Tales of Imagination and Mystery: Storytelling

There is a natural assumption that a game of Vampire is, by default, a Camarilla game. The book is called Vampire: The Masquerade, after all, and who else practices the Masquerade but the Camarilla? The connection seems logical enough, but it's still not necessarily correct. There are matters of tone, style, mood, theme and definition that make a chronicle uniquely Camarilla. After all, if the Camarilla were all there was to Vampire, we wouldn't have to worry about that pesky Sabbat now, would we?

At the Heart of Things

There are several core elements to Storytelling: mood, theme, plot and conflict. To Storytell a chronicle based around the Camarilla requires integrating those elements with the demands of using a sect that hides behind a Masquerade while pulling the strings of the mortal world. There are things that make the Camarilla unique - the Masquerade, the Traditions, the Inner Circle, the justicars and so on - and all of these can be used to make your chronicle unique as well. The trick is to use those tools that are essentially Camarilla to make your game essentially Camarilla as well.

Captain Vampire to the Rescue!

As has been stated earlier in this book, the vampires of the Camarilla are most emphatically not nice. They have a vested interest in avoiding wholesale slaughter of humans, but that's about it - it's a long way from that position to casting the Kindred as noble, unliving protectors of humanity. Vampires, even those vampires who follow the Path of Humanity, are not superheroes; they don't stalk the night looking for bad guys to beat up and leave them, a pint low, for the local gendarmes to find. While individual vampires may work to protect individual humans, the Camarilla as a whole does not work to protect humanity as a whole. Altruism is an expensive weakness among the Kindred, and any vampire who puts others' good ahead of his own is exposing himself dangerously to his enemies.

There's much more to Storytelling a game of Vampire than simply setting up the next turn's worth of bloody combat. While situations wherein characters are forced to use their assorted skills (represented in the game system by rolling dice) do come up, they shouldn't be the whole game. Every time 10-sided plastic polyhedrons hit the table, the illusion of the story is shattered, and you as a Storyteller must reconstruct your players' suspension of disbelief all over again. One of Vampire's strengths is its capacity to support chronicles of intrigue and emotion, and Camarilla-based stories lend themselves to that sort of thing especially well. The traditions, customs and built-in conflicts of the Camarilla give you a wide palette of Storytelling tools, and by restricting yourself to using just one, you're shortchanging both your players and yourself.

Furthermore, you should recognize that the most important aspect of Storytelling a Camarilla chronicle is not devotion to the rules and rolls, but rather making your game enjoyable. If the coterie comes up with a brilliant plan to save themselves in the face of overwhelming opposition, but the dice roll falls just short, it might make sense to allow the characters to succeed in any case. If the characters are ambushed and you roll so well that the entire coterie would be dropped without getting off a single shot in response, it might behoove you to fudge the rolls in favor of your players so as to make for a better game. If necessary, you can always work this sort of deus ex machina mercy into your plot later - perhaps you can later hint that the ambushing party was under orders not to wipe out the entire coterie, but rather just to put a scare into them - and thus advance your chronicle even further.

Finally, you should think about the very meaning of success and failure in your chronicle. When a player produces a handful of 3s and 4s on a roll with difficulty 6, it's easy to say "OK, you failed. Next!" Instead, try to make those failures mean something. Perhaps the character's shots went wide, shattering windows all along the street and covering the area with broken glass. Maybe the failure was on an attempt to leap from rooftop to rooftop, and by failing the character ended up crashing through the window of a top-floor apartment instead. By ascribing context to failures on rolls of the dice (and successes as well), you make those rolls a part of the story. By leaving them just as failed rolls, you lose an opportunity to draw your players even further into your story.

Mood

The mood of your game can best be described as the single emotion that best sums up your chronicle. While any chronicle worth its salt has more than one mood to it - hot and heavy combat shouldn't evoke the same emotional response as playing politics in Elysium, after all - each story should have an overarching sense to it. Giving your chronicle an emotional unity helps you be consistent as a Storyteller. If you know the sort of emotion you're trying to invoke, you can direct your plots and play your characters in such a way as to emphasize that feeling. On the other hand, if you go into a chronicle with no clear idea of what the underlying mood should be, there's a good chance that this lack of direction will manifest itself in areas of plot, character motivation and more.

While Vampire is a versatile game, the Camarilla by definition lends itself better to certain sorts of moods than others. This is a sect built on tradition and respect, on well-disguised ferocity and obsession and contempt. There is a sense of restraint to the Camarilla (at least in front of others), a willingness to abide (however grudgingly) by the laws laid down theoretically for the protection of all. With the adoption of the Path of Humanity by the sect's vampires, there is a mood of regret or longing - at least among those Kindred young enough to remember what it was to be mortal. And there is bitter hatred for those who would tear down the Masquerade and destroy the sect. All of these senses and feelings should be taken into consideration when you're working up the basic mood of your chronicle.

While you should consider the entire gamut of moods that the Camarilla can inspire for your game, eventually it's best to select a single one to serve as the core emotion of your chronicle. Often this decision goes hand-in-hand with any decisions you make about your plot. Chronicles with a mood of sadness or longing probably shouldn't be combat-intensive; wistful Kindred moping around firefights have a way of becoming casualties in short order. By the same token, a chronicle centered on hatred might be a bit awkward if the central plot is about a vampire's quest to protect his mortal descendants. It's certainly possible, with some effort, to reconcile those two elements, but you shouldn't make a habit of making more work for yourself than you have to.

The primary criterion in selecting the essential mood of your chronicle is whether or not you can sustain that mood throughout the entire storyline. A mood that works terrifically for single scenes might not be strong enough to sustain the whole chronicle. For example, if vengeance is at the heart of your story, you may find yourself hard-pressed to keep the game going if the characters settle their old scores by the third session of play. While setting up instances centered around other moods is an excellent Storytelling technique - a steady diet of regret or hatred or anything else can get tiresome very quickly - you want to avoid confusing the main flavor of your game with the seasoning.

Theme

If mood is the central emotion of your chronicle, then the theme is the central idea. Whereas the mood can be summed up by an emotion, the theme can usually be summed up as an abstract idea - tradition, for example, or antiquity. The events of your plot should support your theme and highlight it, using the mechanisms of the story to get across the central point of your chronicle.

Certain themes lend themselves better to Camarilla chronicles than do others. The very makeup of the sect - older vampires dictating policy to younger ones - fairly screams for themes of rebellion and oppression. The fact of the elders' existence speaks more to themes of age and remembrance; chronicles that contrast the Kindred's past with their present often have such themes. Political games can center on themes of intrigue and betrayal, while horror is another perennial favorite when the characters are up against Kindred more monstrous than they are.

With its heritage of formality and tradition, the sect does offer innumerable tools for reinforcing any theme you choose. The indifference of an elder to a neonate's plot can be used to spur the youngster's incipient revolt, or to demonstrate the elder's age and perspective. The timeless elegance of a meeting at Elysium plays up the sect's tradition to some, while exposing stagnation to others. Use what the Camarilla gives you, and you'll find plenty of material to support your chronicle's themes.

