Daeva
Something dead approaches. It isn’t dangerous because it’s strong — and it’s ungodly strong. It isn’t dangerous because it’s fast — and, oh Christ, it’s fast! It’s dangerous because the prey see something beautiful in it. The prey want to be devoured. These dead things sway, as fascinating as bioluminescence in the endless dark. They are the smoking mirror. They are the glowing orb at the end of a stalk, dangling over a great, glassfanged mouth.
The Daeva are all allure and objectification. They embody the social horror of vampirism more elementally than any other clan, because they exploit mortal hungers to feed their immortal ones. They are exploitation. They do not hide so much as clothe themselves in the images we’ve constructed — of beauty and charm. They co-opt all the things we want to be and want to fuck.
The Serpents arose from the sticky musk of the ancient world. River tides teased the gaping valleys to frothing fertility. The elder nights throbbed with temple music. Priests and priestesses practiced their love arts for coin — communion of the cunt and the cock. There was no difference between god and demon or sex and worship. In that space between, the Daeva curse gestated. They reveled in that time and place where deities cared enough to do horrible things to you directly. But the world turned. The capital “G” God changed the paradigm. When they could no longer be gods, the Daeva became succubi and incubi. The world turned again. Tonight, when it is no longer practical to be a demon, the Daeva become zeitgeists. They are the walking dead personifications of the future bias. “I’ll resist tomorrow.”
See the prom queen. A teenage White Lady. She floats from prom to prom, a resplendent urban myth in the adolescent court. At the end of the night, she chooses one lucky king or coqueen. She could be an allegory of the dangers and anxieties of budding teenage sexuality…if she bothered with such abstracts. Her dress is soaked in Scotchgard.
See the Byronic poet. He perches at the edges of open mic nights and writer workshops. He’s a whirl of burnt coffee smells, half-smirks, and raggedy charm. He always knows the right thing to say, the right critique or input that melts all your creative blocks. When he says you have potential, all the doubting voices die. You’re an artist! But insecurity creeps back in whenever he’s away. You dread disappointing him.
See the social media specter. It swims in the nutrient rich waters of personal ads and dating sites. It can detect a drop of despair across vast distances, from screen to screen. It wears usernames like masks. Having grown bored of bombarding the living with supernatural influence, it now plucks those strings with words from afar. It always types what they need. It gives good text. Meet-ups inevitably occur, and who is there to notice if another Internet profile goes dormant?
See the pantheon. How did you get into the VIP room? Everything’s surreal. Dizzy. Nostalgia tickles like a phantom limb. All these vaguely familiar faces. Not people. Archetypes. Visages from magazine ads, pinups, and billboards going back a century. When did the music stop? The Marlboro Man, the American Dreamgirl, Rosie the Riveter, and all the rest stare at you, motionless and eternal.
Let the other clans skulk and lope. The Daeva strut through their damnation. They’ve danced down the centuries as both Madonna and Babylon whore. The thing we want is the thing we shun. They are the perfect predators. They are paragons. If only it didn’t get harder and harder to enjoy. Stimulus fills the hole, but also erodes it wider. Yet the Serpents will never stop striving. They know that if you’re not the one doing, then you’re the one being done. The Daeva are never done.
Why you want to be us
You move wicked quick. You look great doing it. You get to go to all the best parties, whether that means being a charismatic cult leader, a rock star, or motherfucking Bruce Wayne. You have the power of everyone who ever turned you down in life. You roll human frailties and smoke them like cloves. You don’t even have to take, because everyone’s giving. But you can still take if you want to. Just knowing you can pull someone apart with your bare hands is all the rush one needs. Usually.
Why you should fear us
The Serpents offer the thing you want, but their real evil is that they actually give it to you. Had a rough breakup, need to cry on somebody’s shoulder? A Daeva will offer you hers. Desperately want to nail that guy with the long hair? He’ll sleep with you, don’t worry. All she wants in exchange is her teeth on your neck. The Daeva control one of the keystones of human misery: wanting, and the hollow curse of getting what we once wanted.
Why we should fear ourselves
Like people who hunt sex to the deliberate exclusion of love, the Daeva are ultimately broken by their singlemindedness. They pursue things that make them feel alive (blood, sex, food they have to puke up later) at the expense of the things that give living people meaning and stable happiness. Gods should not envy the worshippers.
Nickname: Serpents
Clan Bane: The Wanton Curse
You taste the romance in all things, but none so much as blood. Mortals are not just food. They are your obsession, and that fixation grows with every sip. Drink more than once, from any mortal, and you risk becoming emotionally dependent on your prey.
Favored Attributes: Dexterity or Manipulation
Disciplines: Celerity, Majesty, Vigor
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