1x Like
[OOC] [HIGH CASUAL] Welcome to Salem, Massachusetts Page 9
- Romance
- Large Group
- Modern
- Horror
- Casual
- Slice of Life
- GM Lionhearted Co-GM Alfhedil Co-GM Silent Whispers
Join Status:
Apply
Polaris North How I Socially Interact
Member
Seen
21 days ago
Hero Sincerest of Knights
Member
Seen
2 mos ago
Christmas tortureshopping has admittedly taken up my time, will have a post up by the end of the weekend.
1x Like
CaliforniaState Biologist
Member
Seen
1 day ago
{ "Darling, You’re already in my veins." }
Can You Feel My Heart || My Apocalypse || You’ll Be A Corpse Before Your Time
| {Full Name} |
| {Nickname} |
| {Date of Birth} |
| {Age} |
| {Gender} |
| {Sexuality} |
| {Relationship Status} |
| {Role} |
| {Occupation} |
| {Face Claim} |
| {Dialogue Color} |
Desmond Grey
| {Nickname} |
Cain
| {Date of Birth} |
November, 9th
| {Age} |
Vampiric Age: 277
Appearance Age: 27
Appearance Age: 27
| {Gender} |
Male
| {Sexuality} |
Heterosexual
| {Relationship Status} |
Single
| {Role} |
Vampire
| {Occupation} |
Trauma Surgeon, ER
| {Face Claim} |
Sam Witwer
| {Dialogue Color} |
Indian Red, [CD5C5C]
| {Appearance} |
Having dawned the glamour and youth accompanied by being a vampire, Desmond has retained the picture of youth despite being two centuries old. Like most iterations of vampires, Desmond is fairly paled skin, although contrary to popular belief this isn’t a result of becoming a vampire. This lovely lady killer stands at six foot one, weighing in at about one hundred and eighty five pounds of toned muscle. His dark features give way to the ”Tall, dark, and handsome” mystique look, that most women clamor or fawn for. Unfortunately, this bad boy has no piercings or tattoos, but is kissed across his body laden with scars. Ranging from simple cuts and gashes to patches of skin that were burned or ripped through by a bullet. His body serves as a canvas for all scars noteworthy from battle, a badge of honor. Beyond that, Desmond doesn’t really dress to kill, his usual attire consists of dark fitted jeans and monochromatic shirts and sweaters with the occasional leather jacket. Scrubs are his alternative outfit, well of course only when he’s at work.
| {Habits & Quirks} |
⛧ Inhaling the scent of blood, this is usually accompanied by: Goosebumps, Graying out of eyes, and Fang emergence.
⛧ Washes hands several times with scalding hot water.
⛧ Sketch Artist
⛧ Mom Complex
⛧ Washes hands several times with scalding hot water.
⛧ Sketch Artist
⛧ Mom Complex
| {Hobbies} |
⛧ Drawing and Painting
⛧ Study of Human Anatomy and Medicine
⛧ Collecting Vials of Victims Blood
⛧ Avid Coffee Drinker
⛧ Keeping a zippo on hand and lighting it to remind him of his mortality and dislike for fire.
⛧ Study of Human Anatomy and Medicine
⛧ Collecting Vials of Victims Blood
⛧ Avid Coffee Drinker
⛧ Keeping a zippo on hand and lighting it to remind him of his mortality and dislike for fire.
| {Likes} |
⛧ Strong Female Figures (Due to comfort and memory)
⛧ Being obscenely neat, clean, and organized
⛧ Painting with blood
⛧ Working out and practicing marital arts
⛧ Thorough with his work and interest
⛧ Being surrounded by beautiful women
⛧ Being obscenely neat, clean, and organized
⛧ Painting with blood
⛧ Working out and practicing marital arts
⛧ Thorough with his work and interest
⛧ Being surrounded by beautiful women
| {Dislikes} |
⛧ Strong Female Figures (Susceptible to blindly following, weak, addiction)
⛧ World Affairs
⛧ Loud, Dirty, Unintelligent people.
⛧ Hunters
⛧ Fire
⛧ Keeping his veil of humanity
⛧ Garlic
⛧ Older Male Vampires
⛧ World Affairs
⛧ Loud, Dirty, Unintelligent people.
⛧ Hunters
⛧ Fire
⛧ Keeping his veil of humanity
⛧ Garlic
⛧ Older Male Vampires
| {Fears} |
⛧ Return of his Creator
⛧ Loss of Regeneration
⛧ Reuniting with his family in the afterlife
⛧ Loss of Regeneration
⛧ Reuniting with his family in the afterlife
| {Secrets} |
⛧Unbeknownst to everyone except himself, after the death of his mother a manifestation of his mother was encapsulated in his mind. Due to his break in mental fortitude his imagination fostered the image of his mother. Celeste, served as a voice of reason or the humanity that was left within her son Desmond. Of course she only echoes the thoughts of Desmond since she’s a consolidation of his remorse and twisted sense of justice. Desmond has the tendency to keep appearances up, but will occasionally slip and casually argue with his mother while in reality he’s talking to himself. His mother holds such sway over his actions, he usually follows her whim unless his anger and bloodthirst has consumed him.
⛧Desmond also carries around the two fangs he forcefully removed from the Elder Mathias that keeps at home in a vial alongside his other prized possessions.
⛧Desmond also carries around the two fangs he forcefully removed from the Elder Mathias that keeps at home in a vial alongside his other prized possessions.
| {Abilities} |
⛧ Vampiric Boost || Desmond, like other vampires, has supernatural strength, stamina, and agility, as well as having an accelerated healing rate.
⛧ Marksmanship/Assassination Art || Over the course of his lifetime, Desmond has seen more war and combat than any other human or creature combined. With his stint in the military and as a serial killed, Desmond has refined his use of weaponry ranging from blades to guns. Although he prefers CQC (Close Quarters Combat) instead, where he created a specialized fighting style known as the Assassination Art that focuses around quick and smooth flowing attacks to incapacitate the enemy in as few moves as possible.
⛧ Compel Resistant || A unique passive trait acquired by Desmond from birth. Like the name suggests, Desmond genetically has some tolerance to being compelled or glamoured by other mythical creatures. This was first demonstrated when his creator tried to compel him before his death. While not completely immune, his resistance to being compelled is higher than most.
