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Region: Transylvania
Zone: Besieged Farmlands
Location: St. Haralambie Church
Background Information
Species: Human
NPC Information
NPC Type: Mission

Hasdatean is a renegade vampire. During his life, he was a soldier in the Transylvania army, and he stayed a true patriot even through the grave. Moreover, he believes that vampires need humans to feed and survive, and that the current war is foolish.





While you and I are allied under Romanian colours, I will do you no harm. You have my soldier's oath. You think it strange that I betray my own? Let me enlighten you how it is they who are the betrayers. Before I was wampiry I was a soldier, and before I was a soldier, I was a man, and that man was Transylvanian. When I lived, I fought for this land, and in battle I gave my life for it. I have slept for a thousand years in its good grave earth. I respect it, not like the scum outside and their idiot war. They are nothing of my kind. They invade their own homeland, no better than the Mongols, Hungarians, Turks before them. Such disgrace, and to what purpose? They have been promised a wampiry nation under their own rule. How does such a nation sustain itself without humans? Misguided fools. We need each other, your race and mine.


Ironic, that the tribes of the night would choose this place to wage war on humankind. Ironic...or intentional. We are so fond of grand theatrics, after all. You see, the great Dracula and his Order of the Dragon once sought to extinguish us here. The scars still remain on the trees in the old forest, the rocks of the mountains. So furious was the battle, and so long-lived the truce that followed. Wartime takes its toll on both the victor and the vanquished. Away from the cities, the people were not ready to renounce their superstition. And we, the superstitions, were not ready to be abandoned. An agreement was made. An agreement was honoured. But now it is broken, and the eyes of the world will judge this valley. It is the end of refuge, the end of trust between races. It may be the end of us, and if so, I accept it. Better to die than to live with dishonour.


Wampiry? It is not a race, it is a disease. But for a time it was a rarefied disease, cultivated, such as the breeding of a fine Transylvanian orchid. We were nobility. Coaches and mountain estates, fangs and opera capes, yes, yes, if you will. Stoker knew, although why he chose Dracula for his fanciful mythologising - well, that wronged knight's people turned on his name like wolves. It is the way of your human kind. And we wampiry, who believed ourselves elevated from humans, have proved ourselves so wrong. An eternity of luxury was no longer enough for us. The bloodline grows thinner, and more violent and reckless, the children turn on our name. As brutish and stupid as young men. As vain and temperamental as young girls. They draw attention upon us all, reignite old rivalries. The elders become insane with paranoia that they will be cannibalised in their sleep. What I speak of now was happening centuries ago. Since then? Pah. Look outside. Behold the glory of the wampiry.