MACHOMENOI



   By Thanatos (8 Jan 94)

   Wow. Just when you thought it wasn't possible, or worthwhile to create
   yet another clan. This is one of those philisophical things I do when
   I'm not trying to save the world from itself. Here, I try to answer
   the annoying question: where did the Assamites come from. Next week:
   where the Giovanni came from. Enjoy. The Machomenoi

   Soft dust drifted down from the roof of the tattered tent. Soon the
   painful sunlight would drift through the ragged tears wrought by war.
   Soon, it would be over.

   The Warlord sat in his chair, and look once again at the map laid
   before him. According to this, it was to be the ultimate victory. Now
   it was defeat. In the distance, the furious battlecries of the victors
   rose ever-close.

   "What had gone wrong?" he whispered to himself. All were stripped from
   him, all friends, generals, assistants, thralls. All had faced the
   final death with honor, leaving only him. Swordmarks scored his flesh,
   arrows still carelessly protruded, the fletching scratching against
   the wooden chair. None of these things, these engines of war, could
   harm him. Death would have to come another way. Painfully. Without
   honor.

   The tentflap rustled, and a figure stepped in. The Warlord regarded it
   with puzzlement. No one stood there. No sound issued from the doorway.
   Although one end still slapped pleasantly against the tent, the
   doorflap was perfectly silent.

   The Warlord froze. "Who are you?" No words echoed from his lips.

   Standing, he reached for his sword, only to find it already gone. What
   witchery?

   The intruder appeared before him, as if his mind had only now thought
   it wise to alert the Warlord of the presence. It was one of the fierce
   ones from Asia Minor, a brave and savage race that had to have the
   rules of engagement burned into them with heated swords. So there was
   one left. One out of so many...

   "You may speak now, Juran."

   He knew my name! The Warlord's eyes grew wide in shock. Still, the pup
   was impudent. He had not learned the lesson. From this whelp, the
   Warlord would build a new army. One step at a time. First, the
   discipline...

   The Warlord reached out to grab the stranger, noting with a glance
   that he was indeed Kindred. He seemed vaguely familiar, and yet
   somehow different. Changed from the last time they had met. "Who are
   you?" he bellowed out, finally taking hold of the stranger's squirming
   arm.

   "I am Bassam. I am your death."

   The Warlord's hand grew suddenly cold, an icy bar absorbing the warmth
   of the room, sending his already cool body into shuddering. He
   collapsed to the dirt.

   "What?"

   "I have come for you, Juran, Just as I said I would. You saved me from
   my righteous death. You kept me from my gods. You stole any hope for
   honor or redemption. And now I return the favor." Despite his tough
   words, the stranger was quivering, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of
   anticipation.

   "Do it, you coward! " It was a word horrid to say. Such a denouncement
   would mean the death of any man the Warlord had levelled it against.
   Now it was only an Epitaph.

   With razor-like hands, the stranger sliced through the Warlord's
   armor, stripping all raiments of glory and protection. Naked and stiff
   from the cold, the Warlord could only shiver and wait for the end to
   come.

   The stranger, this Bassam, drew forth from his sash a curving blade.
   From the depth of the Warlord's fallen will, a smile arose. "He wishes
   to use an engine of war against me..."

   Bassam caught the smile, and returned it. He raised the blade to the
   flickering oil lamp. "No, Juran. Not a weapon of war. A weapon of
   treachery. Stained with the blood of your generals, all fallen this
   night. You will be with them, on this blade, and within me, forever."

   Bassam struck his defenseless opponent again and again. The blood
   rushed and welled, until it pooled enough so that the killer dropped
   his blade, and lapped at the sticky blood he craved. Thus was the end
   of the great Warlord Juran, last of the Machomenoi.

   - Found amongst the books of Alexander the Great, after his death

   The Machomenoi are a clan wholly lost to the Kindred of today.
   Fragments of legend still extant alleges that the founder of Clan
   Assamite slew the Antediluvian, but only after picking off all others,
   one by one, in the deepest part of the night.

   These vampires were once the crowning jewel of the burgeoning
   civilization. Military history and tactics were more critical to the
   Greeks and Phoenicians than astrological charts and omens. In every
   way, the Machomenoi were the unliving embodiment of these ideals.

   Only the finest and noblest warriors and leaders were chosen to fill
   the ranks of this Clan. Taken almost entirely from those who lay dying
   on the field of battle, the Machomenoi retained the killing scar as a
   symbol of honor and virtue. They travelled the world, seeking out
   battles, and fighting in the name of strategy and high ideals.