⛧ Marksmanship/Assassination Art || Over the course of his lifetime, Desmond has seen more war and combat than any other human or creature combined. With his stint in the military and as a serial killed, Desmond has refined his use of weaponry ranging from blades to guns. Although he prefers CQC (Close Quarters Combat) instead, where he created a specialized fighting style known as the Assassination Art that focuses around quick and smooth flowing attacks to incapacitate the enemy in as few moves as possible.
⛧ Compel Resistant || A unique passive trait acquired by Desmond from birth. Like the name suggests, Desmond genetically has some tolerance to being compelled or glamoured by other mythical creatures. This was first demonstrated when his creator tried to compel him before his death. While not completely immune, his resistance to being compelled is higher than most.
| {Limitations} |
⛧ Sunlight, stakes, vervain || Being a vampire, Desmond is weakened by all that a vampire would be weakened by.
⛧ Bipolar Anger || Depending on the fight, Desmond can lose his cool and subvert his Assassination Art, and relapse into a more brute force approach, leaving him open for mistakes otherwise covered in his level headed state.
⛧ Compel || Unlike most vampires despite being an Elder Vampire, Desmond's version of compelling is weaker as he doesn't have quite the knack for it as his counterparts do. This might be due to his natural affinity to be immune to being compelled. Equivalent Exchange.
⛧ Bipolar Anger || Depending on the fight, Desmond can lose his cool and subvert his Assassination Art, and relapse into a more brute force approach, leaving him open for mistakes otherwise covered in his level headed state.
⛧ Compel || Unlike most vampires despite being an Elder Vampire, Desmond's version of compelling is weaker as he doesn't have quite the knack for it as his counterparts do. This might be due to his natural affinity to be immune to being compelled. Equivalent Exchange.
| {Personality} |
♦ Astute ♦ Bipolar ♦ Perceptive ♦ Pliable ♦
Desmond….Grey. How do you begin to define such a man or rather creature who has lived longer than mostly everyone? The simple truth is you can’t, the shades and intricacies of his personality are constantly changing, terraforming the landscape of his mental palace. Time has a funny way of effecting all of us, more so on Desmond. Having faced several crucibles in his life his personality has shifted with the times. If you could describe his personality, it would be the one fittest to serve in that one moment before burning out like a dying star. Of course this does not mean that he is perfect and without faults. While he’s shed multiple personalities they all seem to have a funny way of returning back to him. Now to get into the real sustenance, the man behind the mirror, or well what would be in the mirror if he were still human
While he’s worn many masks in the past, there are two that never seem to slip from the tether to his soul. The first and second most prominent archetype is his humanity, Desmond dances a line in-between the life he had before his turning and the one he walks now. Desmond can be a kind and gentle soul, one who strives to see the good in the world. A lost innocence if you may. Growing up in a prestigious house with two affluent parents who cared for him and his brother deeply, left nothing to be desired. Growing up alongside his brother and best friend led him with humility, empathy, and passion for the unknown. As an individual, Desmond is calm, laid-back, soft-spoken, and on the quiet side yet there was always some hint of an alpha male persona within him. Despite his calm demeanor he was fiercely loyal to his country and family, especially his brother. While his brother was more outspoken and less inclined to take action, Desmond was always the one to start fights and defend anyone’s honor. Desmond was a testament, no, a man of admirable character, such a waste of a kind and noble personality succumbing to the death grip of his second life.
When his veil of sanity slips the apex predator dawns its mask and reveals himself to the world in all of his allure and grandeur. There’s something lost in his state, whether it be his mind or his soul, no one knows. Desmond acts solely on primal instinct and bloodthirst. There’s no set of codes he creates for himself, his killings are indiscriminate. The ecstasy and euphoria of blood and all its warmth ignites his sadistic vampiric nature, he becomes the thing he hates the most, his creator. His sinister nature has earned him a nefarious and infamous reputation due to his bitter and vicious attitude; a ruthless killer. Desmond will become very harsh and blunt. Fueled by anger and hunger when in this form, he simply doesn’t kill to feed but as an escape, a theatre of the mind. Mixing his artistic passion and enjoyment from killing he sees death as a game. Basking in the ambience of brutal massacre of innocence while he dances and sings. Hyde only takes over for Dr. Jekyll when Desmond is stressed or consumed by his need to feed. An escape or an excuse to run from his problems and lose himself in his fundamental needs, yet the monster will always lie dormant in his mind.
With his sobering of his latter personality, Desmond is usually flooded with guilt and self-loathing, followed by the appearance of his mother within his mind. Painful memories of the death of his mother and father plague his mind. This bender lasts a short few days, but has a lasting impact on Desmond’s physique. Desmond usually locks himself up in isolation and ensures the most pristine conditions of his living quarters while he religiously washes his hands until he feels clean. Nowadays Desmond has found a middle ground for his two personalities, a way to balance the beast within him. His humanity has adopted a bit of a pompous role with a subtle hint of sarcasm and quite the accomplished womanizing lady killer. Almost an alcoholic now, he lives his life recklessly when out of work. Desmond lives his life in a drunken haze, drowning his sorrows in women, blood, and apathy. His dark passenger remains silent due to his standardization of his killings will working as a trauma surgeon, all he needs are those small vials to keep his mask from slipping, but is he really there?
While he’s worn many masks in the past, there are two that never seem to slip from the tether to his soul. The first and second most prominent archetype is his humanity, Desmond dances a line in-between the life he had before his turning and the one he walks now. Desmond can be a kind and gentle soul, one who strives to see the good in the world. A lost innocence if you may. Growing up in a prestigious house with two affluent parents who cared for him and his brother deeply, left nothing to be desired. Growing up alongside his brother and best friend led him with humility, empathy, and passion for the unknown. As an individual, Desmond is calm, laid-back, soft-spoken, and on the quiet side yet there was always some hint of an alpha male persona within him. Despite his calm demeanor he was fiercely loyal to his country and family, especially his brother. While his brother was more outspoken and less inclined to take action, Desmond was always the one to start fights and defend anyone’s honor. Desmond was a testament, no, a man of admirable character, such a waste of a kind and noble personality succumbing to the death grip of his second life.