Plot

The plot of your chronicle is nothing less than the story itself, the sequence of events that propels and supports your chronicle. Without a plot, all you have is a disconnected scattering of events with no coherent framework or direction. With a strong plot, however, you have a skeleton on which to drape the other elements - mood, theme, character development - of your chronicle.

While having only one plot going at a time offers the pleasures of simplicity, you might want to explore the notion of having multiple plots running simultaneously. Bear in mind that in a sect like the Camarilla, wherein open warfare is theoretically prohibited, plotting is the only way to get ahead of one's rivals. You, as Storyteller, should take your characters' plots (as determined by their personalities) and make them your chronicles' plots as well.

Consider this notion: The Kindred aren't going to stand around courteously and wait for one another's schemes to come to fruition before initiating their own, after all. Why shouldn't the Nosferatu primogen be working to undermine a particularly snobbish keeper of Elysium at the same time two Ventrue are struggling over control of a new hi-tech corporate campus and a Malkavian neonate is trying to survive in the face of new legislation that closes down mental institutions, dumping his entire herd onto the street? Bear in mind that just because your characters are plotting doesn't mean that their plots will impact your players' coterie all the time, or even any of the time. After all, if your chronicle travels from boardroom to museum to luxury suite, odds are that the plight of the lone Malkavian won't be a matter of much concern. On the other hand, knowing what that Malkavian is up to and making sure to advance his storyline (to yourself, at least) means that if one of the player's characters takes a bite out of that Lunatic's exclusive property, the machinery to make a story out of the incident is already in place.

Running multiple plots also lets you give players options. If your Elysium plot doesn't appeal to half of your troupe, then perhaps starting a second plotline involving a power struggle on the streets might pique their interest. There's also the appeal of differently paced plots, wherein one plotline only pops up every third session or so, while the vampires' night-to-night activity deals with entirely different matters. For example, the coterie might be caught up in a struggle to influence the city's newly burgeoning Russian community, which requires nightly immersion in that world as well as constant challenges from rivals. At the same time, however, those same vampires might be under observation by a local Tremere elder, who decides to test them every so often in his own inimitable fashion. The two plots co-exist and occasionally interact (when, for example, the Tremere aids and abets the coterie's rivals to see how the group handles adversity), but they appear with different frequencies. One serves as a change of pace for the other, and as a reminder that Kindred existence is much more complicated than just getting from point A to point B.

Remember, the Kindred are creatures of machination. Some have spent decades, if not centuries or millennia developing their schemes, working through others who often don't even know they're part of some elder being's plans. These ancient schemers are your creations within the boundaries of your chronicle; every Kindred's personal agenda should double as a potential plotline for you to use.

The scale of your plot is something to consider carefully. On its basic level, the Camarilla functions city by city. As a result, most plotlines should operate within the boundaries of a single city. Whether those plots are as grandiose as attempts to overthrow princes or visits from angry justicars, or as personal as a single vampire's quest to earn permission to Embrace a terminally ill loved one is a matter of taste, but the city is the unit by which most Camarilla plots are measured.

Whether such plots are "big" or "small" generally depends on how many other Kindred are involved, and thus what the consequences of the plot might be. An attempt by the coterie to overthrow the local prince, for example, is effectively a "big" plot, as the prince has enemies, allies and childer (all of whom have their own agendas to be satisfied) that the storyline must bring into the mix. Such chronicles frequently have large casts of Storyteller characters and complex webs of character interaction, and they can be difficult for inexperienced Storytellers to run well. The bigger the plot (and the more earthshaking its potential consequences), the more complex it is likely to be to run.

On the other hand, "small" plots usually only involve a few individuals, and are much less complicated. They can be roleplaying or combat intensive - a vampire's relationship with his mortal family, or the coterie's struggle to establish itself in a small city with only a few resident Kindred - but they are generally less complex and less demanding than "big" plots. Bear in mind, however, that a small plot doesn't have to stay small together. The mortal who spends too much time checking in on his family might draw the ire of his clan elder, who decides to teach him and his friends a lesson, or the small city the coterie settles could become the target of an archon's fact-finding mission. However, small plots serve as an excellent way to practice for bigger ones, in addition to making for good chronicles by themselves.

Camarilla plots are not limited to the city scale, however. In theory, the sect encompasses every vampire in the world, and its members can reach thousands of years of age. Plots involving the sect as a whole, or the schemes of elders and Antediluvians, certainly qualify as "big" plots. Conclaves, hunts for vampires on the dreaded Red List, bold moves in the Jyhad - all of these work through the institution of the Camarilla on a grand scale. If you're going to create a narrative on this scale (and the framework of the game can certainly support doing so), just be prepared to do the legwork necessary with such an ambitious chronicles. A conclave (see page 130.) is much more than just throwing a few thousand vampires into a single room and letting them go; you have to work out the arrangements, agendas and problems that go with the conclave as well. On the other hand, a plot that uses such grandiose devices can, if done well, inspire awe and some spectacular roleplaying. Just make sure you're up to the challenge before trying it.

Using the Camarilla as the starting point for crafting your plot means that certain of your narrative choices are already defined for you. If you're going to run a Camarilla chronicle, there are functions and traditions of the sect - the Masquerade, the Traditions, the city's vampiric hierarchy and so on - that must be taken into account when you're constructing your plot. Rather than being a handicap, these pre-existing constructions can work for you, giving you the building blocks of a solidly constructed narrative.

Staying At Home

Observant Storytellers will no doubt notice that at the rate experience points get handed out, even the slowest-learning characters acquire ludicrous amounts of power in a few short months. Extrapolating that trend across the thousands of years that elders have existed, one comes up with staggering numbers of dots' worth of powers.

Then one looks at the statistics provided for pre-made characters, and doesn't see quite so many dots as all that. The discrepancy can be troubling.

There is, however, a reason for the differential: Vampires don't spend all their time running around doing things that, in game terms, garner them experience. Scouring the streets fighting the Sabbat, meddling with elders and otherwise exposing one's self to mortal danger is not standard vampiric behavior. With immortality a certainty, what vampire is going to risk his eternal existence any more than necessary? Most Kindred spend the vast majority of their time hiding behind ghouls and mortals, tending to their concerns and plots and resolutely avoiding danger. As a result, they don't rack up knowledge of new skills too quickly.

Player characters, needless to say, are the exception to this trend. They're out in the trenches, doing deeds of daring and otherwise picking up new Abilities and Disciplines. Bear in mind when Storytelling that your players' characters are advancing at a much faster rate than their peers in the city, and don't let them get too far ahead of everyone else too fast.

