The final lesson was given far from the manor, in a forgotten industrial quarter where even mortals avoided the night. Lord Henry Woolcott brought his progeny to a place where ash still clung to brickwork and the ground bore scars no rain could wash away. Here, he explained, judgment had once been rendered. The Sixth Tradition was not spoken lightly, for it was the law that ended all others. Destruction was forbidden not because Kindred life was sacred, but because chaos was. To kill one of their own without sanction was to declare oneself above the hierarchy, a crime that could only be answered with extinction.
Woolcott taught that the right of destruction belonged to elders alone, those whose age, power, and perspective placed them beyond impulse. To destroy a Kindred was not vengeance; it was governance. A fledgling acting on rage or fear risked unraveling centuries of carefully balanced order. The young Ventrue learned that even righteous anger meant nothing without authority behind it. Without permission, without command, a Kindred who destroyed another became nothing more than a liability and liabilities were removed swiftly and without ceremony.
Then Woolcott spoke of the Blood Hunt, though not with reverence. Only the Eldest could call it, for only they bore the weight of what followed. To name a target was to unleash the city itself, sheriffs, hounds and opportunists all bound by tradition to pursue destruction. The hunted Kindred ceased to exist in the eyes of the law, they were already dead, merely waiting for the night to catch up. Woolcott made it clear: the Blood Hunt was not cruelty. It was the city proving it could still enforce obedience.
As dawn threatened the horizon, Woolcott regarded his progeny one last time as a teacher rather than a ruler. This lesson, the last, carried no comfort. Power did not grant the right to kill; hierarchy did. Survival did not belong to the strongest, but to the most obedient. "Remember", his silence seemed to say, "even monsters answer to something greater". With that, the lessons ended. The fledgling now carried all six Traditions within him, laws not meant to be debated, but endured. And if he forgot them, Woolcott had ensured he understood exactly what awaited those who did.
I've been playing VTES for a few months now, and in all that time I've seen exactly zero vampires commit diablerie. Not once. Not accidentally. Not even as a "well, this seems funny" moment. At my tables, diablerie is treated like touching the big red button labeled DO NOT PRESS. Everyone knows it exists, nobody wants to deal with the consequences.
Maybe diablerie happens more often in tournaments. Maybe there's a secret underground scene where vampires are slurping elders like smoothies. But in casual play? It's a rare beast. Which makes a card that specifically punishes a diablerist (assuming your +1 stealth action actually goes through) feel a bit like bringing a silver bullet to a knitting circle. The theme is fantastic, don't get me wrong. Passing judgment on someone who committed the ultimate crime is peak Camarilla drama. Mechanically, though? I'm just not seeing it.
When I look back at the other Tradition cards, I can easily imagine situations where each one shines. They do things you expect vampires to do: manage blood, enforce domains, create progeny, manipulate resources. Sixth Tradition, on the other hand, is waiting patiently for a crime that almost never happens, like a very bored sheriff polishing a badge no one ever asks to see.
The tournament data doesn't help its case either. The last winning deck that included even a single copy of this card dates back to 2007. That's eighteen years ago. In VTES terms, this card hasn't just fallen out of favor, it's been quietly sealed in a vault and forgotten. And I can't blame the players.
I'm not sure what this card would need to become relevant again. Destroying a vampire is obviously a powerful effect, and the Sixth Tradition is literally about destruction. But maybe the design focus should've been closer to a Blood Hunt, something that lets Camarilla vampires actively dogpile a target instead of waiting for someone to commit a very specific and very avoidable crime. A tradition that says "you messed up, now everyone gets involved" feels more on-brand and more playable.
And with that, my Traditions series comes to an end. Six cards, six very different design philosophies, and one very lonely punishment card waiting for a diablerist that may never arrive. It's been a fun experiment to go through all of them, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed overthinking every single one.
The game never ends, only pauses. I'll see you at the next move.
Custodian Hargrave
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