The Mind of the Vampire from DRAGON(R) issue #162 Role-playing powerful--and "twisted" --undead by Nigel D. Findley (C)1990 TSR, Inc. All Rights Reserved. The lightless crypt is silent, as only a grave can be. No movement stirs the dust on the floor, no stray currents of air disturb the delicate drapery of cobwebs that embellishes the ceilings and walls. Even the tiny but venomous spiders that dwell in the webs are motionless. The crypt is waiting, endlessly waiting. Then in the blackness something moves: a figure lying on a bier of black stone. Eyelids spring open to expose a sullen, red glow burning in the sockets. The figure sits up and pulls its moldering garments closer about its gaunt frame. It knows that intruders are in the chapel above. Its arcane senses can detect them; it can smell their blood. The figure's thin, pale lips draw back from its fangs. The waiting is over. Now it is time to feed. This is the way vampires (and undead in general) are usually played in AD&D(R) games: as lurking creatures of the darkness whose one goal in (un)life is to kill heroes. When they're not draining blood or life levels, the undead are usually hanging around in dusty crypts, doing nothing except waiting for a hapless intruder to wander by so they can drain blood or life levels. It's a rather empty existence, and it makes you wonder if vampires and their undead kin haven't been shortchanged. The undead aren't the only ones who've been shortchanged, of course. DMs who play powerful but one-dimensional undead are cheating themselves and their players of some great role-playing. Remember, high-powered undead are free-willed and are often as intelligent, if not more so, than many of the PCs who hunt them. Liches and vampires have supra-genius and exceptional intelligences, respectively, and even spectres have high intelligence. Here we have creatures who were once humans or demihumans, but have undergone a change and now must come to terms with new powers, new limitations, and immortality. What must their world-views be like? What goals and aspirations do they have? What motivates a vampire? This article points out some of the options that DMs have when handling ghosts, liches, and vampires. Many of these options are based on representations of undead in fiction and cinema; others are logical outgrowths of the creatures' characteristics as described in the [Monstrous Compendium]. Scattered throughout this text are concrete examples of atypical undead. DMs should feel free to mix and match options or replace them with ideas of their own. According to the [Monstrous Compendium], ghosts are the souls of creatures who were either so evil or so emotional during life that, upon death, they were cursed with undead status. Their central motivations are usually revenge (a desire to "get even" with people who wronged them during life) or the discharge of obligations or obsessions that drove them while alive. These obsessions might have been what drove these beings to their deaths. Revenge is an easy motivation to role-play, but only when the DM knows exactly what happened to generate such hatred in the ghost. Obvious examples involve a person who was murdered by another or was put into a situation in which death was inevitable. Thus a ghost might be motivated by a desire to kill its murderer or the superior officer who sent it on a suicide mission. Other situations are a little more tricky. It's been said that love and hatred are closely allied emotions, very similar in their depth and power. This offers a convenient "character tag" for ghosts in the AD&D world. For example, take the case of a person hopelessly in love with another (in literature, this is often a young girl who's fallen for a heartless cad). When the girl realizes that her love is unrequited, she falls into despair and kills herself. Her passion is so strong, even in death, that her soul remains bound to the Prime Material and Ethereal planes as a ghost. The ghost might respond to this situation in one of two distinct ways; however, each is based on the desire to kill the love interest. : In the first scenario, the ghost doesn't hate the love interest at all. If only she can be reunited with her beloved (so she believes), she can persuade him to love her. Unfortunately, since the ghost is dead and her beloved isn't, the only way this reunion can come about is if her love interest dies as well. Think it through: The poor, despairing girl finds existence without her beloved intolerable. She responds by killing herself, terminating her existence and her despair. But then she finds that death doesn't bring oblivion after all; consciousness and despair remain. This realization might be enough to unhinge even the most stable of psyches--and a mind that would choose suicide as an escape from pain probably isn't particularly stable. Thus the trauma of death, and the realization that the end of life isn't the end of pain, could easily unhinge the ghost's reason. In this case, the ghost could be role-played as a tragic, pathetic figure, adding a new twist to the phrase "undying love." Her undead status is such that anyone who sees her is subject to [fear], and anyone she touches