One of the best ways to make your game distinctively Camarilla is to use the traditions and customs of the sect as core elements of your plotting. There's no sense making your game Camarilla if you don't take advantage of some of the story elements that the Camarilla has to offer. Consider the following:

To no one's surprise, pre-planned plots have a lemming-like habit of going astray. Characters don't open the doors they're supposed to or kill key witnesses accidentally; inter-coterie conflict diverts Kindred from vital clues. And so it goes as the players' characters go off on wild goose chases while your beautiful, meticulously constructed plot either falls to pieces or remains basically untouched.

In situations like that, the worst thing you can do as a Storyteller is to attempt to force your players to adhere to your plot. Such efforts are rarely subtle, often noticed and always resented. By telling the characters that they have to do some things and can't do others, you disrupt the natural flow of the story.

Instead, think about where the characters are going with the storyline. See if there's any way you can direct them back toward the pre-planned plot gently. Introducing Storyteller characters who are tied strongly into the abandoned plot works well for this sort of thing.

Otherwise, the best thing you can do is take your pre-planned plot and shelve it temporarily, letting it slide until the characters are ready to give it another go. The vampires of the Camarilla are nothing if not patient. If they can hatch a plot that spans a hundred years, you can wait a few weeks to put it into action.

A Sense of Age

Camarilla plots often have lineages stretching back centuries. If you involve older vampires in your storyline, you should make certain to see how far back their involvement in events goes, and why they got involved in the first place. Realizing that the characters' life-or-death struggle is just the latest, minor skirmish in a private war that's lasted since the Reformation does wonders for establishing a sense of perspective in your chronicle. If you're going to use old Kindred, make sure you use their age as well as their accumulated statistics as tools in telling your story.

Conflict

Conflict is at the heart of all chronicle plotting. A city wherein all the Kindred dwell in perfect harmony, everyone is satisfied with his lot and the Masquerade is preserved perfectly may make for an wonderful place to live, but it honestly isn't a particularly exciting setting for Storytelling. Conflict, the opposition of forces and wills, is what makes for exciting Storytelling. Note that conflict is not automatically equivalent to combat. There are many, many ways in which the Kindred pit themselves against one another and their enemies, and most don't involve bloodshed - at least not immediately.

Deciding what the sources of conflict in your chronicle are and figuring out how the characters fit into those conflicts (A hint: If they don't figure at least peripherally in every conflict you've established, it's time to start looking for a different plot seed) should form the core of your plotting. Every area of contention you establish should somehow impact the characters' coterie, and should help to drive your plot toward its ultimate conclusion.

The obvious and basic conflict in a Camarilla game pits the Camarilla itself against its enemies. Establishing an "us against them" conflict right off the bat helps to establish the characters as actively pro-Camarilla. By swinging into the fray against the Camarilla's enemies - and those enemies can be Sabbat, unaligned vampires, other supernatural beings or even vampire hunters - the characters clearly draw the line as to whom they are for, as well as whom they are against. A story with this sort of conflict at its heart doesn't necessarily have to be just a straight-up slugfest. A quest to find a Sabbat infiltrator or to stop a lone Ravnos from stealing the prince's symbols of office clearly sets the Camarilla, in the form of the players' coterie, up against its enemies. There's nothing wrong with a good old-fashioned brawl in the streets with a bloodthirsty pack of Sabbat neonates, but there's much more to lining the Camarilla up against its enemies than simply having everyone charge into a scrum, fangs bared and Uzis barking.

The Sabbat is the natural opponent for the Camarilla, and there are a wide variety of stories that can make use of this opposition. Whereas the Camarilla works through and around mortals, the Sabbat wants to ride roughshod over them. While the Camarilla is built on tradition and formality, the Sabbat was born in chaos and anarchy, and looks to mere custom for its guidelines. While the Camarilla putatively has laws to govern its members' dealings with both the world at large and one another, the Sabbat respects only brute strength and animal cunning. From these seeds of difference, massive conflicts can grow.

Knowing Too Much

It cannot be overemphasized that when you cross over other supernatural creatures into your game ignorance is bliss. The line between player knowledge and character knowledge must be maintained vigilantly, otherwise familiarity breeds contempt. Remember, your coterie doesn't know anything about what werewolves, mages, etc. are really like - they're lucky if they've been taught the basics of being a vampire. So when a scruffy bum responds to a neonate's attempt at feeding by metamorphosing into a nine-foot-tall column of rage, fur and fangs, the characters should not respond with a shrug and, "Oh, it's a Bone Gnawer in Crinos form. Bob, flip me the book so I can see what Gifts he's likely to have." The players might know what a Bone Gnawer is, but the odds are very, very long against a given character knowing what one might be. Instead, the characters should react with the shock, fear and horror appropriate to seeing a puny mortal mutate into a hateful and terrifying killing machine.

If the characters survive, they will probably understand that they've just come face-to-snout with a Lupine. They may, if they decide they need to know more on the topic, uncover the fact that Lupines supposedly live in tribes and have some sort of magical powers, but little more unless they decide to devote their afterlives to the study of the beasts. Allowing your characters to know too much about their fellow travelers - or letting your players get away with sneaking out-of-game knowledge into in-play situations - can go a long way toward lessening the impact encounters with other supernatural beings should have.

Players who consistently metagame should be disciplined in some fashion, preferably by stripping experience from their characters. After all, characters who sound like they've just read the rulebook, and who can quote it chapter and verse, really don't sound like characters at all.

At a core level, conflict with the Sabbat can be seen as military. The Camarilla holds a city, the Sabbat wants it, and the two sides tussle bloodily. That sort of conflict is an excellent way to kick-start a plot with the Sabbat cast as the villains - throwing a fresh coterie into a combat situation does much to establish the vampires who are trying to kill them as antagonists - but it's not the only way to use the opposition of the Sabbat plot-wise. A strict diet of combat, combat and more combat gets dull rapidly, and a never-ending fight in the trenches to keep the Sabbat out of town can get murderously boring after the first half-dozen battles.

The Sabbat is smart, after all. It hasn't survived the past half-millennium by being repetitive in its tactics. So consider all of the ways conflict with the Sabbat can play itself out. Spies and recruiters from the Sabbat constantly attempt to cross Camarilla borders. Neonates and even more experienced Kindred succumb to Sabbat blandishments (or are kidnapped) and go over to the other side. Packs of antitribu constantly chip away at the Masquerade, forcing the Camarilla to expend resources to defend it. All of these instances - and by extension, all of the plots that can be spun from them - revolve around the conflict between the two great sects.

It's a truism that very few people in the World of Darkness like vampires. To Lupines they're corrupted targets, to be annihilated on sight. Mortal wizards have a track record of performing unpleasant experiments with vitae - vide the origins of Clan Tremere. Too many ghosts were created by sloppy or callous vampires for wraiths ever to be too friendly with their unliving counterparts. And there are even stranger monstrosities out there that hold no love for Caine's childer, even the supposedly civilized ones who dwell in the Masquerade's shadow.