When his veil of sanity slips the apex predator dawns its mask and reveals himself to the world in all of his allure and grandeur. There’s something lost in his state, whether it be his mind or his soul, no one knows. Desmond acts solely on primal instinct and bloodthirst. There’s no set of codes he creates for himself, his killings are indiscriminate. The ecstasy and euphoria of blood and all its warmth ignites his sadistic vampiric nature, he becomes the thing he hates the most, his creator. His sinister nature has earned him a nefarious and infamous reputation due to his bitter and vicious attitude; a ruthless killer. Desmond will become very harsh and blunt. Fueled by anger and hunger when in this form, he simply doesn’t kill to feed but as an escape, a theatre of the mind. Mixing his artistic passion and enjoyment from killing he sees death as a game. Basking in the ambience of brutal massacre of innocence while he dances and sings. Hyde only takes over for Dr. Jekyll when Desmond is stressed or consumed by his need to feed. An escape or an excuse to run from his problems and lose himself in his fundamental needs, yet the monster will always lie dormant in his mind.
With his sobering of his latter personality, Desmond is usually flooded with guilt and self-loathing, followed by the appearance of his mother within his mind. Painful memories of the death of his mother and father plague his mind. This bender lasts a short few days, but has a lasting impact on Desmond’s physique. Desmond usually locks himself up in isolation and ensures the most pristine conditions of his living quarters while he religiously washes his hands until he feels clean. Nowadays Desmond has found a middle ground for his two personalities, a way to balance the beast within him. His humanity has adopted a bit of a pompous role with a subtle hint of sarcasm and quite the accomplished womanizing lady killer. Almost an alcoholic now, he lives his life recklessly when out of work. Desmond lives his life in a drunken haze, drowning his sorrows in women, blood, and apathy. His dark passenger remains silent due to his standardization of his killings will working as a trauma surgeon, all he needs are those small vials to keep his mask from slipping, but is he really there?
| {Place of Origin} |
Oxford, England
| {Background} |
And so begins the story of the end or perhaps the beginning? Sit down a while and let me tell you the story of Desmond Grey.
Birth – 1738 AD
"The two most important days in your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out why."
Desmond was born into a house of great stature and wealth among the vast nobility that lied in Great Britain in the early 18th Century. What greater odds than to be born from such upstanding individuals such as his parents. His mother, Celeste, was a beautiful young maiden. Her hair was a perfect heterogeneous marriage of sun touched blonde with waves of hazelnut brown. Of course being an affluent aristocrat meant she had to have the high hoisted hairstyle (accompanied with two girls going down either side of her head) which was thriving back in the day, but it wasn’t as ludicrous as most other nobles attempted to go. Celeste often fact derived a pleasant and innocent laugh when she saw such women with towered hair. Her skin was flawless and smooth almost as if derived from the gods, the shade of her skin was a light pale to a porcelain color which extenuated her naturally rosy red cheeks. Her lips were a soft and supple almost appearing as if there was a word on the tip of her lips about to escape. Enough of her pristine looks, Celeste wasn’t only famous for her illustrious looks but the life that flowed out of her fingertips like clockwork. Just as captivating as her appearance was the art she made on the canvas, flawless iterations of anything that piqued her interest. Celeste exceled in painting and sketches of human anatomy. Celeste captured the essence of every person in her sketches, eventually leading to a congregation of fans which then led to her hosting galas in her villa. Her fame rose and while her husband was serving his country she found her own way to serve from home, working for scientific journals as an illustrator.
Donovan Grey was the other half of the equation that made up Desmond’s parents. While not as stunning as his wife the man did have some gusto of his own, a handsome man really. Donovan embodied the ideal man with his grizzly dark features. Thick dark brown hair (when not under a wig) that extended into a ponytail that was tied with a bow at the back. His eyes were a voracious hazel that glimmered when the sun caught his eyes at the right angle and he was quite lean and fit, standard for any military man. Oh yes, Donovan fought for his country literally, during the peak of Great Britain he served in the royal military eventually working his way up to becoming one of the top generals in the motherlands army. The two seemed to be a match made in heaven, and indeed did heaven supply them with children, two to be clear. Their first son was Desmond, who inherited most of the traits from his father while earning himself the complexion of his mother. Clark on the other hand had fair colored hair and skin while earning almost nothing from his father.
Growing up was anything but difficult for the two, the most intense hardship they faced was the military teaching of their father. However, he wasn’t quite the authoritarian parent, only their superior when they were training. Outside of their training their father was quite the eloquent man and caring but stern father the boys needed to develop themselves. Celeste was quite the soft spoken, caring, and deeply loving mother any family would hope to have. There was never not enough space in her heart to care for them all and remain so boisterously happy all the time. Desmond being the eldest and more mature while also mentally inclined to learn new things. His curiosity was first sparked upon watching his mom paint, this routine behavior eventually established a connection between mother and son. Whenever there was time, Desmond would sit and watch his mother paint or sketch while they conversed until he picked up on his own. From then on Desmond would practice drawing until he was half the artist his mother was.
The two boys grew into very refined men and handsome ones at that. The two were polar opposites in terms of appearance and personality, but that didn’t sway them from having an eternal bond that transcended most. The two decided to follow in their father’s footsteps and enlist in the military; passing with flying colors the boys were now full-fledged men. Their first tour would be in the 13 colonies as the nationalist were trying to stray from England’s reign. This, this would be the beginning of the end for our blossoming solider, even if he didn’t know it yet.
Spring of Youth & Unrequited Love– 1764AD- Age:26
"Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye."
The two brothers landed in what appeared to be the small niche village of Salem, Massachusetts. Unlike the rest of the red coats, Desmond didn’t fancy the shrewd behavior conducted by others, power had never tainted him in the slightest. Rather than barge in on peoples home and harm their woman and steal their riches. Desmond and his brother sought out travel while in their service, the two turned to the posh colony of New York for its reputable name. Once settled in New York for a time, the two seemingly always attended any loyalist rally in order to keep their bonds alive with their mother country. On one particular autumn evening, there was one woman who caught the eye and heart of the young noble. It was love at first sight, time seemingly stopped in place and the crowd parted to either side in front of him leaving the woman alone in his plain of vision. His heart wrenched and the butterflies fluttered in his stomach. The wave of love and infatuation washed over him like a warm blanket in the winter. How could one never experience such a beauteous feeling and not succumb to it all at once was unknown to him. He had to have her
”Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but be struck by your beauty, I’m Desmond Grey, a pleasure.” Desmond said approaching the woman with a courteous bow and a smile that electrified the stands. ”The pleasure is all mine Monsieur, I’m Estelle Bourgeois.” the woman shared the same smile only hers a bit more provocative and sly, a fan jetting out from her sleeves as she fanned her face only to reveal her carnivorous eyes. A French beauty wouldn’t do this woman justice. Her features were delicate yet defined at the same time, he jaw had perfect definition. Her hair was a fiery auburn with a mixture of dark and light strands of hair, creating a dancing fire on her head. Her eyes in opposition were a tantalizing dark grey with specks of brown near the iris, neither of those equated to the accent that seemingly whisked the young British solider head over heels. “Would you mind if I took you around the land? Perhaps get to know more of the exquisite beauty in front of me?” the boys brave nature coming to surface. The French woman shut her fan in one fluid motion and gave him the most burrowing of stares, the idea rolled around in her mind until she finally moved forward, pressing close to him
”Darling, I’m already in your veins.”