   Often two Machomenoi would face one another as either the leaders of
   two opposing forces, or advisors to the leaders, or even those who
   would lead the charge, calling others to a noble doom. In every way,
   they showed deference to each other, taking an almost philosophical
   look at defeat. After all, one only learns when mistakes are made. A
   Machomenoi is always spared, even when the custom calls for the
   destruction or enslavement of rival forces. Such is the bond of fealty
   they all share.

   There are three types of Machomenoi; known informally as the Arm, the
   Leg, and the Chest. The Arm are those fighters who surpass in
   strength. They usually act as the leaders of attacks and assaults,
   fighting brutally, and smashing down any who stand in their way. The
   Leg are the swift scouts, specializing in sneak attacks, routs, and,
   more importantly, reconissance. Amongst mortals, they are the
   advisors, the dark shadow behind the throne. The Chest are the stout
   of heart, the rear guard that protects the flanks. They will stand
   their ground no matter what the foe, and subsequently act as
   bodyguards, or even leaders, amongst mortals.

   Because of the effective job of Bassam in wholly annihilating this
   Clan, very little is known about them, other than accounts from the
   dawn of recorded history which talk of fierce pale skinned warriors
   that appeared in the midst of battle to rally the troops to victory.
   The greatest assemblage of Machomenoi in one place was at the Siege of
   Troy, where they took a minor diplomatic problem, and blew it so out
   of proportion that it took ten years, thousands of lives, and the
   razing of a once noble city to resolve. Every time one side would gain
   an advantage, the other would petition Juran, and the horrid balance
   would continue. The constant warfare continued, as more Machomenoi
   were summoned to fight in the conflict. Finally, duplicity, an
   anathema to the Machomenoi, won the day, and the disgusted Machomenoi
   turned to other conflicts.

   The only other tale that survives in any degree is the fall of the
   Machomenoi, as recounted by an unknown scribe that did not know their
   true nature. As the legend goes, a fierce war was being waged in Asia
   Minor, between two rival tribes over a hotly contested trade route.
   Both sides had camped at the opposite banks of a river, drew their
   bows, and waited for someone to come out to fetch water. They remained
   there for weeks, slowly running out of water, slowly dying a
   dishonorable death. The conflict would not have been so terrible, if
   not for the presence of Juran himself, as well as several of his
   generals, watching over the battle, waiting for a break.

   Just when the Machomenoi were growing bored, and considered whipping
   the men into a frenzy, and driving them into one another, a lone
   figure jumped on a horse, and rode straight for the opposite camp, not
   caring in the least about the sweet water that flowed about his
   horse's calves. His horse was not so single- minded, however. It
   stopped midstream, and began to plaintively lap at the flowing river,
   rendering the man a stationary target.

   Seconds before the release of the arrows, the fighter leapt into the
   waters, and disappeared. A few patient moments later, he popped up
   again, and again, another wave of arrows. He slipped underneath the
   waves before the could strike him. This was repeated again and again,
   until, much to their horror, the tribe realized it had a scant few
   left. Bolstered by this confidence, the other side assaulted, and
   though it was a bloody massacre, the patient tribe with the brave
   martyr won out.

   So pleased by such out and out bravery, Juran and his two generals
   sought out the hero. Martyr he was; blood poured from a dozen wounds.
   Juran smiled secretly at the true cause of the hero's bravery. He
   poured into the mind of the soldier, and discovered that he had become
   so thirsty, that he had killed his comrade, and drank deeply from his
   blood. The resulting thirst had driven him insane. Nevertheless, such
   "heroism" should not go unrewarded. Juran ordered him Embraced on the
   spot.

   The general who performed the deed was only 7th generation; in those
   days, such a high generation seldom bred true. As the vitae flowed and
   mingled with the blood of his friend, the soldier began to convulse.
   He would not survive the Change. Juran insured it with a bit of his
   own blood. The soldier stopped convulsing, and lapped greedily at this
   reward.

   The Neonate survived, but the powerful infusion of blood erased any
   battlescars. The soldier, low in generation, and lacking these signs
   of honor, would forever be a lackey. But unbeknownst to Juran, Bassam
   - the soldier - sweetly craved the dark, rich vitae, and sought it out
   at any opportunity. He fought battles not of honor but of treachery,
   slaying the Machomenos, whether he was the victor or loser. He learned
   the secret of Diablerie, and did the Blood Dance, climbing in
   generation, and systematically slaying every one of the trusting
   Machomenoi he met.