So far, so good, but why conflict with the Camarilla in particular? The institution of the Masquerade provides much of the answer. By using mortals as tools, the Kindred trample other supernaturals' interests underfoot. A Ventrue with her fingers in the housing industry cares little that the three new developments she's putting up to gain economic advantage over a rival might be situated on top of territory sacred to the local Lupines. The city's sheriff doesn't know or care that there might have been a metaphysical connection between the cabdriver he just murdered as part of a cover-up and a vengeance-minded ghost. By involving or discarding others, the Kindred draw the ire of others as well.

Defending against the assaults of supernatural foes also presents a unique complication for Camarilla vampires. After all, theirs is still the responsibility to maintain the Masquerade, no matter what they might be confronted with. So after the walls stop dripping blood, summoned lightning stops streaking from a clear sky and assorted enraged werewolves have finished tearing the place up, it's left to any vampires still standing to try to explain away the mess. Doing so takes valuable energy and resources that the Kindred could be using to defend themselves, thus making them easier targets for the next round of assaults, and so on. The need to maintain the Masquerade, even in the face of magick and claw, puts a uniquely Camarilla twist on what otherwise might be simply a dull monster mash.

Just because the Kindred see mortals as playthings and prey doesn't mean that mortals necessarily like it. From time immemorial mere humans have done their best to hunt the monsters who have plagued them. The names of the boldest of these hunters have been immortalized: Theseus, Beowulf, St. George and others. The modern era offers fewer heroic names, but that doesn't mean the urge to strike back has vanished. The conflict between Kindred and those humans who would turn the tables on them remains an energetic one, and one that holds not only lives, but also the Masquerade itself in the balance.

Hunters in Packs

While the fictional Van Helsing may have worked essentially by himself, there are dedicated and powerful organizations in the World of Darkness that view the eradication of the Kindred as their goal. The still-active Inquisition, using a combination of faith and technology, works tirelessly to rid the world of vampires and other monsters. Government agencies from the mysterious Project Twilight to more mundane branches like the CDC and FBI have all stumbled across vampire-related anomalies, and may be working toward an awareness of the Kindred presence. Occult groups such as the storied Arcanum work tirelessly to gather knowledge on vampires, and none know why they seek it. And then there are rumors - just rumors - of hunters blessed (or cursed) with supernatural powers themselves...

For more information on established groups of vampire-hunters in the World of Darkness, see The Inquisition.

Conflict with vampire hunters usually takes two forms. The first is the cat-and-mouse game of hunter and prey, except that when it comes to would-be slayers of Kindred it's never quite sure who's the hunter and who's being hunted. Often such chases grow into closed loops, with the pursued Kindred desperately trying to rid themselves of their homicidal stalker even as their fellow vampires distance themselves for fear of becoming the next targets.

The other way to use conflict with hunters is more subtle, though perhaps more dangerous. While some modern-day Van Helsings think the best way to rid the world of vampires is with stake and shotgun, others see information as their ultimate weapon. These hunters seek to spread knowledge of vampires' very existence, to shatter the Masquerade irrevocably and to rouse all of humanity against all of the monsters in its midst. The battle between these mortals and the Kindred who seek to silence them is a constant one. Killing one such mortal merely makes others believe in her message; meanwhile the Kindred who tug on the strings of the media seek to have self-appointed supernatural investigators branded kooks, crackpots and worse. The battle for the hearts and minds of a city, and ultimately, the world, can make for a fascinating campaign as the Masquerade teeters on the brink.

There are any number of stories that can come from setting up a conflict between the Camarilla and its enemies. The following are basic ideas, but they can serve as a basis for a more involved plot.

It has been stated, only half in jest, that if the Sabbat really wanted to destroy the Camarilla, all they really had to do was leave it alone. While this may be a slight exaggeration, there is no denying that the internal stresses of the sect keep things interesting for all concerned. Neonates struggle for survival against their peers, ancillae attempt to climb in power (often over the corpses of their predecessors), elders plot and scheme against one another, and even the clans themselves exist in only an uneasy peace. There is conflict a-plenty - and thus more than enough grist for a Storyteller's mill - within the Camarilla's borders. If you don't want to look out of the Camarilla for enemies for your players' characters, rest assured that there are plenty already inside the borders.

There are numerous reasons for neonates to be hated. First of all, they are weak, and in a society of predators the strong always despise the weak. Even the most promising newcomer to the Blood is easy meat to the weakest ancilla, and rest assured that the ancillae take every opportunity to reinforce the truth of the notion.

Neonates are also only years, or on some cases hours, removed from their Humanity. They still act on occasion in very human fashion, making mistakes that will be repeated less and less often as they grow accustomed to their new status. Some Kindred loathe them for the incompetence thus displayed, others for the unwanted reminder these fledglings provide of earlier, more innocent times. Either way, the mere fact of a neonate's stumbling existence is enough to earn other Kindred's ire.

There's also the matter of politics. A neonate is far more than just another inexperienced vampire. She's a political statement, a favor fulfilled, a prize ghoul rewarded or snatched away from a rival. She's a potential successor to her sire - and competition to the rest of her sire's brood. She will eventually seek territory to govern and hunt in, and that territory can only come from the possessions of another Kindred. In the end, every vampire who is or who stands to be hurt by a neonate's Embrace has very good reason for hating, or seeking to destroy, her.

There's even the notion of rivalry between neonates. In a crowded city, when the numbers of vampires need to be culled, the culling's going to start at the bottom. It's neonates who are most likely to be sacrificed to the pressures of population. Getting ahead (or disposing) of one's peers is a more than just hyper-competitiveness; it's a question of survival. Multiple childer of a single sire may have especially intense sibling rivalries as a result, but the pressure comes from all sides. Besides, other neonates are generally the only other vampires that neonates stand a chance against; neonate-on-neonate conflict is a case of picking on someone your own size.

On Coterie Building

A coterie makes sense not only as a plot device to keep your players' characters together, but also as an in-game tool for keeping them alive. A solid and well-balanced coterie safeguards its individual members against bullying and random violence, while establishing a few built-in allies for each character. At the same time, coterie internal politics serve as good practice for the deadlier version that each neonate is going to encounter if he survives long enough. In addition, a coterie situation is a wonderful learning environment for new players, who get to work with more experienced players in a scenario where the stakes are not yet earthshattering.

With that in mind, you should encourage your players to build a stable and workable coterie for their characters. A strong coterie has a good central raison d'�tre (a common foe, princely fiat, acquaintance from before the Embrace, a shared blood bond, a mutual ambition) and a willingness to work together. No coterie lasts long if one of the characters is simply out to eliminate his fellows; the same holds if there are two characters locked in a bitter feud. The former scenario tends to devolve into cycles of vengeance; the latter often turns into a grandstand for the two rivals while everyone else sits around and takes notes. A good coterie has reasons for getting together and staying together, not flying apart. Those tend to arise on their own soon enough.