The rest seemed to be history, the two connected rather quickly and so gave birth to the unrequited loved Desmond had for this lovely lass. Estelle was from her own prestigious family line dating all the way back in France. They were mostly known for being printers and writers, which worked well in compass with Desmond muse for drawing and illustrating. The two worked on several projects together over the years, publishing their own works as one and sending some back home to their families. His brother was quite happy for him although he hadn’t found himself a woman to woo, yet Desmond never faltered between diverting his attention to either one of them. Later that year the two decided to finally tie the noose and get married. Despite their families unable to attend the wedding, what few friends they had managed to show up and of course Clark was to his right side as his best man. It was clearly the happiest day of all of Desmond’s life. Soon after their marriage the three decided to return to Salem and settle down there for a while to escape the hustle and bust of the expanding boroughs of New York.
Procreation & A Declaration of War– 1765 AD- Age 27
"Older men declare war. But it is the youth that must fight and die."
This is a rather short journal entry in the life of Desmond Grey. A year passed and Estelle Grey gave birth to their first born son, a beautiful baby boy with all the redeemable features of his mother. The overwhelming rush of becoming a father could not be stolen from him, it was a sublime feeling. However, life had a funny way of taking the young and using them as weapons to fight wars of men much older than them. The tension between the Nationalist and Loyalist finally erupted and came to a head in 1765, war, otherwise known as the American Revolution sprang into action. The chaos that ensued enthralled the two brothers and sent them to the front lines, this of course meant Estelle had to sit back and watch their newly born son, Clark Jr. (named after his brother) while fearing for the safety and wellbeing of a newly branded new father.
Reunion, Birth, Pain– 1767 AD- Age 29
"Nothing wrong with people getting shot, as long as it’s the right people getting shot."
A gunshot to the head of trepidation, and a bullet to burrow into the chest of Desmond Grey. It all happened so fast, yet the feeling dragged on forever. Second turned into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into centuries; or not yet at least. The bullet ripped through his upper left chest exiting through his shoulder. The circular bullet ripping through his ligaments and tendons like branches and leaves that crumbled beneath him. The sudden numbing sensation bore fruit through his body as his body reacted before his mind could comprehend. The flame of the musket igniting the grayened gunpowder from his rifle as his body jerked backwards. The click and then the flash of smoke and light escaped his rifle as his bullet met the head of the nationalist scum who gave him his first taste of war. Darkness set in as his breathing became shallow, his back against the floor as his eyes struggled to stay open. The vision of his brother Clark screaming something inaudibly was his last memory before passing out.
A few months later.
Desmond fingered the cauterized wound that was the remnant of the bullet that nearly cost him his life. Remembering his mother’s sketches of human and anatomy and her published works peaked his interest in pursuing medicine, so he would never hurt like this again or any other solider for that matter. During the height of the American Revolution, Desmond managed to find time to return to his wife and continue in satisfying both of their primal urges. This led to another child being born into a time of chaos and disarray, this time it was a daughter though, Lilith was her name. A child so pure and full of life it was the same feeling he had with his first born, he was finally growing a family. Where one came another one followed, a son by the name of Arthur was born in succession of his eldest sister. What better way to share in his livelihood than with none other, but his father. Why was his father in Salem though? With the increasing battles and countless numbers of massacred soldiers, Great Britain called on its elite military guard to invade the colonies in order to salvage the war and turn the tides of battle. However, it was a little too late, the nationalist were growing in size and power and shifting the tides of battle, victory was within their reach. Yet the mother country pressed on to the very…last….breath.
Meet Your Maker– 1775 AD- Age 37
"To meet your maker, you must first meet your Destroyer."
Towards the end of the war, one significant battle took place in over to build the confidence needed for the British forces to continue their losing fight. The Battle of Bunker Hill otherwise known as breeds hill. 2,200 British forces descended on to the Charlestown Peninsula and then marched to Breed’s Hill. A standoff between Americans and British created a thick air of tension, little did the British know they had expended their ammunition and only had trace amounts left, ”Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” an American general told his men. The British were unsuccessful in mounting their attack, it took three attempts for them to climb the hill which also left them with amassed casualties, yet on the third attempt the British soldiers engaged the Americans in hand to hand combat. This is where our story truly begins, are you watching closely?
Our three musketeers: Desmond, Clark, and Donovan are locked in combat amongst the rage and confusion of the battlefield. Their father takes leads and decides to branch off and help other soldiers while Clark and Desmond stick together. The stench of blood reeks while the land is soaked in crimson and a thick layer of explosives. Men are fighting with their spirit and their fists, a true war fought with nothing but your body and mind. The two find themselves in a rather open field surrounded by an army of tree and overgrowth. There seems to be no nationalist in the area and the two are finally given a respite from battle. Desmond is beaming with sweat and bruises from his skirmishes while his brother still seems to be perfectly intact with even some ammo left to spare. ”Brother, must I fight all your battle for you? Or would you rather me dress you in a wig and dress and sell you off to the highest bidder?” Desmond laughed as he sucked in the cold air into his lungs while his hands were on his knees. His brothers cheeks rosined, ”Why don’t you go fuck off you arse, I bloody well should, I’m not made for this. Father always knew you had it in you, but not me. Should have let me gone to school I reckon.”