   As his power grew, so too did his thirst for more blood. He developed
   special powers, the antithesis of his Machomenoi origins. Whereas they
   would be forward, brutal, and honorable, he would be silent, lethal,
   and amoral. It took him quite a time, but eventually, he developed
   Quietus as we know it today.

   Eventually, he arranged for a horrific battle to be fought in northern
   Greece, and secretly invited all those Machomenoi who remained. He
   made pacts with each, promising detailed reports that could only be
   told in silence. It was the last news they ever heard.

   The Warlord also came. Juran wondered where they had all gone to, but
   the Phoenicians had discovered a new world, supposedly. Perhaps they
   were off in this strange new land, fighting grander wars. Perhaps he
   would journey to there himself.

   Bassam allowed Juran to live in his delusional world, where he shared
   the throne of mastery over humanity with Caine himself. When the
   assassin came, it was after a humiliating defeat. Stripped of all
   pride, Juran basically offered his neck to Bassam.

   From here, the history becomes tangled. Bassam had no desire to create
   others, to inflict upon others the sins of his former clan. Still, he
   found those who thought as he did appealing to be with, to control,
   and eventually to Embrace. None deceived him as he deceived his Lord.
   In this, there is a frightful symmetry with the order he obliterated;
   the Assamites are as loyal to him as the Generals were to Juran. It is
   rumored that even today, Bassam awaits one who will rise from his
   ranks and decimate the Clan, taking from them as he himself took from
   the Machomenoi.

   Because history is skewed in regard to the Machomenoi, no one knows if
   the Clan was around at the time of Caine and the Second City. Those
   Antediluvians who know seem shocked that human minds still hold the
   Machomenoi in memory. To them, they are long dead, an inferior,
   prideful clan in every way. A few potent Kindred, aware of the
   history, hint that perhaps the Machomenoi- Assamite cycle is never
   ending; Juran usurped it from the first, and thus the blood has flowed
   endlessly, never settling, constantly being stolen and reclaimed.

   Whatever the case, the transfer of power from the Machomenoi to the
   Assamites signalled an important shift in the way humanity viewed war.
   It was no longer an honorable accounting, with counting coups counting
   for more than a massacre. Countries would be lost with the outcome of
   a single battle. When the Assamites took over, war became more about
   finishing as quickly as possible, while delivering as much pain as
   possible against an opponent. In many ways, the Assamites murdered the
   only pure thing that ever came from war: a sense of honorable
   finality, where neither side felt cheated.



   Nickname: Myrmidons

   Appearance: Always spartan in dress, style of clothing. As mentioned
   above, will try to dress so as to show the fatal scar off; the nastier
   the better. In addition, each Machomenoi will possess a True Weapon, a
   weapon which they favor above all others. They will go nowhere without
   this item in hand.

   Haven: Mobile, like the Gangrel, they existed in a time where notions
   of abrogating a haven were unthinkable. Most of the time, they
   established tents, and wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks, to sleep
   out the day.

   Background: As seen above, the Machomenoi choose only those who have
   fallen in battle to add to their numbers. Thus, one would have had to
   do something creative, and then be cut down, to be Embraced. So potent
   was the Vitae of the Machomenoi that the body could be dead a full
   day, and still it could be Embraced.

   Concept: Soldier, Leader, Teacher, Mercenary.

   Clan Disciplines:

   Arm: Potence, Celerity, Ptolemos

   Leg: Celerity, Fortitude, Ptolemos

   Chest: Fortitude, Potence, Ptolemos

   Weakness: So little is known about the Machomenoi that iron-clad facts
   are difficult to come by. In many ways, they had a great respect for
   each other, and would never harm another Machomenoi, no matter what.
   In many ways, this resembles both the Tremere and the Assamites.
   Whether this is a Mass Blood Bond, like the Tremere, is unknown. The
   closest approximation comes to a sort of subservience to those with
   higher prestige. In any event where a Machomenoi acts dishonorably, he
   must subtract the difference between his Generation and the target's
   Generation in dice from all die rolls that would affect the target
   unfavorably. Thus, a Machomenon used treachery to win a battle. All
   dealings with his fellow Machomenon are strained with the notion that
   his comrade has been slighted. The Machomenon must subtract the
   difference as a penalty. Note that this works BOTH ways. Just because
   one is of higher status does not allow one to lie, cheat and steal.
   This seemed to apply to all Kindred the Machomenoi dealt with, which
   really was hardly any at all.

   Organization: As rigid as they get. Each successive Generation is a
   higher ranking in the Organization. The proper names are lost, but a
   close approximation is Warlord, Lord, Underlord, General, Commander,
   Sergeant, and Warrior. However, while in battle, those who lead troops
   into battle, regardless of generation, are called Warriors. Those who
   select stratagems are called Generals, and those who protect and
   defend are called Sergeants.

