Date: Sun, 16 Apr 1995 22:27:48 -0400 (EDT) From: Casca Subject: ghouls In a long-running Vampire game I GM'ed, one of my major NPCs became a ghoul, which caused all sorts of problems for her PC friend. As a result, I put a lot of thought into ghoul physiology and the deleterious effects of vitae addiction. Later, when someone wanted play a ghouls as a PC, a lot of that information came in handy. This story is the beginning of an expansion piece on ghouls that I've beeen planning to write for a long time now. Hopefully, if I get a good enough reaction to this (hint, hint!) I'll get motivated to write up the other parts. As it is now, it's all just in my head, so unless Eric Tolle has finally got that steam-powered brain transducer working, I'll actually have to make the time to schlep it all down on electrons. Here it is. Since I hope to someday become a hack writer, it's written like a short story. Don't be fooled, though; there's a lot of game information in there if you look hard enough. -- Casca (bertishg@db.erau.edu) "_This_ change order rescinds the _previous_ change order, which was a clarification of policy but not any substantial change. We _still_ don't want any changes, but the policy is _so_ bad that we don't want it clarified, either. Is that clear?" -- FNORD's Notes ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I was sitting in the Caligula when I spotted him. He had sauntered through the entrance past the bouncers, with his black hair teased just so. He was confident and attractive, and he knew it, too, which meant he was cocky and arrogant as well. He paused at the edge of the dance floor, scoping the crowd. He had the look -- that quiet, intense look that Kindred get when they're cruising the Rack. I figured him for another prettyboy Toreador out looking for munchies until I saw the look in his eyes. He was hungry, but not in the calmly efficient manner I've seen so many times before. No, his hunger was one of desperation, like a junkie who's lost his supplier. He was on the verge of panic. Newbie, I thought. A baby vamp who's just cutting his fangs, still new to the hunting game. Most likely a caitiff, the result of some smartass Brujah. The last thing the Caligula needed was someone to frenzy at the dancing smorgasbord and go at it like a buffet line. I was already up and moving toward him before I'd decided to. Damnation! I'd planned to play it smooth, see if he'd be able to pull it off without screwing up. I don't enjoy making the younger licks feel more stupid than they already are unless there's a damn good reason for it. We all need to learn on our own. But I had already gotten up and started walking toward him, and to stop now would look suspicious -- or stupid. Yeah, okay, I care about my image. So sue me. Every so often the urge to "white knight" gets the better of me. I got within 10 feet of him when I noticed that something was wrong. He was sweating bullets, breathing fast and deep, his pulse racing. I could damn near smell the anxiety coming off him in waves. That's when I decided to take a glimpse at his aura. Either he had a hell of a baby face, or... Human! Sure surprised the hell out of me. Wait, more to it than that. It wasn't faded like a Kindred's, but it wasn't ephemerally bright like a normal kine. I took a closer look. And then I saw it. Like a light coating of dust, his aura had begun to dull slightly, the colors becoming less defined as they shifted to the pallor that was characteristic of undeath. Ghoul, had to be. I'd learned my fill about ghouls not too long ago when I tried to detox Bethany. I knew that he was a ronin, a masterless ghoul, by that look. Most ghouls are well-fed by their masters who keep them on leashes of blood. But this guy, he was a loner, doing it for the sheer rush of a bit hit of vitae. There are varying degrees of stupidity in my worldview, and this guy qualified for all of them and then some. Of all the Kindred to run into, I was the one least likely to put up with it. Lucky him. I body-checked him with my shoulder as I walked past him. He hadn't been aware of my presence -- must've fed off a Toreador last time -- until I had knocked him on his ass. Then he took notice. "Watch where you're going, shithead!" he yelled, picking himself off the floor. I kept going. I hoped the evil grin on my face wasn't _too_ obvious. It wasn't. He grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me back toward him. Ooh, feel that Potence. He obviously thought he was indestructible. "Hey, ever hear of 'excuse me', asshole?" I slowly looked up at him, starting at his feet. Contempt and disdain dripped from my voice when I finally got to his face. "Excuse me, _asshole_." I made sure I lingered on that last word before giving him the sweetest smile I could. I could smell his adrenaline as it hit the bloodstream, could practically feel the warmth of his kidneys in the small of his back. I knew he was going to frenzy, but I took my sweet time about it. My glance crawled up his face until it finally locked with his eyes. Then I gave him the Whammy. "Follow." He looked stunned, that same look of awful, dawning realization that occurs when you're kicked in the balls and it takes an eternity to register in your brain. Then his eyes glazed over, appearing charmingly neanderthal. I turned my back on him and continued towards the back booths. It was a calculated risk; if he had a strong will, it would be easiest to break my hold now that my back was turned. But I did it anyway. Style, you know. Living with a Toreador lover will do that to you. I heard his footsteps obligingly following me, that brainless little shuffle that's so near and dear to my heart. I slid onto the booth's cushions, moving toward the wall where the shadows were stronger. "Sit." He did. I didn't even have to use the Whammy. Weak of will and padded