The two laughed and shared their moment of rest, but there was no sleep for the wicked. A darkness was manifesting itself in the direction of the two unsuspecting soldiers. His feet were deft and silent almost as if he was weightless. A brooding presence that swept up the land in command of his presence, the man, no, creature was of another world. His face was dark and brooding, thick and busheled eyebrows that furrowed and creased at the bridge of his nose. A rugged goatee that gave him that regnant look. Hair jet gray with enough length for it to be pulled back allowing for all the attention to divert to his dark facial features. And of course, the pure gray eyes with fangs that matched no other than a beast. The path of corpses led him to his next source of prey, finally two humans pumping full of blood with no injury, something with some fight. Abel, once a Shepard now a vampire, stalked his prey and watched as they guffawed at their own lives not knowing how weak they truly were. In a sudden rush of inhuman speed, Abel rushes the two brothers and plunges his fist into the sternum of Clark. A spray of blood erupts from his mouth as his body surges backwards leaving him unconscious but still breathing. This feeling, it was too familiar, the same feeling when he was shot back then. The pain surges through his chest as his mind races to process what’s happening.
Anger and inflexion grows rampant on his face, consuming Desmond. ”Clark! You’re going to PAY for that!” Desmond says belligerently as he attempts to swing. Years of practice and field experience should have made quick work of this fellow, yet he moved as smooth as silk and evaded all of his punches and jabs. Abel scoffed before grabbing his fist into his open palm and crushing Desmond hand like an egg, ”AHHHH!” Desmond screamed as his knees buckled and his breathing became rapid once more. ”You are nothing more than an insect beneath the ground I walk on. Why should I think of you when you don’t think of an ant when you step on one? Now it’s time for you to kill your brother.” the elder vampire said before burrowing his pitch gray eyes into the skull of Desmond. ”Why would I kill my brother you monster? Whatever you are I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch.” Abel perplexed was caught off guard that his compel had no effect on the rabid dog in front of him. He was a master how could this be? With a rallying cry Desmond buried his feet into the ground before pushing off and landing a haymaker on the elder vampire.
His head simply shifted to the side as if it had no effect on him. Desmond clueless was about to strike again before the vice like grip recaptured his hand, immobilized once again. Abel’s eyes slowly shifted over to the edges of his eyes as a sly smirk stitched itself onto his face. His free hand wiped the blood that ran from his lip as he turned his head back to normal alignment. ”Now look at you. I guess you’re more than just an ant, what luck. HA. And you have a backbone! That’s something so rare nowadays, your brother certainly doesn’t have either of your traits. Shame really, I would have liked to seen you kill your brother. Looks like I have OTHER plans. Hahaha.” his insidious laughter were nails on the chalkboard to Desmond, the anger coiled up inside of him. ”I don’t want any part of you—“ his sentence cut short before the fangs bore into his neck like drills sucking the essence out of his body. His body grew limp and weak as his life flashed before his eyes, the images of his children, of his wife, how he would leave them. The last thing before his mind turned blank was sorrow and regret, the image of his wife when they first met.
”Darling, I’m already in your veins.”
Abel removed his fangs from Desmond neck breathing in the ecstasy, there was something quite intoxicating about his blood especially. ”Don’t you die on me just yet big boy, I have plans for you.” Desmond sunk his teeth into his wrist letting blood pool to the surface before raising the boys head to his wrist and pushing the blood into his mouth. The taste of vampiric blood would enable his body to drink and feast without needing to be awake. ”That’s right drink up, only one more time after this and you’re mine. Now….what to do with that troublesome brother over there?” Abel’s ear flickered as he heard the approaching footsteps of an older man with a similar stench as the two surrounding him. A smile crept on his face, ”Oh Abel you quick witted dog you.” in a cool instant the vampire had disappeared and returned in a colonial British medic outfit he had confiscated from one of the dead soldier as he watched over Desmond.
”What’s going on here? Who are you? What happened? Oh my god….Desmond, Clark!” Donovan was pale white as he rushed to both sons, Clark first followed by Desmond, he was almost sobbing for a man as stoic and professional as he. Abel made sure to hide his fang marks on Desmond. ”These your kids? I’m a medic part of the royal army, I came as soon as I heard the commotion going on, those nationalist bastards ran when I shot first asked questions later. Seems like your son over there won’t wake up for another few hours, he’s mostly fine. Although this one needs my immediate medical assistance, I have a tent not too far from here where I can watch him for the night. I’m Adam by the way, pleasure to meet your acquaintance sir.” Donovan simply looked over at the man with the slightest suspicion that didn’t sit well with his gut, but his sons took priority and he nodded in agreement.
A few hours later
”He’s lost a lot of blood, I just put him on a second transfusion, so he’ll be fine in a few hours. You should go do some reconnaissance with the other generals, I can take care of your boys here.”Desmond came to, his body was weak, and his mouth wouldn’t spit the words tangled in his mouth as his cloudy eyes took in the scene. His body betrayed him and wouldn’t move while he eyed down Abel and tried to warn his father. The question of why he was still alive was diverted to the sidelines as he pleaded with his body to let him speak. Donovan shook his head in disappointment as he agreed and begin to walk out of the tent, before realizing that Desmond was alive. Stopping his exit he turned to look at his son, ”Desmond?” Abel rolled his eyes and rested a hand on Desmond that paralyzed his body, his neck snapped to Donovan as his eyes filled with gray mist and his compelling sprung to life, ”They need you old man now get the fuck out of here.” Donovan like an empty husk walked out of the tent while Abel turned his attention back to Desmond. ”Shhhhhh” his body collapsed under the fatigue as he passed out once more.
A few more hours later
Desmond shot up from his cot feeling refreshed, confusion erupted out of his body as his mouth lay agape as he stared at his arms that rotated in and out. There was no wounds on him, more importantly he was alive. His body felt different, power surged through his body, his five sense had been escalated. He could hear every crunch of leaves, every rodent, every trickle of water in the distance, it was all so overwhelming. Then there was the hunger, the fever, the rage, the feeling of powerlessness that turns good men…cruel. Desmond caught Abel’s gaze in the corner of the room watching him as his metamorphosis was complete. Desmond in a rage sprung to his feet and bolted cross the room in an instant, his hand wrapped around Abel’s neck as he lifted him off the floor. His eyes were flushed with gray and his newfound fangs sprang into action. ”Whoa there tiger, slow your role cowboy.”