   In one way, the Assamites and the Machomenoi are strikingly similar:
   the use of Vitae. To them, vitae is an extremely valuable commodity.
   Before a battle is fought, the two Machomenoi usually meet, shake
   hands, and propose a wager. This amount is usually in blood. If for
   some reason, the two clash without speaking, the winner is
   automatically awarded a single point of blood, no matter what.

   Bassam apparently stole the method of conversion from the Machomenoi,
   for although the exact specifics of the Machomenoi ritual are lost,
   their texts constantly speak of being promoted to higher ranks. Use
   the 100 = 1, as suggested in the VPG.

   Demotion also exists, though, once again, the precise nature and
   methodology is unknown. The records speak of "The Foul Vitae," a
   horrid potion which causes a DECREASE in Generation. Thank Caine this
   was lost to history.

   Gaining Prestige: Machomenoi gain prestige by winning battles. The
   higher the wager, the more prestige was gained. Note that even though
   a Machomenon could rally a bunch of peasants to resist an entire
   barbarian horde, more prestige would be gained if it were two
   Machomenoi with a handful of peasants, duking it out over crop rights.


   Quote: "Conan, what is best in life?" "To crush thine enemies; to see
   them driven before you; and to hear the lamentations of the women."

   Stereotypes: Unknown

   Note: One key factor is missing in all accounts of the Machomenoi: the
   effect they had on humanity. They used humans largely as pawns to play
   their brutal games of strategy, and it seemed largely that the rest of
   the world let them do just that. Many would contend that they were
   merely feeding a primal impulse that humanity already possessed, and
   turned an unrelenting bloodbath into something organized and
   purposeful. Still, the mind reel on what would have happened if Juran
   had never given Bassam the blood.

   View Ptolemos disciline.

   The tentflap parted for a moment. Bassam glanced up, half in fear at
   being caught, half in frustration. "WHO!"

   "I, Bassam. It is I."

   The figure in the doorway looked familiar, and yet...

   "You have done something few have done, Bassam. You have ascended to
   the Third Generation. Your Hunger has served you well, given you the
   drive to overcome any obstacle. Now it will curse you." The figure
   turned to go.

   "No. Wait! What did you mean..." He stood and wiped the vitae from his
   mouth with a dirty sleeve. "What do you mean, 'Cursed?'"

   The figure smiled. "Find shelter, Bassam. You will require it. I do
   not curse you. I warn you. Few have ascended to your level, and none
   so quickly...so far. However, such hubris carries a heavy price. That
   which gave you the edge, the drive to go on, will ultimately drag you
   down. I am sorry, Bassam, but it was your choice."

   "So it doesn't end here, in this tent?"

   "No. There has to be 13. You cannot die until someone takes to pulsing
   blood from your veins. It will never end.

   "You've worked so hard, all these years. In my own way, I was cheering
   you along. Now that it's over, I hope it was worth the trouble." He
   left.

   Bassam remained kneeling in the tent, waiting for the sun's scorching
   rays to mar his flesh, to end his life as he planned. They ripped his
   flesh into fiery agony, they desiccated the corpse of Juran. But no
   matter how much he suffered, he did not die.

   And the cycle began anew...

    Now, the second part:

   BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

   "...So that's it?"

   "Yes. As far as we know, that's it."

   Curan glanced down at the elegant weapon he held delicately in his
   hands. "They're all gone?"

   "I suppose. There have always been rumors, but, as you know, the
   Assamites are good."

   "And you wouldn't suppose this hunk of iron would have any power?"

   "No. None outside its original owner. And forger."

   "Sheesh. I went to a lot of trouble to get this, too. And now I spend
   my pennies, haul my pale butt all the way to Rekjavik, and all for
   nothing."

   "Oh, not for nothing. It's still a serviceable weapon."

   "But it's not a GhulBlade. It's not a corferri. It's not anything."

   "It's history."

   "Great. 'hey, mista. You wanna buy some history? Twenty bucks.'"

   "Childe, there are perhaps forty souls around today who know the tale
   I told you. I saw the blade was worthless to you the moment you walked
   in here. Your message was sincere, so I thought I could give you
   something for your troubles. Information."

   "Information? About a loser clan who couldn't beat off a single lick?
   I don't care WHO he was! If they were such great fighters, then what
   the HELL are they doing DEAD? Din't they TALK to one another? Didn't
   they think, 'oh, gee, that Hassam has fought Tom, Dick, and Stupid,
   and all three are DEAD now. Hm...' I'm failing to see the bright side
   to all this..."

