Vicissitude
Art of flesh‑craft and bone‑song. Reshape bodies and identities; transcend the prison of form.
As Recorded by Archivist Calderon Szantovich
I am Calderon Szantovich, last Voivode of the Veiled Archives beneath Mount Călimani.
Long have I walked among dust and bone, bearing witness to the descent of my clan from gods of the Carpathians to whispers in the gutters of neon cities. These pages are not merely recollection—they are scar tissue. My vitae remembers what the younglings fear to ask.
Do not mistake this for a mere accounting. This is testimony. This is confession. This is warning.
The progenitor of our clan. Neither dead nor dreaming, the Eldest resides in the soil of our homeland, not merely buried but interwoven with it. Some say it slumbers. Others whisper that it devours from below. All Tzimisce are shaped in its shadow.
Once called the Dreamer of Byzantium. Founder of the Trinity in Constantinople. Believed to have transcended physical form—or perhaps descended into madness. Sought enlightenment through Kindred unity.
Embraced for political balance. Fell into darkness—potentially Baali-corrupted. A cautionary tale in ambition and damnation.
Once our brightest Koldun. Betrayed us to found House Tremere. His arcane defection gave rise to a rival clan of magic thieves. Banished. Cursed. Still feared.
Prophet, outcast, and survivor of communion with the Eldest. Roams Eastern Europe bearing cryptic insights and mad truths.
Defender of Old Clan traditions. Politely silent in Camarilla courts. Ruthlessly vigilant in his domain. He believes we should outlive memory—not embrace madness.
The Fiend who became a gospel. Once Myca, a Byzantine noble; now the apostle of flesh and paradox. Sabbat war-leader and theologian of transformation.
A being of paradox. Genderless, ageless, and ever-changing, Vykos's body is a theological statement. They crafted Sabbat doctrine in crimson and bone, leading crusades and inquisitions with a smile and scalpel. They are both saint and symptom.
Visionary of the Dream. Where others saw empires, the Dracon saw harmony. Their dream of Constantinople failed—but their memory lingers as proof that Tzimisce once had more than teeth and terror.
The great traitor. He knew our deepest secrets and offered them to usurpers. The blood mages still speak his name with reverence. We speak it with venom.
His kills are not accidents. They are curated performances. Andrei believes horror is a form of communication—his tongue is a blade.
We ruled like gods. Mountains bowed. Peasants prayed to our shadows. Our keeps were alive—sinew, blood, and stone. Mortals were cattle; Kindred were clay. We were sculptors of fate.
It was our childer who lit the fire. They refused our rule but inherited our fury. From that bloodbath rose the Sabbat—our bastard child, warborn and wild.
Built by Vykos, rumored to live still. It is said to pulse, breathe, dream. A monument to Vicissitude. Or a warning to those who misunderstand it.
To transcend the curse of Caine by becoming something more. Or less. To shed form, name, soul. To become truth.
The world digitized. We bled. The Sabbat collapsed into incoherence. Vicissitude is now whispered, not taught. The Old Clan hides behind ritual and pride. The young clutch cybernetic dreams and fail to comprehend what it means to rule.
But we persist.
Mythic Nights
Origins of the clan and the pact with the Land. Proto‑Tzimisce forge dominion through blood, soil, and sorcery.
Byzantine Dream
Constantinople's experiment in transcendence—unity of Kindred and kine under the Dream. Seeds of Metamorphosis take root.
Anarch Revolt
Childer overthrow tyrants; from the ashes, the Sabbat rises. Vicissitude becomes gospel and weapon alike.
Modern Nights
The Sabbat splinters; elders vanish to the Gehenna War. Old Clan retreats, neonates improvise. Secrets go to ground.
Art of flesh‑craft and bone‑song. Reshape bodies and identities; transcend the prison of form.
Command beasts, evoke the Beast in others, and commune with swarms—the wild answers the Fiend.
Pierce veils of thought and spirit; perceive truths hidden in blood, memory, and omen.
Elemental rites bound to the Land—streams, stone, storm. Ancient witchcraft of the Old Clan.
Note: Ritual details are intentionally high‑level; consult sourcebooks for mechanics. This archive prioritizes lore fidelity and story hooks.
The art of flesh is not idle vanity. It is domination made manifest.
The basic war-thrall. Formed from ghouled mortals or beasts, shaped with Vicissitude into monstrous foot soldiers. Extra limbs, bone-armor plating, and reflexive obedience make them efficient—if inelegant. Mine once sang as they marched.
Engineered from dozens—sometimes hundreds—of creatures. Controlled via Koldunic totems or Black Hand rituals. These living siege engines were used by the Sabbat to level entire Camarilla strongholds. Each is unique. Each is a heresy of design and endurance.
A wall of faces. Once a monastery's inner sanctum. Now, a sentient archive that remembers all it hears. The lips speak only in whispers, unless you bleed upon them.
A childer of mine, now spread across vellum. Her skin holds sigils of forgotten rituals. Her mind still dreams, encoded in scar.
You may know cities. We know cathedrals of meat, monasteries of bone, and castles that breathe with old blood.
Perched in the shadow of the Borgo Pass, this was once the seat of Radu of Bistrița. Its halls were carved into the mountainside, each stone containing a name, each wall listening. It is now a tomb—unless he calls you inside.
Located within Constantinople's decaying quarters, its architecture defies Euclidean geometry. The walls sing in Koldunic tongues during equinoxes. Here, monks once fused scripture and skincraft. Many say Dracon still dwells beneath the sanctum, dreaming as statue.
A buried Cathedral grown during the height of Sabbat experimentation. Said to house the remnants of the first Vozhd. Shunned even by Black Hand remnants. I have not returned in a century… yet it calls.
Built by Vykos as both fortress and temple. Its walls pulse with borrowed heartbeats. Its foundations drink from the earth below. It is not merely inhabited—it inhabits its dwellers in return.
This archive is not a eulogy.
It is a womb.
Tzimisce does not fade. It evolves.
So write your little histories, neonate. I shall write in bone.
— Calderon Szantovich, Archivist of the Veiled Archives