Abel brought down an elbow breaking the grip of Desmond followed by rapid movements which led to a pole being plunged into the newly born vampire’s calf tethering him to the floor. ”That should heal up in a few minutes, plenty of time for me to do this. Hate to make you go through with this kid, but you need to learn how to become a hunter like me. You’re the next apex predator in the food chain, you don’t have enough hatred in you to kill me yet. I’ve been waiting for someone special like you to come along. It’s been centuries since I’ve been tested or had a spawn. Anyways au revoir.” Abel said tapping two fingers off his head before turning to Clark and feasting on his neck like a vicious animal as he sucked the life out of his body slowly but surely. All Desmond could do was watch, forcing his calf through the thick pole it moved slowly and the pain was still existent, ”NOOOOO! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!” a mix of blood curdling spite and anger mixed through his thundering voice. Abel turned and shrugged before making his way to the exit, ”Better hurry kid, daddies home.” and just like that he was gone. Fear set in once more on the budding vampire as he heard his father’s footsteps approaching rapidly.
Biting through the pain, Desmond ripped his calf through the pole letting out a small singe of pain and spittle. The smell of blood tugged at the strings of his stomach as his eyes and teeth were still exposed, his calf healed almost immediately as he turned to face the sound of the opening tent curtain. Donovan dropped his rifle and looked at the scene with horror, his skin had gone white again and his body began to shake violently as he began to heave. Sadness turned to anger as he saw the monster his son had become and assumed he had violently turned on his brother and consumed his flesh. ”YOU! You did this! You’re a monster! You’re no son of mine. You killed your brother and now you just stand there. Where did the medic go? You should have been the one on that table Desmond, not Clark. I was wrong about you. I will atone for my sins.” Donovan picked up the rifle he had so callously dropped and aimed it at Desmond. ”Wait dad it’s me! I didn’t do this I swear it was that medic, you have to believe me. I didn’t want this, I didn’t want any of this! I don’t even know what I am. PLEASE DON’T DO THIS.” the vampire pleaded, but his father had already decided.
The barrel released a bullet that burrowed into the flesh of Desmond biting him once more with the familiar feeling of powerlessness. Charging at his son he thrusted the rifle into him knocking him off his feet before he wrestled him to the floor and began pound on his skull. His fists were like boulders as they crushed his face, the powerlessness was taking him away once again, was this really the end for Desmond Grey. As his vision began to wane a figure began to walk closer into frame, at first he thought it was his wife come to say goodbye once more, but upon second inspection it was Abel, ”Come to me Cain.” something along the way snapped inside of Desmond’s mind, plunging him into the eternal darkness he would never be able to walk back from. In a fit of rage and anger Desmond kicked his father off of his body sending him flying across the room. Desmond followed promptly sinking his own blows into his father’s skull, but his were more comparable to freight trains than simple boulders. Blood splattered out of his body like a wet sponge with every hit, his pale skin was coated in the splatter of his father’s essence. A single droplet singed the tip of his tongue which sent Desmond into a frenzy.
Removing him from the wall he grabbed his father by the collar and saw a ripe bustling vein in his neck ready to be mined. Jerking his head back and opening his mouth he clamped down on his father neck and drained the life from his father’s body. There was no flailing around or resistance only stumbled words and life escaping his vision. Desmond drained his father until his hunger was satisfied only then did he remove his fangs and cradle his father in his arms. The first stroke of his intimate relationship with his victims. Donovan looked up to his son in his final moments and glided a weak finger from his cheek down to his chin, ”Watch over your mother my son, I…love…you…” Desmond began to sob feverishly as he rocked his father’s now lifeless body in his arms, ”No..nooo…..no dad wake up, wake up! Dad!” Desmond cried out in pain as he was surrounded in the death of his family and the birth of a creature he no longer recognized. And so thus begins the crucible of the cursed Desmond Grey.
Mother Dearest– 1783 AD- Age 45
"Happy is the son whose faith in his mother remains unchallenged."
Delirious from his psychotic break and on a bender of feasting on the blood of American soldiers, Desmond lost all track of time and location. The thought of his children and wife had faded to black as his mind became a cesspool for nihilism, pessimism, and backwards thought. Desmond carried on like this for what seemed like years, matter of fact it was years he had spent feeding and nurturing the beast within him. Many lives crossed his path and none of them ever seemed to stick, besides the blood that was thick and stuck to his skin like a stained shirt. Somehow the monster that was now in possession of Desmond’s mind was able to cover his tracks and clean himself up despite his mind wandering through time and space. It wasn’t until he stumbled into a bar did his relapse into humanity first peer its head at him. Another day another victim to patiently wait to leave the bar in a drunken stupor, they usually tasted the worst, but were the easiest to drain. Sitting at attention in the bar the couple next to him couldn’t help but fight incessantly, it began to irk the dark passenger within Desmond.
”Celeste you miserable cunt! I told you not to interrupt me drinking hour.”
”Me mum was right about you, you ain’t never gonna be nothing but pig shite.”
The worlds drummed through his mind like drums of war, the black shroud began to crack and crumble as the name repeated in his mind, Celeste. Why was that name so familiar? Desmond began to violently shake his head as the image of his mother was searing into his mind. The shroud dissolved by the procurement of light wrapped in a memory of Desmond running into his mother’s arms. Celeste The cloak of his ruthless killer had all but left, it just needed one last sacrifice before Desmond could reclaim his humanity. Tapping the shoulder of the obnoxious man berating the woman, he turned to look in disgust, ”Oi, what do you want ya cunt?” Desmond laughed which was proceeded by the man’s head smacking off the bar and knocking him out promptly after. A stranger in a foreign land, this was a good time to go home, but wasn’t home with his family?
A few days later
Desmond hitched a ride back to Great Britain, although it was different than he imagined, the revolution had lasting impacts on his home country. This wasn’t his land anymore either, he was a stranger everywhere he went. It didn’t take long for him to find his way back to his mother’s where he was less than jovial as he expected. The word of all three of her men’s deaths from the war reached her ears when they couldn’t reclaim Desmond’s body. The sudden grief and disbelief snapped something within her mentally. It seemed like she had some form of dementia or some degree of hysteria, the medicine wasn’t viable back then so doctors were clueless. This spurred Desmond on even more to pursue medicine in order to right the wrongs of his past. And so days passed and as much as Desmond took care of his mother as she did for him when he was a wee lad, she seemed to remain unresponsive even in the face of her last living son. It wasn’t until Desmond began to paint as an ode to his mother did he start to notice her mind rehabilitating. The more he drew in her studio with her at his side the more responsive she became every day. There was movement in her eyes and small words started to populate from her weakened mouth.
