Third Tradition: Progeny

The night Henry Woolcott chose his progeny began like an execution rather than a ceremony. The ancient Ventrue lord stood in the sanctum of his estate, surrounded by centuries of trophies from battles waged in boardrooms and back alleys. His expression, carved from cold marble, betrayed neither pride nor sentiment. The Prince's permission to sire was a rare and grueling privilege, one that Woolcott had fought decades to earn. Among the Ventrue, the Third Tradition was not taken lightly; to create progeny was to declare that one's legacy deserved continuation. Only those who had proven unwavering loyalty, flawless discretion, and impeccable judgment were ever granted such a right. And Woolcott, with his iron will and iron reputation, had waited until his choice was undeniable.

The chosen mortal stood across from him, pale, trembling, yet with a spark of resolve that had caught the elder's attention months ago. Woolcott had observed him from the shadows of society: a disciplined mind, a ruthless ambition, and a will that bent but never broke. These qualities were not luxuries but necessities, for the Embrace was no gift. It was a burden wrapped in eternity. He had no patience for weak heirs or fragile souls; a Ventrue's progeny had to be built for command, not merely survival.

The Embrace itself unfolded with ritual precision. Woolcott moved like a judge delivering sentence, his presence suffocating in its certainty. The mortal did not flee, did not plead, only clenched his jaw as the elder's teeth breached his artery, as life ebbed away under the touch of death. When the final breath slipped free, Woolcott opened his own wrist, letting the thick, ancient vitae fall like drops of law onto the newly fallen. It was a moment of absolute silence, the kind that devoured everything around it. With each swallow, the mortal severed his ties to humanity and bound himself to Woolcott’s lineage, to the curse, to the clan, to the expectations heavier than stone.

When the fledgling rose, unsteady but alive in ways that defied mortality, Woolcott regarded him with the judgment of a monarch and the scrutiny of a sculptor. The responsibility of a sire was immense: to shape, to discipline, to refine. The clan allowed no darlings of sentiment and no mistakes. As dawn crept near, Woolcott placed a firm hand on the young Ventrue's shoulder, not gentle, but claiming. The Prince had granted permission; the Third Tradition had been honored; and now another heir to the throne of shadows stood ready to be forged. For in the world of the Ventrue, progeny was not family. Progeny was legacy, and legacy was everything.

So, you want to create new vampires, huh? Ambitious. That's exactly what Third Tradition: Progeny is for. A little paperwork, a bit of unholy bureaucracy, and suddenly you've got yourself a brand-new minion. Mechanically, it's a +1 stealth card that lets you add another body to the board. And if you can somehow top them up with blood, you've just grown your own personal intern, ready to start blocking next turn. Efficient and slightly horrifying, the perfect Camarilla combo.

The downside? Your freshly minted vampire is about as capable as a hungover ghoul. No disciplines, no abilities, just wide-eyed enthusiasm and a vague sense of purpose. Unless, of course, you've stocked your deck with discipline master cards, in which case you can mold them into something useful. It's basically unpaid vampire internship, but with more biting.

Curious, I did what any good neonate does when confused: I checked the tournament-winning decks and learned, that quite a few of them use this card. Why? I have no idea. Clearly, the elders know something I don't. Maybe there's a hidden strategy, or maybe it's just an elaborate long con to make me waste my pool. Either way, I respect it.

In theory, I love the card (and the artwork). In practice, I'm not sure it hits the same high notes as the First or Second Traditions. But considering it's found in decks that actually win tournaments, I'm clearly missing something. Perhaps one day I'll understand the hidden art of creating progeny that don't immediately embarrass their sire. Until then, I'll keep admiring this card the way a Prince admires a new fledgling: with equal parts fascination and deep, existential concern.

The game never ends, only pauses. I'll see you at the next move.

Custodian Hargrave