is aged by 10-40 years, but she has no desire to inflict these horrific effects on anyone. She won't actively attack anyone other than her beloved, either physically or through her [magic jar] power, unless attacked first. She would probably try to communicate with anyone who came near, asking pathetically for information on her beloved and asking that the intruders take a message to him, begging him to dwell with her forever. If she encounters her beloved, she'll probably beg him to come with her, an invitation he would certainly refuse. Her response would depend on his reactions. If he insulted the girl or demeaned her "love" for him, she could easily fly into a rage and attack him or anyone nearby. If he didn't, she might concentrate her attentions on trying to kill him alone. An attack on the lover brings about an interesting role-playing opportunity: How would the ghost respond when she saw the aging effect her touch had on her beloved? A sensitive ghost might be horrified at seeing her beloved aging before her eyes, and might stop the attack. She might simply withdraw to the Ethereal plane and spend the rest of eternity wallowing in her own despair. A more selfish personality wouldn't care what ravages her attentions were having on her beloved and continue to attack him until he died. : William Congreve said it best: "Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorned." What's true for a woman is true for a man. The ghost's suicide might not be an attempt to escape from pain, but rather an act of anger, a spiteful "grand gesture." In this case, anger, quickly turning to hatred, will be the ghost's primary motivation. His hatred might easily extend to everyone (after all, they're alive and he's not), driving him to attack anyone who comes near. The ghost would, of course, show the greatest ferocity in attacking his one-time beloved, but others might attract more than their fair share of his wrath. Any other man who shows even the slightest attraction toward his beloved would be hated above all, as might others who have found the love that the ghost was denied. Thus, obvious lovers or man-and-wife couples would be among the ghost's preferred targets. In this scenario, the ghost wouldn't be a pathetic Ophelia-like character, but a ravening killer. In either scenario, the ghost's goal would be achieved with the death of the love object. What follows depends on the alignments involved and on the DM's preferences as a storyteller. Ghost and beloved might end up on the same Outer Plane, where either true love might blossom or their enmity might continue. Alternatively, their spirits might go to totally different planes where they'd be separated for eternity. In both cases, once the ghost's goal is achieved, the spirit would fade away and never return. : A ghost's obsession might run in a direction totally different from the pursuit of love (or revenge springing from unrequited love). As with haunts ([Monster Manual II], page 74), people who died leaving a vital task unfinished might remain bound to the world by their own indomitable will or sense of duty. Since a ghost is noncorporeal, the creature might be unable to discharge its obligation and might need the help of the living to complete the task. Such a ghost would probably try to communicate with living characters, trying to persuade or threaten them (depending on the creature's alignment when alive) into discharging the duty. The use of [magic jar] here is almost guaranteed in order to gain a physical body as a last resort. Imagine the frustration of such a ghost. Most attempts to communicate would cause the potential helpers to flee in fear or to instantly attack. Since the ghost is duty-bound to complete its task, it would be forced to fight back, no matter how much it regrets the necessity. Possible focuses for such an obsession might be a binding oath or other duty. Such a ghost could be role-played as a strong, almost noble (but obsessive) personality, like the spirit of Hamlet's father. Such a ghost can be found in Tanith Lee's novel, [Kill the Dead] (required reading for any DM who wants to add new depths to undead). The ghost would fade away forever as soon as its task was complete. : A ghost might be bound to the world not by its own will, but by the existence of a particular object. In literature, this "spiritual anchor" is sometimes an item that was of great emotional importance to the ghost while alive, but more often it is a piece of the ghost's mortal body. In either case, the ghost's psyche is somehow linked with this anchor. Destroying the anchor permanently destroys the ghost. While the anchor still exists, however, the ghost--even if apparently destroyed--will return and manifest itself again weeks or months later. A ghost is usually but not always aware of the importance of this anchor, though it often protects it to the best of its abilities. "Anchored" ghosts have no great goal, whether revenge or the completion of a task, toward which they strive. Instead, they're simply here. Just as mortals fear death, either because it's the great unknown or because they hate the idea of nonexistence, anchored ghosts fear their own destruction. Although