of jeans. Where do these people _come_ from? "How long's it been since you last fed? Real food, not the poison you're addicted to?" He was starting to come to his senses, and I didn't want to give him a chance to think for himself for a while. "Umm..a few days. Haven't felt hungry." "Well, you need to eat something. You're beginning to look like one of us." I guestured to one of the waiters that Isabella had specially trained. I gave him the sign for "give me food, pronto", which is oh-so-helpful when you're trying to look like you can actually eat something. The most I can manage these days is a few fries, but I'm working on it. A plateful of burger and fries was brought to the table, and I slid it over to moron. He looked at it stupidly. "Eat it. Don't make me force you." He reached for it tentatively, like he'd never held one before. He took a bite, slowly, and then gagged it back onto the plate. "Pretty. So what's your name, Picasso? I don't know what to call you." "Chester." He said it softly, ashamed. I tried to keep from laughing. Apparently I'd had more of an effect on him than I thought. From the looks of it, he hadn't gone by that name since junior high. "Chas, then," I said, still snickering. "Maybe you can tell me just why you're doing something as incredibly stupid as trying to score some vitae?" My voice was soft and dangerous. "I need it, man. I need the rush." He was starting to shake at the thought of it, a blood junkie craving a hit. "Bullshit. That's just the addiction. How'd you get started? It's not like we're passing out free samples around these parts." "A buddy of mine. I got in an accident, fucked my legs up. Benny gave me this stuff to drink, said it'd make me better." He was staring at the plate, picking at the food like it was an alien on a dissecting slab. "And you kept on taking it after that, right? Because it gave you a lift, pumped you up. Made you tougher. Faster. Stronger. You liked being better than your other buds, liked tossing them around like it was nothing. Liked making like Superman. Liked ripping arms off a rival and beating him to death with the bloody stumps." My voice was dripping venom, cold sarcasm sharpened to a scalpel-sharp edge. "But it made you hungry. You didn't need to eat, didn't need to sleep, didn't even need sex. All you needed was the lift. And then you began to run out. So you asked Benny where he got his. And he told you all about us." He nodded yes. "And your addiction wouldn't let it rest. You had to have more, had to get the source. You've been after vamps for a while now, staking them in clubs like this and drinking them dry." "How do you know all this, man?" he asked, almost crying in his need. "Your blood told me. It's a talent of mine." "It tells me that you've been at this game so long you don't have any human blood left in you anymore. Your body's hooked on vitae because it does all the work for your. Efficient transmission of oxygen and nutrients, removal of wastes, clotters and knitters that heal your wounds. Your body isn't doing jack shit. It's just using vitae, becoming fat and lazy. Your marrow isn't even producing blood any more, because it doesn't have to. You've become Saturated." "You know what that means? It means that you've got vitae everywhere, not just in your veins. It's in your lymph system. It's in your skin, your bones, your eyes. It's even in your brain. You're not even human any more, and you're more than a ghoul. You're one step away from being a vampire." He looked up at that, either startled or excited. I'm not sure which. "You've got so much inside you that if I killed you now, I wouldn't have to give you any of mine to make you a vampire. You'd become one on your own. Even if I sucked you dry, there'd still be enough in your body to trigger the change. And then you'd be shit out of luck. You think it's bad now? Your hunger is _nothing_ compared to what I face." He was shaking, on the verge of crying like a baby. I can be ruthless when I have to be. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to him. "Here. If you want to dry out, this is the guy you go to. He's helping a friend of mine, a really good friend, so he's good. He's one of us. He specializes in things like this." He didn't take the card. I set it down in front of him. "His name is Dr. Peter Striebman. A bit anal, but an okay guy. He knows what he's doing." "Of course, it's gonna be hard on you. Your body's fat and lazy now, because it hasn't had to do any work in months. When you start to dry out, and don't refill, you're gonna hurt like hell as it starts working again. Your cells are going to get one hell of a wake-up call. They'll have to either jump-start, or die. And when they do, it's going to damage them. They'll never be the same again, never work as well as they did before. You'll be anemic the rest of your life." "Of course, you don't _have_ to detox. You can keep going like this forever. And I mean _Forever_. Because you won't die. Just you and your addiction, until some lick with a worse temper than I have decides to take your head off. Or blood bonds you, That would be fun, living as someone's slave for the rest of eternity." I stood up from the table and started to leave, then turned to face him, still sitting at the table. "I'm going to leave now, and when I do, you're on your own. I'll be happy to call the Doc for you, but you'd better speak up now. Otherwise, it'll be just you and that hunger of yours." He was silent a long time. He didn't say a word, but I knew. On my way out the door, I stopped at a pay phone and called a familiar number. "Hello, Dr. Striebman? Randolph here. I've got a pickup here for you at the Caligula. Table number three needs a detox." I hung up without asking about Bethany. I never ask anymore. It just wouldn't be good. Tremere aren't supposed to show weakness.