   "DON'T!"

   "damn...what happened?"

   "You struck the floor with the sword. It is slate. Sparks flew."

   "Nah. Not sparks. I hit that floor, and BAM! Something hit it before I
   even TOUCHED it!"

   "Yes. Not sparks, boy. You must go. You must take this sword wherever
   it will lead you. It's not safe here. Not after that."

   "What?"

   "Trust me. You came all this way, and I dispensed free advice, out of
   pity. Now I beg you. Leave."

   "One more question, one small thing I just don't understand. How'd
   they do it?"

   "How did they do...what?"

   "Fight. Y'know...I can imagine that lots and lots of soldiers fought
   for them, like in the story, but weren't those during the day? How did
   they control the troops?"

   "You've uncovered a great mystery. Now it's your duty to cover it back
   up. Before it devours you...and us. Go now."

   "Okay...right...whatever. See ya, you old bastard."

   "Goodbye Curan."

   END TRANSCRIPT

   File No. 994532 - Level 7 Survellience Sweep Record. Translate into
   Aramaic, and File Level 4, Eyes Only, Istanbul, Petra, Aerie.

   The Machenoi, Part 2: Getting Ugly.

   As two astute posters have pointed out, the concept of vampiric
   generals seems unlikely in the least. The Kine would immediately
   object to fighting at night, for obvious reasons. So somehow, these
   mighty warlords had to find a way to fight during the DAY.

   Of course, this is the result of all the scholarship that is known
   about this enigmatic clan. Many, particularly Assamites, deny their
   existence, simply because they don't make sense. Nice metaphor for a
   Clan, but rather impractical, in the weight of historical evidence.
   The few experts who still try to piece it all together have one of two
   theories. The first is that the Makhomenoi, when they desired to
   fight, could encourage the Kine they ruled and controlled to fight at
   night, when the moon was full and the sky was cloudless. Such gods
   that walked amongst men would have undoubtably been able to sway the
   masses in this regard. If you were willing to die for a pale stranger
   that improved your fighting ability, then you most certainly were
   willing to do so under a full moon. It's not like it was every night.

   The second theory is perhaps the most radical of all; that the
   Makhomenoi were indeed immune to the debilitating effects of the sun,
   but paid a terrible price in that regard. Until Level 5 was reached,
   normal blows could kill them.

   However, the huge hole in our knowledge of the clan, especially how
   one becomes an Arm, Leg, or Chest, leaves us with questions which may
   never be answered sufficiently.

   STOP!

   This is all your players can know, up into this point. This is all the
   scholarship tells them, no matter how hard they search. Anyone who
   pretends to have knowledge beyond this point would probably have been
   hunted down by Hassam a long time ago. Unless you're running a
   Chronicle while these guys were running around, then they will only
   know the vague rumors (above) which can make a normally sedate
   Assamite foam at the mouth.

   This Clan is intended to be the ultimate teaser. Rumors of a Lost
   Clan, with direct links to Clan Assamite, should have any Illuminatist
   running out the door to find more info, just to have SOMETHING to lord
   over the oh-so-smug Assamites.

   What exists beyond is lessons that Hassam intentionally forgot, since
   their very existence threatens vampires, and to a large degree,
   humanity in general. In every sense, only one individual in the World
   of Darkness knows what lies beyond this point. Well, five. But they're
   not talking...

   The gender issue: Lost to the ages is whether or not the Makhomenoi
   were all men. Legends of the Amazons hint that, no, not all were, but
   no single evidence of a female Makhomenos survive. It could very well
   be that Hassam may have overlooked these rare exceptions.

   The Makhomenoi today: As hinted, a few Makhomenoi survive, mostly in
   their True Weapons, trapped there by Hassam long ago. These weapons
   collect dust on shelves, and confound scientists in their inability to
   rust or even lose their edge. Most spirits are asleep, waiting to be
   found by a Kindred with the passion for war in her heart.

   Finally, there is but one place where the Makhomenoi could persist:
   the Americas. Drawn to the powerful warrior culture of the Native
   Americans, the Makhomenoi would have travelled any distance to be with
   those who treasured honorable warfare above all. To date, five
   Makhomenoi still live, asleep and unaware that the European has
   conquered the land through deception and treachery. One in particular,
   a powerful Chest who animated a great buffalo carcass when he fought,
   was almost awakened in the Spirit Dance. He now stirs in his sleep,
   and when fully awakened, will try to Enhance as many Native Americans
   to lead into battle.

   View The Path of Ares.