they know they're not really alive, they sometimes cling to the fiction that they live and that the memories of their death are actually nightmares. Such ghosts go through the motions of mortal life, trying to convince themselves that they never really died. They often frequent areas where people rarely come, since the reactions of intruders force them to recognize their undead status. Anchored ghosts will often attack intruders on sight as a way to remove these unpleasant reminders of their true nature. Sometimes, other mortals will play along with this self-deception. A living person who was very close to the ghost while alive, particularly a parent or twin sibling, might be immune to the ghost's [fear] effect and might delude himself that the ghost never actually died (see the film comedy [High Spirits] for examples). Thus, adventurers might meet twin sisters, living far from any town, where one sister is actually undead. Or they might find a widowed mother caring for and protecting her ghostly son. (Such mortals will try to drive away or kill anyone who tries to take their ethereal companion away from them, or even anyone who poses a threat to their fragile self-deception.) Again, such ghosts might be more pathetic than horrific. : The AD&D game's [Monstrous Compendium] classes ghosts as lawful evil in alignment, but this reflects our prejudices more than it does the nature of ghosts themselves. The lawful component is appropriate for ghosts bound to this plane by an undischarged obligation, but ghosts with other motivations could easily have other alignments. The evil component is more obviously a human perception. The merest touch from a ghost can kill an older individual. It's easy to see how this can be interpreted as an active antipathy to life. The ghost itself might have a totally different view of its own alignment; take, for example, the case of the jilted lover or the soldier whose duty was interrupted. In many cases, however, the definition of evil as given in the AD&D 2nd Edition [Player's Handbook] will apply: lack of recognition that what the creature does is destructive or disruptive, and the belief that people and things obstructing the creature's plans are mere hindrances that must be overcome. Many of these considerations could also be applied to the other noncorporeal undead, such as spectres or wraiths. Liches are arguably the most powerful and most intelligent of all undead. All liches are mages or priests of great skill and power, and all are highly formidable opponents. But must all liches be opponents? From the description in the [Monstrous Compendium], it seems so. But a creative DM can ring in some interesting variations on the lich's personality. : Horror literature contains many tales of people who were too involved in their pursuits, often magical research, to even notice their own deaths. Their concentration is intense enough to bind their spirits to their bodies, and to the Prime Material plane. Characters like this present fascinating possibilities for role-playing, and liches represent the best such candidates. The [Monstrous Compendium] explains the process by which prospective liches achieve their undead status, and certainly this is the way most liches come into existence. The world is wide, however, wide enough to contain atypical liches as well. These atypical creatures are unaware of their true state or, like some ghosts, are unwilling to admit it. Perhaps at the time of their physical death, their concentration and willpower was intense enough to bind them to the material world, or perhaps the transition was the whim of a deity. In any case, NPCs like this might guess that "something has changed" only when they realize that they haven't eaten or slept for months or years, or when their familiars start hiding from them. Initially, these "accidental liches" would have no reason to change their alignment or world-view. Thus PCs might encounter a kindly, reclusive mage still completely immersed in her research--but one whose body has taken on a withered, decayed appearance. Perhaps the researcher isn't so kindly; her reaction to the interruption of her work might be a blinding rage that she is now uniquely able to vent on anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. These accidental liches may be of any alignment and may vary in personality almost as much as living NPCs. DMs should remember, however, that only reclusive and obsessive personalities would ever get into this situation in the first place. (For an example, see the lich Azimer in the adventure "Lashan's Fall" from the DM's Sourcebook of the Realms, in the [FORGOTTEN REALMS(TM]) boxed set.) : Eternity is a long time, and even the most single-minded researcher would eventually realize his true nature. The lich's reaction would vary from individual to individual. Some would be horrified and might go so far as to end their own existence. If they cannot face self-destruction so directly, perhaps they could enlist the help--voluntary or otherwise--of a band of doughty adventurers. One means to gain such unknowing "helpers" might be to spread rumors that a wealthy lich abides in a certain place (the