Celeste was old now, but her beauty never faded it was just the minor introduction of wrinkles and loose skin with a slight graying of her beautiful hair. While Desmond’s art skilled accelerated and transformed over the years, his mother started her journey to the canvas once more. From small sketches like a vase to more detailed sketches, she came more to life. The more she breathed in her old life the more danger Desmond was eliciting her to. Her despondent mind started to piece together the image of her son from old to the one who stood in front of her now, she finally made the connection they were both the same person, but how? Her son died long ago in the war. A mother’s intuition is always right and the feeling of death radiated off of her son like an erupting volcano. The once caring and loving mother began to relapse into her mind one again. Her psychotic episodes began to flood her mind once more as she relinquished the brush and took to arms against Desmond. Confused Desmond didn’t know how to react, he hoped if he kept painting with her she would resume to her rehabilitated state, he was wrong of course. One evening while they were in the foyer painting his mother finally snapped and used all her strength to lift herself from her prison.
”You killed them, you murdered them! What did you do to my baby? Where’s your father? Answer me!” she said distraught as she lunged at Desmond with a sharpened paintbrush. ”Mom, it’s me Desmond remember? You’re little light? I drew all these paintings for you. I didn’t kill anyone, I ran from the battlefield after Clark and Dad were killed, I’m a coward.” his truths were sprinkled with lies that his mother could see through even with her psychotic episode. ”Then why do you not age Desmond? I feel that darkness inside you, I’m your mother! You can’t lie to me. You’re a monster now, how could you kill them?” her voice cracked as she began to sob whilst stabbing the brush into Desmond’s skin. Unable to hurt his mother and feeling the guilt seethe inside of him, Desmond let his mother attack him, it’s what he deserved. Desmond began to sob too as blood trickled down his face and soaked his shirt. . ”I didn’t mean to. I love all of you. I don’t know what happened, I never wanted any of this! I just want our life back!” It was too late, Abel sealed his fate that night in the forest.
By now his mother’s mind had completely fizzled into pudding and her eyes became glazed over, the monotonous stabbings continued only due to muscle memory. The blows lightened and began to slow in repetition as her catatonic state was on the heels of her body. Desmond not wanting to let his mother suffer as a vegetable for the rest of her life thought of the only thing that could grant her sweet release. Fighting through his tears his fangs protruded once more as he clasped his arms around the weakened and significantly smaller mother he had originally known. Her skin sagged with the plunge of his teeth, blood gushed into his mouth, the taste of illness ripe on his tongue. Why does this keep happening to me? he thought while his mother slipped off into oblivion, her facial expression unchanging since her mind was already lost. Yet something awe inspiring happened the more he drained his mother. Starting from the feet up a total recreation of his mother, her image manifested itself in Desmond’s vision. This wasn’t the older woman that was being drained from him, but the spitting image of his mother from his youth.
”I’m here now child, hush your crying, mommy is here.” Despite his mind playing obvious tricks on him as a figment of his imagination, Desmond continued to believe that his mother was still with him. This fed into the start of his mother complex, he needed her guidance and her acceptance, she was the woman he loved most in the world growing up and now he had to repay her for the years he lost with her while he was away. The angel on his shoulders soon disappeared before his eyes as well leaving him stranded. In a sorrowful rage and the guilt of euthanizing his mother and killing his father came to a forefront in his mind. Rushing to the bathroom, Desmond turned the faucet on to the hottest setting and began to furiously scrub the blood off of his hands, yet it wouldn’t fade. Wash after wash he would scrub until his skin was pruned and bleeding, but his feeling factor kept them from damage. ”It’s okay, I’ll always be with you. I’ll be your light when you need me little one.” punching the mirror he let loose the reigns of his dark passenger onto the world once again.
The years in between became another droll frenzy that rose into a massacre, the Americans had felt his wrath, it was time for England to know of his name and power. In his killing state his mother was the only thing that kept him sane, she helped piece together the medical knowledge he learned in the war with the knowledge she knew from writing so many peer edited articles on human anatomy. Together with his knowledge and thirst for blood, Desmond took over Great Britain by storm, using military men as scapegoats for his powerlessness in the forest. His mother’s light wavered his soul so much his frenzy came to an abrupt halt. The ghost of his mother haunted him and planted the seed of doubt in his mind, did he really deserve to be alive? With enough knowledge of medicine, Desmond concocted an extremely potent poison that could kill a man 12 times over. Forging a wooden coffin in the basement of his old home he drank the poison in hopes of ending his suffering, but it would not take. The poison simply left our anti-hero in a coma for the next few decades, eating away at his strength as he decomposed.
Awakening & Flames of Betrayal– 1861 AD- Age 123
“It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you."
”Darling, I’m already in your veins.”
His eyes flashed open while his mouth gasped for air, Desmond was live as the image of his wife came blurting into his head. His body was frail and weak despite his best efforts to kill himself, he would have died if his body didn’t create a cryogenic like sleep state where his body froze with the poison coursing through his veins. Feed the words plagued his head like an early alarm with no snooze button. Meekly pushing the top off his coffin, Desmond fell to floor in atrophied pain. Feed again the word rang through his head, the only thing propelling him was the guilt of forgetting about his family who should be dead at this point in time. Crawling up the stars, Desmond groaned and pushed his limits until he was at the top of the stairs. His mother’s body had long since rotted and turned to bone in the 78 years since he arrived. Starved for nutrients he blocked the resurgence of his mother’s imagine in his head in order to survive. A rat scurried across the floor carefully making its way to her bones while Desmond stood perfectly still. 3….2….1… his arm jetted out before picking the rat up and sinking his teeth into the bubonic rodent.
A small squeal escaped it’s lungs before it perished in his hands, some of his strength returned to him. Enough for him to work his way up the food chain, rat tasted like ass, but so did most things that weren’t human. Cats and Dogs were next before he moved onto cattle in farms, which eventually led to him finally working his way onto humans, this was the first time his dark passenger and humanity aligned enough to work together. His family fresh on his mind, Desmond cleaned himself up shaving off the layers of dried matted hair and bustling facial hair. Once again a redeeming citizen, Desmond found himself on the first boat back to the America’s. Time was a construct Desmond seemed to be a slave to, there was never a time where he felt caught up on the times. The boat ride gave him time to think, time to rekindle the memories that had all but burn up on reentry to the earth after his last bender. How could he be so stupid? To leave his family and forget about them, not even a second look back when deciding to go back to his mother land. Perhaps the news would break his wife too and lead down the same twisted road he had just walked with his mother.