Once the reason for the coterie has been established, it makes sense to make certain that there's a level playing field within the group. If one member of the coterie can ride roughshod over the rest, it's not going to be much fun to play one of his doormats. Coteries are collections of peers, coteries of neonates especially so. So if one character appears overpowered or simply doesn't fit the concept of the group (a biker Gangrel who likes breaking things dropped among a flock of intriguing Toreador and Ventrue, for example), it can get disruptive. If you feel that a character simply doesn't work within the confines of your players' coterie, you can and should use coterie stability as a reason to get that player to think about modifying his persona to make the game run more smoothly.

It is the external pressure from older and more experienced Kindred that forces coteries of neonates to form; it is the internal pressure from freshly budding rivalries that causes them to split apart in the end. A coterie of peers, all of similar experience and potential, is an excellent survival device. Within a stable coterie, there's always someone watching your back, and there's enough combined firepower present to encourage Kindred looking for someone to bully to look elsewhere.

Stories involving neonates always involve a high degree of paranoia. There's always someone gunning for the new kids on the vampiric block, and neonates who expect to survive know this. Furthermore, few neonates really know the ins and outs of their new status - sires often teach their childer enough to survive, but little more - and as such are constantly running into trouble spawned from myth, legend and ignorance. While most neonates can count on at least the cursory protection of their sires (the boon of creation is an expensive one, and few Kindred wish to throw it away lightly), the relentless Darwinian pressure of vampiric existence can take its toll. Any neonate worth his salt has earned the enmity of at least a half-dozen other Kindred, all of whom will take some form of steps to deal with the upstart.

Neonates get picked on; ancillae get targeted. Those Kindred who survive their unliving adolescence don't have it any easier than the neonates do, they just have a slightly different range of rivals. For one thing, ancillae have been around long enough to recognize that the Camarilla equivalent of the glass ceiling is at least as permanent as the mortal one - there's no room at the top, and a great many immortal killing machines who'd like to keep it that way. The only way to ascend in power is to create an opening, and there are no easy targets waiting. Besides, any ancilla who looks like she's competent to claw her way to a position of power is going to attract a great deal of attention from older, more established Kindred who may not fancy the status of potential victim.

Climbing the Ladder

By the time a vampire reaches ancilla status, the simple thrill of unliving existence is pretty much gone. After a few decades, immortality becomes less of a gift and more of a terrible, oppressive weight. Ennui sets in as cruising clubs and leaping across rooftops lose their charm. Simply existing is no longer enough; there has to be some sort of goal that can give an ancilla's nights meaning.

For many ancillae, the answer to this dilemma of boredom is politics. With a complex hierarchy of offices and titles already in place, the Camarilla offers any number of attainable and visible goals for the ambitious ancilla. Existence then becomes a grand strategy of maneuvering one's predecessor out of her office and oneself into it. Such intrigues can make for excellent low-combat, high-tension chronicles, as the characters attempt to destabilize their "superiors" while those Kindred seek to fend off the ancillae's challenges. Success can bring new challenges - how do the characters handle their new responsibilities, and how are the deposed Kindred's patrons responding to the loss of their catspaws - and new story ideas. On the other hand, even if the characters fail at their attempt at social climbing interesting plot developments can come out of it. Their former rivals might seek vengeance, and other Kindred could well see the defeated characters as easy targets. Kicking a coterie when it's down is a favorite habit among the Kindred, after all. And just because a coterie's down doesn't mean it's out - defeat (if the characters survive) is just an excuse to seek vengeance and start plotting anew.

Ancillae also have responsibilities, and with responsibilities come the consequences of failing to uphold those responsibilities. All competent vampires of this age have some form of domain or territory, perhaps even one as vital as keeping an eye on a newspaper or a freight yard. A failure to look after one's area properly will draw the ire of a great many other Kindred, and the attention of ambitious neonates who think they can handle the post better.

Neonates can also be a problem for the average ancilla. The newly made Kindred often travel in coteries that differ from Sabbat packs in precious few details, and such groups have an eye out for any lone ancilla who strays into its path. While a lone neonate is no great challenge for an ancilla, five bloodthirsty and well-armed ones can be, particularly if they've got their shotguns loaded and diablerie on their minds.

Of course, an ancilla's worst enemy can be his fellow ancillae. If there's a single office open - be it whip, keeper of Elysium or prince's dogcatcher - there will be any number of hungry ancillae who feel they can turn the post to their advantage. That perception inevitably leads to savage infighting, as the immortal equivalents of middle management tear out each others' throats for a shot at the corner office. While the fighting is rarely overt - a vampire who can't maneuver his rivals out of a posting isn't devious enough to hold it - it is vicious. The casualties can include allies, ghouls, property, reputations and precious mortals. Blackmail, seduction and the use of the mental Disciplines are all common tactics in this sort of struggle, and any Kindred who goes in with a sense of fair play is liable to be eliminated from the running very early indeed.

The Old Ones

A single elder can be a terrifying antagonist for a coterie of neonates. It matters little how they first attract his enmity - perhaps rivals of his sired them, or he fears their ultimate ambitions - but his attentions can provide endless plot ideas. His stratagems to injure them can range from the blunt (sending his descendants, ghouls or mortal pawns to attack the coterie) to the subtle (intriguing against them and their patrons) to the monstrous (taking out his wrath on their mortal loved ones and allies). He should act through ever more powerful servants, raising the level of opposition every time the coterie proves equal to his challenge. He may even welcome the coterie's continued survival as an exciting game to leaven his otherwise dull existence. In the meantime the neonates slowly ascend the ladder of power, learning about politics and what it takes to maintain one's position in the ever-so-treacherous Camarilla. Should the characters achieve a reasonable level of success and power, a final confrontation with the inimical elder is not out of the question. In the meantime, however, the elder has served as the mover and shaker behind any number of chapters in your chronicle by merely staying true to his class and his fear.

Elders of the Camarilla have achieved dizzying heights of power, and they are deathly afraid of falling. While unlife may not be sweet to the elders, it is precious, and they will go to any lengths to avoid risking their immortality. Elders have few friends, if any; they see other Kindred as rivals and potential usurpers. They know the temptations that younger Kindred feel, having experienced those same urges centuries ago. They also know the lengths to which ambitious vampires will go, and who the targets of those ambitions are.

A natural outgrowth of elders' unnatural paranoia is the way in which they treat their childer and other, less experienced vampires. The logic is simple: Younger Kindred who are off-balance and at each others' throats have neither the time nor the strength to assault their elders. As a result, elders spend endless hours setting pawns, childer and subordinates (theirs and other Kindred's) against one another. The endless dance is intended to sap the ability of neonates and ancillae to rebel against their sires and grandsires, while leaving them strong enough to remain useful tools. Maintaining such a delicate balance takes skill and centuries of practice; elders who don't acquire the knack often find themselves diablerized or alone in the face of well-prepared opposition.