lich's actual home), then wait for the "lichbusters" to come and finish the lich itself off. Other liches might send [charmed] intermediaries to actually hire adventurers capable of destroying them. Other NPCs would see lichdom as a boon rather than a curse, focusing on their immortality and the whole of eternity in which to continue their work. Liches like these would be protective of this "gift" that fate has given them. Whatever their alignment, they would probably use their considerable powers to ward their homes and would fight furiously to ensure their continued existence. Whatever their outlook, liches will find that eternity is a long time. Liches who don't destroy themselves or have themselves destroyed would eventually change their outlook. As they forget the day-to-day details of their mortal lives, they'd lose their sense of kinship with the living. More and more, the concerns of mortals would seem petty things, and the liches wouldn't concern themselves with mortal affairs. Such liches would eventually consider the death of a mortal as nothing important. What does a human lose when he's killed before his time, after all? Thirty or forty years, perhaps as many as fifty. How can that seem important to a creature who's existed for a thousand years and might continue for eternity? For this reason, most accidental liches will eventually swing further and further toward evil. The key word in the previous sentence is "most." Some few liches might see the boon of immortality and their continually expanding power in a different light. They might decide that with privilege comes responsibility. From their reclusive retreat, they might use their great powers to further the cause of good or perhaps neutrality. Their actions would almost certainly be indirect, but even the indirect actions of a creature as powerful as a lich would be significant. Another consequence of accidental lichdom is that these creatures won't create a phylactery in which to store their life-force--at least, not until they've realized (or admitted) their true nature. Even then, certain liches won't bother. : The majority of liches have chosen and actively sought their current state. These are the individuals that use the process described in the [Monstrous Compendium ]to achieve lichdom. Why would a powerful mage or priest seek this rather horrific form of immortality? (Remember, the outcome isn't guaranteed, and the price of failure is instant death.) The motivation to take this gamble will certainly vary. As an aging mage feels the chill winds of approaching death, he might decide to risk the chance of instant death, and the avoidance of perhaps a decade of diminishing facilities, senility, and pain, against the chance of gaining an eternity in which to continue his work. There are interesting nuances here. Does the prospective lich fear the waning of his abilities and eventual death? Or is what he fears the fact that his work might remain unfinished? Both motivations reflect different world views and different personalities for the lich. Dedicated researchers who choose to gamble death against the freedom to continue their work will probably share many characteristics with the accidental liches discussed earlier. Those who fear personal death will probably tend more toward evil in alignment; at least, the alignment shift will probably take place earlier. The most common motivation for choosing lichdom is probably power. Again, however, there are various nuances that can be interesting to explore. What kind of power is the prospective lich seeking, and why is he willing to risk instant annihilation for that goal? One candidate for voluntary lichdom is the despot of a country or region, a "magocrat" or autocrat who rules mainly by virtue of his magical prowess. The decision might be made when the despot starts to feel the ravages of age and realizes that his position as "President For Life" might be coming to an end. For an individual like this, there might not be too much of a choice. Age brings with it diminishing capacities, that in turn brings with it the possibility, developing into a certainty, that someone will eventually stage a coup. The despot might quickly decide that the possibility of becoming "President For Eternity" is worth any risk. If the process is successful, the lich-king can continue his rule, his authority backed up by his new power. Despots rarely show concern for the life and well-being of their subjects to begin with. How much worse this would be when the ruler is undead. A lich-king would be pragmatic in all its decisions, quite willing to "spend" an entire army if that's what it takes to achieve his goals. (After all, the dead could conceivably be animated and would thus be less likely to question orders than they ever were in life.) There are other kinds of power than rulership, of course, such as the power to change the course of history. Powerful spell-casters might take the lichdom gamble in order to acquire power that they'd never have while alive. (For example, a magic-using ruler has been deposed by overwhelming outside forces. Although the desire for vengeance still burns in her heart, she recognizes that