saber de clanes 344257123-V20-Lore-of-the-Bloodlines-11056187-pdf | Page 80

though our devotion to kine rankles them to such a degree
that we could never hope to join, even if we wanted to. Our
singular experiment in antitribu was a failure.
Until Adonai arose.
His followers tell the tale: a Sabbat pack found the last
Warriors in some ancient, forgotten mine outside Prague,
reopened by a Ventrue-backed company a decade before
the millennium turned. In a rare display of compassion, the
pack brought them to their senses, instructed them on the
developments of Tremere and Sabbat, and offered them a place
in the pack. Their leader, clad in rotten cloth and rusted mail,
clasped the talons of the ductus in fraternal acknowledgement.
Yet none can identify this pack, or have heard of Adonai’s
rescuers, who acted in a manner so uncharacteristic of Sabbat
who come across Kindred slumbering in torpor. None of the
antitribu, who strode toughened and defiant into the European
fronts and the packs circling London seemed to be Blooded
by the Code. My sire claims the fragments of Samiel’s words
they spout are genuine, but he asks the same question I do:
shouldn’t a true Warrior know the Code by heart?
If this is the Adonai of old, torpor has tempered his
brusque demeanor. This Adonai was subtle at first, keeping
his new brood small until House Goratrix vanished beneath
the Mexican sands. Then he adopted mass Embrace tactics,
until Salubri antitribu were a common sight in Sabbat
packs. In these nights, their numbers have grown to eclipse
ours, and they have garnered a foothold in the Black
Hand, the paramilitary secret society of the Sabbat. Their
occult prowess grows by the day, wielding countermagics
with talent, acting as terrifying shock troops at the head of
battle columns. Formerly regarded by the Sabbat as mere
weapons to be pointed towards the Camarilla, the former
Warrior Caste has slowly carved out a place of true respect.
When they encounter us, our antitribu show us no enmity
— they glory in the inhuman juggernauts they have become,
having shed Saulot’s mantle to grasp their destiny. Their flame
puts to shame our ash and embers. They invite us to join
them, to bring two castes of the Salubri together once more,
to heal our riven Clan from the scars of Acre. I met Adonai
himself out in New Mexico, under the stars and bright yellow
moon. His childer scarred themselves with flaming brands and
danced beside bonfires. His eyes danced with the charisma of
the pyre, all the fires of heaven and earth shining with fury
and ecstasy. “There is a place for you with us,” he told me.
“Our herds sicken and die. These whelps abuse the kine for
pleasure, instead of treating them like valuable food. Join us,
seize the respect we are due, and take back our Clan.”
Saulot help me, I dream about their fires every day.
LORE OF THE BLOODLINES
79