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Chapter One: An
Unlife of Service

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Wherein we learn, gentle reader, the dire price of ingratitude and

betrayal orchestrated by a base villain, thus turning gentle and loyal

e service into deeds most foul
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True happiness is to enjoy the present, without anxious
dependence upon the future, not to amuse ourselves with either
hopes or fears but to rest satisfied with what we have, which is
sufficient, for he that is so wants nothing. The greatest blessings of
mankind are within us and within our reach. A wise man is
content with his lot, whatever it may be, without wishing for what
he has not.
Seneca
This title is designed as a chronicle starter for
Victorian Age Vampire. It includes a basic premise for
the story, background information to the location,
and the featured household, the current state of play,
and some NPC statistics for immediate use. The story
is broadly outlined and will require additional work
to be ‘table-ready’, but the key elements are both
present and easily modified to suit local
environments.
Background
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Alfred Whittlock’s distinguished service to
Britain pre-dates the Camarilla’s formation, and until
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recent decades he was one of the few remarkably
active Elders. Whittlock is still viewed as a
tremendous asset by Mithras, and many of the other
titular Elders for his resourcefulness, skill at arms,
and diplomacy (although many snidely affix the
statement ‘for a Gangrel’ to the later skill). Qualified
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commentary of his social skills aside, Alfred has been
known as ‘The Gentleman Gangrel’, or simply ‘The
Gentleman’ for his level-headed, usually polite, and
sensible counsel. Rumour abounds of his tutelage by
Lord Camden, and the close confidence her holds
with a number of the Ventrue of London. This has
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led to accusations of ‘ideas above his station’, and an
enduring and undeserved description of ‘his master’s
favourite hound’. Despite this, Whittlock’s word is yet
untarnished, and his record unmarred by failure – a
claim most of the peerage are unable to match with
any credibility.
The Gangrel ha served for centuries as a
warden of the boundaries of London, a messenger
(and sometimes spy) to other cities, and bodyguard to
travellers of distinction. Few Cainites know the
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English countryside and wild place like Whittlock,
and fewer still have the ferocity to meet and quell the
numerous dangers awaiting the unwary and undead
who venture beyond the sprawling industrial
complexes or urban unlife. He has negotiated treaties
and tribute from other cities across England, and is
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sometimes the ‘red right hand of Mithras’ when
dispensing justice to those kindred who thought self-
imposed exile from London would be sufficient to
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assuage the Prince’s wrath. Such Cainites were not
only deluded and short-sighted, but terminally under-
estimated Mithras’ need for punitive examples.
However, the last few decades have been
extraordinary harsh to Whittlock’s physique as the
Elder succumbed to Frenzy and his form without
more accurately mirrored the beast within. Rather
than face the continued looks of revulsion at Court
cast by undead barely fit to share his company; he
sought a style of retirement. Mithras realised the
terror value that calling the Gangrel from retirement
would engender (should such a situation arise) and
agreed that this golden age no longer required the
active service of such a servant. Mithras was also
aware that the Gangrel Justicar had intimated a place
for Alfred as an Archon, and was keen to part ways
gracefully – another investment in future needs.
Lands in the village of Sandon, Essex were
ceded to the Gangrel who faded – with his ghouls –
from Court ten years ago. Many kindred have
forgotten him, or at best have discounted him
(despite his Elder status) as a relic. Most believe that
he has succumbed to torpor and remark it ‘for the
best’ in the vein of British politeness and penchant
for understatement that obfuscates difficult
conversations.
A change in fortune
Everyone is a little bitter. We're born bitter. The personality itself
is really just a very complex defense mechanism. A reaction to the
first time someone said, "No you can't.”
Marc Maron, Attempting Normal
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Torpor is indeed Alfred’s current state, though
not of choice, nor from the weight of ages. His estate
was broad enough that neighbours were of little
concern, and the old forest still held forth against the
industrial age here. His ghouls were productively
employed, protecting the Masquerade and acting as
his proxies when they mingled with the other villagers
at The Crown (the local pub). He took an interest in
matters of governance as would be seemly for a
landed gentleman, although his deliberately fostered
reputation for solitude and misanthropy have served
as a bulwark against social calls and engagement. The
people of the village, including the gentry, are content
to engage in a ‘live and let’ philosophy for mutual
benefit.
Two months ago, Alfred returned to the
manor in a state of near-frenzy, and bordering Final
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Death. His will alone – it seemed – was all that
knitted sinew and bone together as the extent and
depth of his injuries would have killed an entire
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coterie of lesser Cainities. Drenched in blood,
missing his right arm, his face barely recognisable
under the patchwork of broad wounds, bones
glistening where skin no longer covered his frame,
and moving despite a shattered leg and obviously
scorched by flame, the Elder shouldered open the
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door of the servant’s entrance and collapsed on the
kitchen floor. His ghouled staff swiftly raised the
alarm, distributed weapons in case the attackers were
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close behind and fortified the house whilst
Meriwether (as head of staff) supervised ‘his
lordships’ movement to the cellar.
In a shocking apparent betrayal, Meriwether
ordered the Elder placed upon the cellar table, and
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then – with an ease only afforded by the near-mortal
wounds already sustained – staked the Elder. The two
ghouls who had assisted in carrying the emaciated
frame of the Gangrel stood in stunned silence until
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Meriwether explained that this was the only way to
essentially ‘freeze’ their master and stave off Final
Death until they could call for help. As the only
immediate source of vitae – he explained – the entire
staff were at risk of his lordships’ thirst. They knew
that if Alfred slew all of the servants in his frenzy, the
Gangrel would be remorseful, but this was cold
consolation to corpses. Furthermore, Meriwether
would send to London immediately and request help.
Those older and wiser – as the old ghoul described
the vampiric peerage – would surely know what to do.
The remainder of the staff listened to
Meriwether’s explanation, first with horror, and then
with a degree of understanding. None had a
knowledge of undead physiology (one could hardly
call the village doctor), and the severity of the wounds
necessitated immediate and drastic action. They all
agreed that his lordship would most likely be wrathful
upon awakening, but would eventually understand,
and maybe even praise such decisive action. It was