she's not powerful enough to ever turn the tables--at least, not while she's still alive. The mage might decide that risking death to gain the power to finally wreak her vengeance is a good gamble. After she's completed her revenge, the mage might try to take back the reigns of government or might be completely satisfied and go about other concerns.) There's another kind of lich that actively sought its undead status but for very different reasons. This is the good-aligned archlich, from MC7 [Monstrous Compendium], SPELLJAMMER(TM) Appendix]. Archliches are caring individuals who've deliberately become undead so they can better serve a cause or protect a beloved being or place. While the archlich is classed as a unique type of monster, there's no reason why some good-aligned characters might not engineer their transformation into "normal" liches. : Liches are almost exclusively played as reclusive monsters or as the rulers of evil empires. There's another possibility, of course: partial assimilation into society. Because of their incredible "life" spans, liches have the opportunity to develop unique spells. Some liches might develop dweomers that disguise their true nature: spells that mask the power to detect or affect undead, for example, or that temporarily counteract the liches' [fear] aura. Using these spells, coupled with disguise spells like [change self], liches could conceivably dwell in the close company of mortals. Why would they choose to do this, though? Perhaps some liches are simply lonely; they don't feel the distancing effect from mortals that immortality usually brings with it, and they ache for the company of others. These liches might be helpful, if sometimes irascible, purveyors of magical wisdom. Or maybe a lich's intricate plans require the unwitting aid of many people. (Remember, with the whole of eternity to play with, liches can afford to be eminently patient. Their plans might take centuries to complete, and their day-to-day actions, when viewed without the long view of immortality, might not make much sense.) Liches who dabble in society are taking serious risks. While the population of an entire town might be unable to physically harm a lich, it can certainly slow or destroy any plans that the creature might be brewing. Only the most confident or heart-sick lich would take the chance. : When dealing with liches, the old Latin aphorism [vita brevis, ars longa] could have a second translation: "Life is short, but the Art is longlasting." Although the concept is already discussed in the [Monstrous Compendium], it's worth stressing again that a lich has literally unlimited time in which to research and develop new or "customized" versions of familiar dweomers. The nature of these idiosyncratic abilities depend on the lich's personality. A power-driven lich, for example, would obviously concentrate on spells that increased its influence on those creatures around it. This kind of lich might wield enhanced versions of [mass charm] or [domination], and combat spells of hideous lethality. A lich whose dominant emotion is scientific curiosity might have developed extended versions of scrying or divination spells such as [speak with dead] or [contact other plane]. Finally, a lich fascinated with the aesthetics and nuances of magic, rather than its eventual outcome, might have eccentric versions of familiar spells: [magic missiles] that look like multicolored sparks, or [fireballs] that explode accompanied by a musical tone, for example. Like any other high-powered spell-casters, liches can be great sources of new magical powers. A PC mage who acquired a lich's spellbook is in a marvelous position. Of course, getting the spellbook is no easy task. Even a lich of the most benign personality will defend its spellbook with wards and traps, some of which might never have been seen before. A "living" lich can also be a source for new spells, if the PCs are lucky enough to locate one with the right alignment, outlook, and personality. No matter how friendly the lich may be, the principles common to mortal spell-casters will hold true. Liches won't freely reveal the details of spells that they know, particularly any "customized" dweomers they've developed. Everything will be [quid pro quo]; the lich might exchange a spell for another spell of equal level (and good luck finding a spell that the lich doesn't already know!) plus an interesting magical item. Acquiring something that a lich might accept as barter could develop into a series of adventures. Although not as powerful as liches, vampires can be even more interesting NPCs than their magically inclined kin. The recent overwhelming popularity of vampire-related books and movies show how compelling these creatures are. DMs who prefer the dark and labyrinthine trappings of psychological horror to simple-minded slash-'em-up combat could find few monsters better suited to that playing style than vampires. (DMs will also find the new AD&D RAVENLOFT(TM) supplement fits this style perfectly.) <"The Dark Trick">: In her cycle of vampire novels, Anne Rice uses the phrase "the Dark Trick" to describe the transition from life to vampirism. The circumstances of the