Elders loathe ancillae and neonates for what they might become; their peers they hate because of what they are. The struggle between elders for status, dominion and power never ends, and each elder works ceaselessly to undermine her rivals. All fear the approach of Gehenna, and seek to fortify themselves against the true Final Nights. For many, such preparation includes setting up one's peers as easier targets for the ravening Antediluvians. Other elders prefer to concern themselves with the here and now, and see others of their kind as pressing threats to their existences. Still others play the game of the Jyhad to alleviate ennui, maneuvering against the same rivals for centuries in order to ensure having something to do every night.

Some of the most bitter conflict the Camarilla has ever known has arisen between vampires and those who created them. Few Kindred ever asked for the Embrace; even those who did desire it often rationalize their longing away. In such a situation, it is only natural that a vampire's resentment arises against the one who sentenced him to unlife. "I didn't ask to be Embraced!" is the all-too-common cry of a neonate who is just discovering the downside to his new status. Meanwhile, sires see their childer grow in new and unexpected directions, and begin to fear them. "How long," many older Kindred wonder, "before he comes seeking my blood?" When the twisted influence of the blood bond is added into the equation, it is no surprise that too many Kindred share only a lineage and bitter hatred with their sires. Much can be done with the story of a vampire whose sire no longer trusts him, and who begins throwing increasingly deadly obstacles in his path.

Conflict is not limited to age or class. The uneasy balance between the clans of the Camarilla is difficult to maintain at the best of times, and these are hardly the best of times. The Ventrue look down on their peers, and make no secret of their disdain. The Toreador can't stand the presence of the Nosferatu, while the Sewer Rats revel in dragging the other clans into the muck. So it goes among the clans of the Camarilla, on both the grand scale and the immediate one as well.

It is extremely rare for two clans to go to war, even in so limited a scale as a single city. Fighting in the streets between the Brujah and the Ventrue is a clear invitation to the Sabbat, after all, and as much as a city's assorted vampire populations may hate one another, they recognize that if the antitribu march in, everyone loses. Instead, the clans (when not engaged in internecine strife of their own) seek to weaken one anothers' influences and relative strengths. If a city's Brujah benefit from local heavy industry, the Ventrue may act in concert to wreck the companies who own the plants. Why? Because doing so deprives the Brujah of both financial and human resources. When the heavy industry dries up, the workers are laid off, organized labor's influence decreases, and the Brujah's ability to marshal strength in the field diminishes. Once the Brujah have been deprived of their support, the Ventrue can force concessions from them, then import high-tech industry to revitalize the city's economic base and recoup their own resources lost in the maneuver.

Such plans can take decades or even centuries to come to fruition, but the clans are patient. The intention, after all, is not to wipe out the other clans - allies against the Sabbat are still needed, after all - but rather to weaken them and make them subordinate. How vicious the inter-clan conflict becomes depends on the city and the individual clan members involved, but it is never static. Just as individual Kindred jostle against one another for relative status, so too do the clans.

In many cases, conflict between clans in a single setting can be traced to the personality conflicts of individual members of the respective clans. As the elders' hatred grows, they draw their childer and their subordinates into the conflict, which then spirals out of control. Such petty origins in no way diminish the intensity of the hatred that the two sides can generate, but the scenario goes a long way toward explaining how the Nosferatu and Malkavians can have a grudging alliance in one city and be at each others' throats in the next.

Vlad and Juliet

Conflict between clans can do any number of intriguing things to a previously tight-knit coterie. When two of the group's members' clans go at it, odds are that someone on each side is going to call on the characters to do their clan duty. Things get even more problematic if one vampire is ordered to "do something" about his opposite number in the coterie. At that point, individual loyalty is placed against clan loyalty, and the consequences are dire no matter which choice the characters make. If the coterie's Kindred stay loyal to their coterie, their progenitors will most likely not be amused, and may take drastic measures to bring the errant vampires into line. On the other hand, if the characters bow to their duty, the coterie may well be rent asunder forever, a development that likely has dire consequences for the chronicle. Of course, the vampires can always try to fake carrying out their orders, but if the deception is discovered, the consequences will assuredly be extremely unpleasant.

Note that this sort of story idea doesn't hinge on romantic love between two characters. A simple respect and working relationship between two Kindred is more than enough to work from in such instances. Once a vampire has been told he needs to sabotage his working partner, he is a fool if he doesn't wonder if that partner has been ordered to do the same to him. Suspicion and fear inevitably replace trust. The bonds of the coterie are stretched, if not snapped. Can the coterie ever recover? It seems unlikely...

Power is one of the most basic sources of narrative conflict. Among the Kindred, power is defined by blood. It is little wonder, then, that some of the fiercest conflicts (and best stories) within the Camarilla are spawned by the lust for potent blood.

Technically, diablerie is condemned by the Camarilla except in certain unique circumstances (blood hunts, dealing with enemies of the sect, etc.). The use of the ability that Auspex grants to read auras is supposed to be sufficient to flush out diablerists, who are thus condemned by their own vital energies. Alas, vampires are no better than mortals at legislating morality. Elders spend sleepless days pondering who among their childer might be brave enough to attempt diablerie. Neonates dwell in terror of stories of elders who can only subsist on vampiric vitae. And so it goes, as the spectre of vampiric cannibalism infuses every Kindred with fear.

That's not to say the fear is unfounded. The lure of ascending generations is a powerful one, and more than one elder has been devoured by his ungrateful progeny. Such attempts can take years or longer to be completed, and the construction of such (whether your players' coterie is the hunter or prey is up to you) can provide an interesting thread to an ongoing chronicle. The situation grows even more fascinating if there is evidence that the proposed diablerie is tacitly supported by someone high in the city's power structure. Princes don't always like to do their own dirty work, and the unmistakable evidence of diablerie can be more than enough to condemn the prince's catspaws in this affair.

Stories wherein the core conflict is contained entirely within the Camarilla are manifold. The trick is not creating such a conflict, but rather winnowing down the potential conflicts to a manageable number. For example:

There's more to conflict as a storytelling tool than just bloody constraint. Emotional conflict is just as powerful a device, and can make for a more intense roleplaying experience than the wildest battle in the streets. The struggle to break an unwanted blood bond can be as gripping as the struggle to cleanse the Sabbat from the city. The fight to remain calm long enough to plot vengeance on the Kindred who diablerized a character's sire or lover can be as terrifying as facing an angry elder in her haven.

Vampires are no longer human, but they remember being human, to a greater or lesser degree. Some neonates might not even recognize the difference, and therein lies fertile ground for tragedy. Consider the case of a neonate torn from a relatively happy existence. He has loved ones he must abandon, but he can't tear himself away from returning to them. Perhaps he breaks the Masquerade, confessing all in an attempt to earn their sympathy; perhaps he seeks to Embrace one or all of them in violation of the Traditions, just so he can be with them forever. Stories like this can provide plenty of tension and strong roleplaying without necessitating that your players reach for their dice every third minute.

So Who's the Villain?

