe what my eyes are showing me.

Memories flood into my mind, new ones every night. Her smile. Her voice. Her hair, and how the sun shone through it. I am in horror that I forgot her, and grateful to the universe and to God that I remembered.

I sit in a dilapidated townhouse on the edge of New London, and I stare at the painting of her. It is how I spend every night, now. I stop only to feed.

I book passage to the old land. Back to Germany. To my home. Me and the painting. Where Robin’s family house once stood, now, concrete and glass and steel and light. There is nothing left.

For the first time in a long time, I think, yes — this is alright. Things get forgotten. And the world moves on.

The sun rises on the morning of August 34th, in the year 2198, and for the first time since I was a boy — I am there to meet it.

The warmth envelopes me, and I feel, at least, at peace.

My final thoughts are of Robin.

Thinking of Robin, I allow myself to be consumed by the sun, at least becoming at peace with the past being forgotten.