Dark Trick, when and how it happens, as well as the nature of the victim can have a great effect on the personality of a vampire. Take a young, naive man, raised in a sheltered household, who fell prey to a vampire that was stalking the region. The man knew nothing about the vampire until it attacked and killed him. Compare this case with a determined vampire-hunter who was cut down by her quarry in the heat of battle. When the new vampires arise from their graves, their views of the world will be totally different. The naive man might at first be totally unaware of his true nature. He might come to the (seemingly reasonable) conclusion that he actually never died but merely was badly wounded and then buried prematurely by his overzealous family. At first, he wouldn't understand why people run when he tries to explain to them their mistake, or he might decide that the townsfolk have wrongly assumed that he's "risen from the dead" (how ludicrous!). Evidence of his true nature would quickly build up, however: the fact that he doesn't cast a shadow or appear in a mirror, the fact that he feels an uncontrollable urge to return to his coffin when sunrise is imminent, and the steadily growing urge to feed. When he finally realizes his fate, the shock might drive him mad, turning him into the ravening monster that is the stereotypical vampire. Alternatively, he might hang onto his sanity but believe that since fate has decreed that he become a monster, he has no option but to act the way he thinks such a monster should act. A third possibility--and maybe the most interesting of the three--is that the poor wretch is unable to fully renounce the life he once had. A pathetic figure, the vampire "haunts" his old home, watching from the darkness and trying to pretend that he's still part of mortal life, if only as a spectator. Such a vampire would feed rarely and would never deliberately kill, stopping before he'd drained all his victim's life levels. Using his [charm] abilities, the vampire could easily make sure that his victims don't remember what happened to them, thus sparing them the emotional trauma they'd otherwise suffer (and, incidentally, protecting the vampire from detection). Pathetic or not, such a creature would be likely to viciously attack any vampire-hunters who came after him. After all, the adventurers are trying to take away even the semblance of his old life. The intrepid vampire-hunter who rises as an undead would certainly have a different view of the world. Since she's very familiar with her one-time quarry, she'd immediately realize what happened. Her reaction would probably depend on her motivation for becoming a vampire-hunter in the first place. If she took up the career as a moral duty, to rid the world of vicious monsters, then the shock to her sanity would be profound: suddenly she's become exactly what she'd once dedicated herself to fight. She might easily go mad. Alternatively, the new vampire might make best efforts to destroy herself immediately. Since only the strongest-willed of vampires could overcome their "instinctive" revulsion to sunlight or running water, the creature might take the easier way out and enlist the (voluntary or involuntary) aid of adventurers, as was previously mentioned for liches. Or the vampire might continue to dedicate herself to her former life's work. She might use her powers as an undead to help her track down and destroy others of her kind. (See Tanith Lee's [Kill the Dead] for a portrait of such an undead ghost-hunter.) But what if the one-time adventurer originally got into the vampire-bashing business for other reasons: the money, for example, or the adventure? The undead character might decide that being a vampire isn't that bad after all, since she's got a much better chance now of reaching her goals than she did when she was alive. As with ghosts, the fact that vampires are described as chaotic evil says more about human perceptions than it does about the creature's true personality. "Chaotic" simply means that these creatures put their personal interests over those of the masses--understandable, considering that they're immortal. And since "evil" is defined as "holding life in low regard," a creature who must drain life force to survive could be classed as evil, despite its other behavior. : In most role-playing games, the main motivation for creatures such as vampires is to simply kill the living. Why is this the be-all and end-all of a vampire's existence? Vampires are exceptionally intelligent, which means they're capable of abstract thought. They're also immortal. When you've got the whole of eternity spread out before you, the simple pursuits of draining innocent maidens and trashing adventuring parties would eventually grow stale. Immortality must be a pretty bleak picture if all you've got to look forward to is your next kill. Assume that a character can make the transition to vampirism without being driven insane by moralistic shock and without otherwise becoming the stereotypical "exists to kill" vampire. What, then, would be the character's motivation? It can be almost anything. Vampires have powers far beyond the capabilities of most mortals: exceptional strength, the ability to [charm] with a glance, superhuman combat abilities, the power to change to gaseous form or [polymorph] into a giant bat, etc. To the right kind of personality, these powers would be boons beyond price. The person would relish his new-found powers, constantly pushing their limits and "living" an existence of otherwise unattainable fun. ("Can I spy on Lady Maretha's mansion? Sure. Can I move the ceremonial cannon from the town square into the mayor's office? Why not?") Feeding is still a necessity, but he would probably do it in the most humane way possible, never killing his victim and only rarely leaving any evidence behind. Fun-loving DMs could easily develop a vampire who'd fit well into the movie [Animal House]. On a more serious note, a thief turned into a vampire would find her supernatural abilities tailor-made for her career. Who needs grappling hooks when you can [spider climb], or needs lockpicks when you can assume gaseous form? A thief-vampire might cut a swath through the rich inhabitants of a city, cleaning out their valuables in daring raids that leave the constabulary scratching their heads. The vampire's den would be full of opulent furniture and fittings. (If the character couldn't enjoy luxury while alive, why not take advantage of the opportunity afterward?) A compelling figure from many historical novels is the gentleman adventurer, the person who's as much at home in polite society as he is outside it (often [way] outside it). A vampire would make a perfect gentleman adventurer. A somewhat aloof manner and a very daunting reputation would keep others distant enough that they'd never learn the vampire's true nature, while the character's habit of dropping out of sight to go on adventures would be a perfect cover for the vampire's "hunting trips." (Presumably, such a vampire would fast while within civilization, and then gorge himself once away from polite company.) Some of the vampire's acquaintances within the social milieu might possibly suspect or know the creature's true nature, but not take any action because the vampire is such a "jolly good chap." The gentleman adventurer vampire is quite a different creature from the typical monster described in the [Monstrous Compendium]. That rampaging killer "lives in areas of death and desolation where they will not be reminded of the lives they have left behind." The social vampire has come to the conclusion that he doesn't have to forego all the pleasures of his life after all. Social vampires soon learn ways to disguise their true nature. They'll avoid mirrors and brightly lit areas (where their lack of shadows might be noticed), and they'll devise plausible justifications for their "allergy" to garlic and their "moral offense" when they see openly displayed holy symbols. As with liches, magically capable vampires have eternity in which to develop new spells. Thus a social vampire might be warded with dweomers that block powers that detect undead, and perhaps even calm the fears of dogs and other creatures. Social vampires are well documented in literature. One of Anne Rice's vampire characters was a participant in Parisian aristocracy's social whirl, while another pursued a career as a rock star. Even the archetypal vampire, Count Dracula, proved himself a charming and debonair host when it suited his purposes. While multidimensional characters like these might exist in any given campaign world, the majority of vampires will be the superficial killers described in the [Monstrous Compendium]. DMs should use just enough "complex" vampires to make the PCs wonder what they're going to meet up with next. : Why do vampires "work the Dark Trick" and create other vampires? The accepted theory, as stated in the [Monstrous Compendium], is that vampires use chattel creatures as slaves and, if necessary, cannon fodder. There are other, more interesting possibilities, however. How about a vampire who used to be a very social personality while alive and is now suffering from his enforced withdrawal from society? (In short, he's devastatingly lonely.) The idea of creating another vampire--a creature like him, someone he can share his thoughts and fears with--might become too attractive to resist. Unfortunately, since "secondary" vampires aren't truly free-willed, the lonely vampire wouldn't find the companionship he was seeking. In fact, he might start to see the secondary vampire as a horrible parody of the friend he sought: nothing more than a mirror or echo chamber, feeding back to him his own beliefs and thoughts. Another possible reason for creating a vampire is to "save" a loved one from death. Imagine the feelings of a sensitive vampire knowing that a relative or close friend is dying. The vampire is immortal and knows that he has the power to make the dying person immortal as well. The temptation to work the Dark Trick might become almost irresistible. Of course, once the deed was done, the master vampire would find the same horrible situation: the loved one, remembered as an independent personality, would have lost all free will and become a mindless slave of the master vampire. (Both these motivations for creating