The term "villain" is a relative one when it comes to Vampire. After all, the protagonists of the game are blood-drinking, unliving corpses raised from the dead to feed on the pulsating vitae of the living - not exactly your textbook role models. The antagonists you line up for your chronicle may not be "bad guys" in the traditional sense, because the "heroes" can be pretty damn bad on their own. In fact, the "villains" of the chronicle may be mortal hunters out to stop the bloodsucking fiends' rein of unholy terror, something that the majority of people would probably regard as an admirable goal.

So bear in mind when you're creating your Vampire villains that they may not be all that villainous. Yes, rabid Sabbat packs may be far, far worse then your players' characters ever dreamed of being, but antagonists for the Kindred come from both ends of the spectrum.

Behind every nefarious plot stands a nefarious plotter. While your characters may be the center of your story, they need an opposite number, someone against whom they can strive and compete. Without an opponent against whom the coterie can react, there's little tension in your chronicle. Instead of a foe to overcome, there's just a series of small skirmishes that devolves quickly into boredom. On the other hand, if it turns out that the anarchs who trashed the coterie's communal haven is actually a disguised Sabbat pack looking to soften up the city, suddenly all of those one-off gunfights and back-alley ambushes become part of a pattern. Your chronicle becomes more focused. And, by setting up an ultimate enemy, perhaps the bishop or cardinal behind the assault on the city, you set up the characters' confrontation with that enemy as the natural climax for your chronicle.

Villains don't just happen, though. You need to construct the ultimate nemesis of your chronicle carefully. After all, most of your plot developments must flow from him and his choices, especially those dealing with the characters. With that in mind, you need to start thinking about who your characters' enemy as much, if not more, than what he is.

It is a fact that no villain worth his salt does things simply to be villainous. Even the most sadistic Tzimisce or bad-ass Baali has a goal, something he's trying to accomplish. He has a plan, an overriding goal that he wants to achieve, and the coterie is merely a minor obstacle in his path to his eventual goal. Any actions he takes are not predicated on stopping the chronicle's central characters; they are directed taking care of his own business. If the coterie interferes, too bad for them.

The first step is to figure out what the prime antagonist wants. A host of related questions spring from that one. What is he after, and why? What will he do to obtain that goal, and how soon must he accomplish it? Does he serve a greater power (a higher-up in the Sabbat, or a superior in the Inquisition) to whom he must report, and if so, what happens if he doesn't make fast enough progress? Will he bargain? The answers to these and other, similar questions provide an operational framework for your prime antagonist's actions. If you know how far he's willing to go and what he's striving for, you'll at least have a handle on how he'll react to setbacks and triumphs - and what his next move is likely to be.

You'll also want to figure out what your nemesis is - his species, sect, beliefs, powers, authority and so on. A good rule of thumb is to take the most prominent features of the players' characters and invert them for the nemesis. If your troupe plays a coterie of high-Humanity neonates seeking to restore their lost Humanity, an aged and amoral Tzimisce with a pack of hungry ghouls works well as an antagonist. This approach works on a general level as well - if the characters are sneaky, devious sorts, setting them up against a brute who relies on sheer force to achieve his ends provides both contrast and a challenge. After all, if the characters' usual bag of tricks is suddenly rendered ineffective, the coterie will need to try something new - fast - or else risk ending up as ash on the wind.

Also bear in mind that the villain doesn't necessarily see himself as a villain. Perhaps he has idealistic motivations for his actions. There is always the possibility that your villain is in it just for personal gain or power, but there's also every chance that he's serving what he perceives to be a higher purpose. Allowing your nemesis character to believe, honestly and moralistically, in what he's doing can add a fine moral shading to your game. Doing so also cuts down on the amount of moustachio-twirling scenery chewing your villain is likely to do - if he honestly believes that killing off the coterie is the best thing for the world, he's not likely to indulge in maniacal cackling, insane gloating or any of the other stereotypical "villain" behaviors that limit his effectiveness and turn him into a cartoon.

It is imperative to remember that your prime antagonist has a personality. He does things for a reason. So when the characters thwart one aspect of his plot, don't just strike back with everything at his disposal. Instead, roleplay him. Get inside his head and consider how he's going to react naturally. Is this setback a minor annoyance? Or is it time for the hammer to come down? If your villain behaves believably, your plot becomes more believable as a result. If he reacts As The Plot Demands, he'll seem contrived, and, eventually, so will your chronicle. Let the story follow character, rather than the other way around.

You might even want to consider the archvillain to be your character in all of this, unless doing so means that the coterie is irrevocably doomed as a result. Otherwise, climb inside his head the way your players hop inside their characters, and play him to the hilt.

No good archvillain ever works alone. Even the most maniacal madman needs henchmen to run errands, do the dirty work, take the fall for plans gone awry, obtain victims and so on. More to the point, it doesn't make sense for you to spend hours creating an interesting and well-drawn villain only to throw him into a deathmatch with the coterie immediately. In a situation like that there's no sense of dramatic tension, and no time for the characters' dislike of the villain to grow to the point where defeating him means something to them. If your archvillain appears on the stage too soon, he's an obstacle, not an object of hatred. You need to take time to stoke the characters' loathing of their nemesis, and that means holding him back until the moment is right.

In the meanting, though, there needs to be someone onstage. Someone needs to be confronting the coterie each session, keeping them busy and stoking the flame of their dislike. That's where henchmen come in (or ghouls, as the case may be).

This approach, which works best when you throw ever-more powerful subordinate nemeses at the coterie, draws out the characters' road to the final confrontation. The best way to stretch the time between introduction and climax, in many cases, is with encounters with the servants and henchmen of your villain. After all, it's highly unlikely your main antagonist is going to be doing all of his legwork himself, so grant him some hired help. Think about what sort of person he is, and what sort of servants he's likely to have. A Sabbat archbishop has packs and other subordinates to turn loose, while a hunter with True Faith likely has a flock of true believers who just might be willing to die for him.

The next thing to consider is how the henchmen come in contact with the coterie. Odds are low that they'll wander up, introduce themselves as The Villain's Servants, and then proceed to whip out the TEC-9s in best Hong Kong cinematic fashion. Rather, it makes more sense to have the characters come across the henchmen busy running an unpalatable errand for their boss (say, staking a friend of the coterie) and put a stop to it, and then discover a connection to a "higher" power. Of course, that sets the players up in opposition to your archvillain nicely, and he now has an excuse to send servitors of increasing power and importance after them. They thwarted his will once, after all, which means that they need to be disposed of before they become a real threat. The closer the characters get to their main antagonist, of course, the greater the power and resources of the henchmen that said nemesis throws in their way, and the greater the challenge that must be overcome each time.

Don't make the mistake of having your villain only employ one sort of subordninate. This is the modern era, after all, and diversification is the name of the game. Give your villain more credit than that - and give your players more of a challenge. Vary tactics and approaches. A street gang, a ghouled police precinct, a crazed (but Dominated) arsonist, blood bound childer - all of these can be part of your villain's arsenal. If the characters never know what to expect next, they can't plan too far ahead - and can't get complacent.