agreed that until help from London arrived, the
atmosphere at Whittlock Manor would be to simply
‘carry on’, albeit with a heightened sense of security
given their current vulnerability and the unknown
nature of the Gangrel’s assailant or assailants.
Poirot would be proud (the butler did it)
To me, the thing that is worse than death is betrayal. You see, I
could conceive death, but I could not conceive betrayal.
Malcolm X
Meriwether despatched one of the more
resourceful stable hands to London with a letter of
introduction that would gain entry to a prominent
Gentleman’s Club, and a further letter for an
associate who could assist. The stable hand, unable to
read any word save his own name, solemnly took the
wax-sealed envelopes, his best clothes (with which to
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make a good impression), and a small purse to secure
food and lodgings. The trip to London was nearly
forty miles. The impressionable young man would
not return. Instead, the kindred to whom he had
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been directed followed the letter’s instructions,
drained the startled youth of vitae, dumped the body
in a midden heap, and travelled to Essex County.
Meriwether’s duplicity was long-standing. The ghoul,
whilst basically loyal, had tired of waiting for the
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Embrace. When contacted by an enterprising Gangrel
Ancillae to plot Alfred’s downfall and diablerie, the
older ghoul surreptitiously maintained
communication and began to plot. Providence wears
many masks, although Meriwether was surprised to
find violence one of them. The letter ordered the
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Ancillae to wait ten days before arriving at the house,
and reiterated that the deal brokered was for the
diablerie to occur first, and then Meriwether’s
Embrace.
Ten days engenders great paranoia, especially
when masterfully fuelled by the head butler.
Whittlock Manor remains on high alert, complete
with regular patrols of the grounds by the kennel
master backed by the remaining stable hands. Food is
yet to run low, and Meriwether has broached the
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subject of draining his lordship’s vitae to sustain their
ghouled existence. Whilst most of the staff find the
activity distasteful, they understand the necessity.
When the would-be diablerist finally arrived, the staff
were ready, armed, and prepared to defend the
manor. Following Meriwether’s directions (indicating
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that the staff would be abed and the Ancillae should
simply enter the premises and meet the butler in the
cellar), the young Gangrel was completely unprepared
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for the fusillade. Undead resilience provided some
defence, but the paranoid and desperate staff
overwhelmed him, and Meriwether – displaying
perhaps too refined a practiced skill – staked the
intruder and added him to the cellar.
The present quandary
It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.
William Blake
Another ten days passed and the insular
household realised any chance of salvation has
similarly passed. Trust in the outside world
plummeted (even lower), and the household to
Meriwether for guidance – a role he easily accepted.
He explained that eventually help would arrive, but
for the interim they needed to survive with the vitae
of the staked Cainites and keep the faith under which
they were all employed. With the loyalty of the staff
assured, Meriwether enacted the next phase of his
plan.
None are quite sure how he managed the act,
but a few nights later Meriwether emerged from the
cellar with an unnatural thirst held at bay by the
blood of animals. Barely coherent, he still asserted
dominance over the household, securing their
compliance and fear by killing the kennel master and
satiating his thirst in front of the terrified servants.
He was now – in no uncertain terms – the master of
this house until help arrived. His word would be
obeyed as if it were his lordships, and the punishment
for disobedience would be brutal. None of the staff
believe that any help is forthcoming, and that they are
now simply trapped in a manor with a monster.
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Sandon
This small parish village approximately forty
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miles north-east of London. It has a small population
(less than 1,000 persons) and is primarily dedicated to
farming. The closest neighbouring town, Chelmsford,
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has recently found fame as the hub of an emerging
telegraph company, but this progress has yet to
impact Sandon. The main sources of congregation for
locals are The Crown, and St Andrew’s Church (the
latter has stood on this location since the 11th
century, whilst the former is far newer and hails from
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the early 18th century). The Sandon School provides
educational opportunities to those able to afford such
luxuries.
Overall, the rural village experience little
excitement, although residents may need to travel
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between parish villagers to access services, purchase
new equipment, sell and trade produce, and attend
larger multi-parish celebrations (such as marriages,
dances, and other events). Hedgerows are still the
primary indicator of boundaries, and the slow-moving
Sandon Brook meanders through the parish.
In 1888 a Spanish Oak will be planted in the
village green to commemorate Queen Victoria’s
Golden Jubilee and will remain an attraction until its
removal in 2000 (the tree becomes infested with
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honey fungus and partially collapses during high
winds; the Council then removes the remainder of
the tree). In modern nights, a series of development
covenants are enforced to retain the rural aesthetic
and preserve the ‘village feel’ of the area (and the
population shows very limited growth). Readers are
encouraged to tour the village using their street-view
software platform of choice to gain a better
understanding of the surrounds.
Chronicle development
Stories are important, the monster said. They can be more
important than anything. If they carry the truth.
Patrick Ness, A Monster Calls
It should be clear by this stage that Meriwether,
for all his delusions of scheming, will be undone
soon. The situation is simply untenable, made even
more so by his undead transformation. The initial
logical explanation to cloak his deception and
betrayal in loyal service are made flimsy by his more
recent and depraved actions. London will not stand
for a ghoul (and a servant at that) to escape justice for
stealing immortality at the cost of an Elders’
weakness. In fact, London will be just as interested in
what manner of creature or creatures could best
Alfred Whittlock, and whether they still lurk in Essex
County. More than happy to initially take advantage