new vampires are worked through in Ann Rice's vampire cycle.) The descriptions above assume that secondary vampires aren't free-willed entities. This is implied in the [Monstrous Compendium] entry, in the corrected version published in DRAGON(R) issue #150, but isn't stated explicitly. The entry merely says that "the new undead is under the complete control of its killer." The question remains: What form does this control take? Is the new vampire merely a mindless puppet? Is it controlled by some variation of the master's [charm ]spell? Or does the new vampire follow the master's commands simply because it believes, rightly or wrongly, that the master is more powerful than itself? The latter two theories are the more interesting from a role-playing perspective, since they imply that the secondary vampire might somehow be able to escape the control of its creator. The possibilities are interesting. For example, a "social" vampire has created a secondary vampire. This secondary vampire is slowly resisting the control of the master and reverting to its true personality: a ravening, heartless monster--the complete opposite, philosophically speaking, of the primary creature. (Again, Ann Rice explores this concept in her novels.) Alternatively, cunning PCs might be able to turn a secondary vampire against its evil master. : Can a vampire be good? Not according to the [Monstrous Compendium], which states that a vampire is "a thing of darkness that exists only to bring about evil and chaos." But if we assume that these are "typical" vampires, and that atypical individuals exist, then the answer might well be "yes." Theoretically, a vampire isn't restricted to feeding on the life force of sentient creatures; it could feed on unintelligent creatures as well. Thus a vampire could "live" without ever having to kill a human or demihuman. Imagine the case of a good-aligned human who fell prey to a vampire. While the first vampire existed, the new undead was under its sway, forced to commit horrifying and sickening acts. When the master vampire was destroyed, however, the secondary vampire became free-willed. How would it react? The [Monstrous Compendium] states that "In most cases, vampires do not lose the abilities and knowledge which they had in life when they become undead." Thus the secondary vampire might still remember his one-time moral and ethical stance. Now that he's able to act freely, he might decide to use his powers to set right, at least partially, the damage that he and his master did. This creature could become a secret benefactor to a community: performing good deeds late at night (e.g., using his great strength to repair walls) and defending the village from marauding monsters. The townsfolk may never suspect the true nature of their benefactor. Those few who might have some suspicions would be careful to keep them silent, in case someone tries to destroy their benefactor. Since vampires--particularly magic-capable individuals--can often successfully "pass" for human, the vampire might even be known to some of the townsfolk, perhaps as "that strange hermit who lives in the cave." Eternity is a long time, however, and vampires' attitudes would probably shift. Eventually, they'd lose their kinship with the living and consider the fates of mortals as petty things, unworthy of their attention. Thus, vampires too would eventually swing more toward a passively evil alignment. It's not necessary that every powerful undead in your campaign world have complex motivations. Sometimes motivation should take a back seat to convenience. Take Bram Stoker's [Dracula], for example. What was Count Dracula's motivation? Nothing consistent, that's for sure. The sole purpose of his actions seemed to be to drive a good story. (Take, for example, when he crawled like a lizard down the outside of his castle, apparently just for the fun of it, since he could turn into a wolf, a bat, or a cloud of fog at will.) If the story you're telling as DM requires a straightforward, kill-crazy ghost or vampire, use one. What I've provided here are just suggestions, ways to throw a little further complexity at your players. Many DMs won't feel the urge to use any of these suggestions. After all, undead are conveniently simple villains. Players and their PCs don't have to feel any moral qualms about destroying creatures that are played as thoroughly, unquestionably, and unrepentently evil. Lots of DMs and players like to have at least some monsters where the instant response to sighting them is--and should be--"Kill it!" It's good to have something with which you can get into a knock-down, drag-out fight, and yet not feel guilty afterward. For these reasons, many players and DMs will always enjoy beating on undead guys. For those DMs and players who enjoy a little more complexity--both moral and tactical--in their role-playing, atypical undead can be interesting and exciting. They add a few more decisions to the player characters' already confusing lives. When PCs meet a ghost, should they attack it or commiserate with it? When they encounter a lich, should they destroy it or exchange magical trivia? It's your choice. Happy role-playing!> END FILE