You might want to consider henchmen as personalities with a relationship to your archvillain as well. Are they just hired thugs and bound ghouls, or is there something more? Did the villain send someone he cared about to work evil on the coterie? And if so, how will he react to his subordinate's failure - or death? Making your henchmen more well-rounded means that you can spin more complete plots off from their failures - and their successes.

Some villains are more appropriate than others for a Camarilla chronicle. While the Sabbat is the obvious choice, it's not the only one. Consider the following:

Death

While death may be the end of all things for an individual, it opens up new doorways and opportunities in a Camarilla chronicle. When one of the Kindred meets the Final Death, suddenly her ghouls are masterless, her holdings are up for grabs and her position in the city's hierarchy is wide open. All of these spell opportunity for a coterie of ambitious young vampires.

Then again, the coterie may not be the only ones vying for the deceased's property and titles. The creation of a sudden vacuum in the city's power structure can draw all those around it into conflict, if not open war. Just because one of your players' characters wants to take over for a recently deceased scourge or sheriff doesn't mean that he's going to pull it off - and the competition for the job can be deadly.

The Great Chain of Feeding

One of the beauties of Vampire: The Masquerade is that no matter how powerful the characters get or their rivals might be, there's always someone more powerful squatting above them on the food chain. If your coterie gets rid of your hand-crafted villain too quickly, remember that someone had to sire him - and that sire may not be too happy about the way things turned out. You don't want to work your way up the ladder of generations too quickly, lest you end up seemingly forced to trump all-powerful player characters with Caine. (Note: If your chronicle gets to this point, scrap it and start over. Beings of such power are so far removed from human concerns that roleplaying them becomes a theoretical exercise, not a game.) but remember that you always have a bigger hammer at your disposal.

Some storytellers shy away from using the Final Death in their chronicles. Killing a character off is rather permanent, after all; once you scatter someone's ashes on the wind, odds are she's gone forever. That sort of permanence can be scary, as few Storytellers want to lose the services of a favorite character ad infinitum.

Others see the death of a Storyteller character as something to be gotten over with quickly. The victim dies, his ashes are swept up, and the universe rolls along with one less vampire in it. Doing so avoids messy complications, but it robs the Storyteller of one of the most versatile tools in her arsenal - the power of life and death.

The ability and willingness to kill off characters, even important ones, is extremely useful to a good Storyteller. By sending a vampire (or even a familiar mortal or ghoul) into the hereafter, you establish that death is a real and potent part of your world. The death of a character, even a minor one, demonstrates that there are consequences to foolish actions, and that the price of failure is both very real and very high. Perhaps most importantly, once you demonstrate that you are willing to kill off any character, from mortal to primogen, the characters know that no one is safe - not even them.

The death of a Storyteller character can get a story rolling in any number of ways. Any vampire, whether of high status or low, has a place in the Camarilla. Killing that vampire leaves a vacancy in that place, and starts all of the other Kindred of the city scurrying around it. If the vampire had holdings, ghouls or other possessions of value, the vultures immediately start to circle, seeking to profit from his death. Friends of the deceased tighten their defenses, in case they're next on the hit list. Enemies of the victim, fearful of being accused, ready their alibis and seek to discredit those who might accuse them. Rumors of diablerie or Sabbat infiltration might well fly.

Few players enjoy seeing their characters reduced to ashes. The reaction is understandable; hours, if not months or years, have been poured into that character, and no one wants to lose that kind of investment cavalierly. On the other hand, if player's characters are rendered immune to the ultimate penalty, game balance can suffer. A Storyteller who refuses to make characters pay the price for foolish actions rapidly finds himself running a game wherein vampires regularly tempt fate because they know that, in the end, they are actually completely safe. That knowledge drains much of the tension from a good Vampire chronicle.

On the other hand, wiping out characters arbitrarily or to demonstrate who's really in charge can be just as damaging. Players will quickly learn to avoid a chronicle wherein their carefully crafted characters are liable to be exterminated at Storyteller whim. In the end, balance is necessary. Players should be aware of the fact that sometimes the metaphorical dragon wins, and Storytellers should make sure not to use the ultimate penalty unless the situation absolutely demands it.

Consequences

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In similar fashion, for every action a vampire takes, there is a consequence. Nothing happens in the Camarilla without something else being affected. A mortal is killed in a feeding? Perhaps his loved ones start supporting hunters. Maybe he was targeted for the Embrace by an elder who, deprived of her childe, seeks vengeance. Then again, the killing might break the Masquerade, sending both mortal and immortal authorities after the unfortunate murderer.

The point is that everything in a Camarilla city is connected. Every action impacts the plans, plots and wishes of other Kindred, and they will react as a result. Vampires are not used to being thwarted or balked, and take steps to punish those who do so. Anything the characters do, from performing a favor for another Kindred to killing off a favorite childe, has immediate and profound consequences in the world of the Camarilla. Your players should be aware of this, and you should be, too.

Preventative Measures

There are some steps you can take to make sure that the death of a character doesn't cause out-of-game hard feelings in your roleplaying group.

Warn your players at the start of the chronicle that character death is a real possibility, and reiterate that warning periodically.
When a character dies, make sure the killing doesn't look vengeful. If the character has at least a small chance of escape, the player usually feels better about things. On the other hand, pulling a dozen Brujah bruisers out of the woodwork to finish the job of the first 50 you sicced on the character reeks of a personal vendetta, and makes for a bad situation.
If a character's death seems likely or nigh-inevitable, talk with the player about it and get her input. Perhaps the character can go out in spectacular or heroic fashion, sacrificing herself to save the city.
Once a character dies, take some time to chat things over with the deceased's player. Let him know that you still want him in the group; it's just that his character is gone. On the other hand, don't use character death as a way of letting a player know you want him gone. The mutilating effect this sort of thing has on your plot thoroughly wrecks the game for your other players.
If one player's character kills another, don't allow a vendetta to start. Make sure that there are no hard feelings between the players, and make sure that the new character that gets brought in isn't gunning for the old one's murderer "just as a coincidence."

In truth, letting your characters know that there are repercussions to their actions is one of the most important things you can do as a Storyteller. If the coterie breaks the Masquerade with abandon and nothing happens to them, then they're not going to worry about the Masquerade. At that point, one of the tentpegs of your chronicle's tension gets uprooted. Instead, if the characters do something "wrong" or "foolish," make sure they pay for it. That doesn't mean that you should automatically waste every vampire who makes a minor misstep. Rather, it means that if the characters break the Masquerade, hunters or policemen should come sniffing around. They may not find the coterie, but they can make life interesting for a while. By the same token, breaking one of the Traditions should bring down the ire of the local prince. If the prince doesn't come down on characters who break his laws, then he stops being an authority figure and becomes a cartoon. By making certain to show your players that their characters will be held accountable for what they do, you work to maintain the integrity of both your characters and your chronicle.