As the tides churned so did his stomach as the boat made contact with the port city. It didn’t take long for Desmond to reach Salem and start looking for his lost long love and children. What was he thinking? Estelle was long dead with her kids being scattered through the land or worse. Regardless of his inhibitions, Desmond decided to press on. Attending the local library with a record of the census for the last several years, Desmond searched countless books following the trail of his wife. It seemed she had remained in Salem for quite some time until she---his heart dropped when he saw the change within the books. Her last name had changed and she was remarried to a family with the last name, Nino. The trail ran cold afterwards, and the only state that she moved down to was Tennessee.
Desmond made his way down to Tennessee, the more things changed the more they stayed the same however. While the landscape and cities changed somewhat architecturally and the way people dressed, not much else had changed in the time Desmond was gone. As he traveled by horse spending a few days on the road from Salem to Chattanooga, he had a rough go at things. With no money on hand and awkward side glances earned by passerbyers, due to his displacement in time and location, Desmond mostly camped outside with the occasional good natured soul to help him. Once in Tennessee it wasn’t hard for Desmond to locate the property of his ex-wife’s newly acquired last name. During his time away the one thing that did ultimately change was the addition of slavery to America, people were now bought and used as property, but only if they were burdened with the trait of dark skin. The prospect disgusted Desmond, yet the prospect of living forever as a creature of the night also ran parallel. Estelle was housed in the largest plantation in Tennessee. Having cleaned himself up moderately, Desmond walked through the gates and up to the door before greeted by one of the house slaves.
“Pardon Sur, How may I be of help to you?” The apt slave asked Desmond, “I’m doing well, I’m looking for Mrs. Estelle Gre—Nino” Desmond said stumbling over his words knowing his wife had moved on. “Ahh yes sur, I’ll be happy to show you to the Missus” The door opened and Desmond walked in promptly after the house slave. The taste of the mansion was surely expensive, far from anything Desmond could have provided for her. Was she so vain to have changed so much in such a short period of time? As Desmond climbed the stairs pictures of Estelle began to gain in consistency, first by herself then with his children. The image of his children still being alive shook his very foundations and almost pulled the tears from his eyes. Had it not been for one startling revelation he would have lost composure, time and logic hit him like the first bullet of the musket that tore into his human flesh. His children were the same age as they were when he first left them, Estelle hadn’t aged either. Something was terribly wrong, nothing seemed to add up in his mind, they should all be dead. “Uhhh, Excuse me, how long has the Lady of the Manor been here with her children?” Turning to face the slave, “About 10 year’s sur.”
Stunned Desmond climbed the stairs faster looking for the answers scrolled on the walls. Finally at the top of the stairs, one photo that dwarfed the rest in size and quality. Desmond black heart had been crippled in fear before dropping into the pits of his stomach, at the head of the portrait was none other than the vampire who turned him, Abel. A rage washed over him that emanated a strong aura of malice and death, the house slave next to him began to feel the negative energy absorb into his skin and began to sweat uncomfortably. “Excuse me Sur are you okay? The lady of the house just lies straight ahead” like a fly buzzing in his ear, Desmond swatted the pestilence away. Desmond consumed by his insidious rage flung his hand and wrapped it snuggly around the slaves neck before snapping it and watching the soul of an innocent man leave his body. The snarling vampire kicked down the door alerting the female house slaves, with a myriad of gasps the reality of their situation weighed in. Shrieks and screams consumed the room and his time alone had been cut in half do to his irrational behavior.
“GET OUT!” Desmond roared as the slaves ran past him only leaving Estelle who hadn’t as much flinched an inch. This only angered the vampire even more, “Look at me!” Desmond howled, yet she made no effort to look at her husband. “So it looks like you survived, that’s good to know” her tone bitter and filled with apathy. Desmond’s anger began to fade as his rational mind began to shine through and absorb the woman who seemingly forgotten about him. “It wasn’t by choice, I was turned into a monster, but I’m sure you know about that, don’t you?” Desmond returned the impartial speech back at his wife. “Yet you choose to come back now? I did what was best for our family after you left. I’m not proud of it either” Desmond scoffed, “What’s best? You turned our children into killers, you married the man who turned me into this thing and killed my family!” This was the first time Estelle was provoked by emotion, she turned to face him. Her face ageless as the day he left her, her eyes penetrated his none existent soul, a look of strife in her face. Estelle walked towards Desmond before slapping him square in the face. “You did this. I thought you died and left us behind like you promised you wouldn’t. You stupid idiot, I didn’t want any of this I just wanted you” her voice went from the stoic rigid demeanor to a weak meager tone.
Desmond confused, but also remorseful in his unfulfilled promises tried to take her in his arms. She struggled and pushed against him at first before she quickly gave up and allowed him to console her. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left, but why did you turn?” The question still bothering his mind, “I didn’t want to be changed, but we had nowhere else to go and no money. He suddenly appeared and had everything we could ever need. He….he….he said he knew you and told us this is what you would have wanted. I should have never let this happen, I just didn’t know what to do Desmond. You have to go before anyone sees us, we can talk again later.” Her composure was once again regained as she was a very professional woman. “Where is he now?” Desmond thirsty for some information before his premature departure from the plantation, footsteps echoed in the courtyard. “He’s an army general for the Confederate states. Now go I…..love you” With one step and a quick lunge the girl kissed him squarely on the mouth before departing from the lingering connection the two still shared. Stunned, Desmond had no other option than to act first and think later. Crashing through the window in her room, Desmond made his way out of the plantation with one thing on his mind. Revenge
Civil War & The Ashes of Tomorrow– 1864 AD- Age 126
“A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green."
Time was all Desmond had, three years since he last saw his wife and kids, three long years since he could do anything to return to what he had. Doubt plagued the back of his mind like a disease, if she couldn’t wait several decades what made him think she could wait three more measly years. Desmond left that fated reunion to return back to the northeast coast of America, but not to Salem, instead he went to New York where he had first met Estelle. As quickly as he could Desmond enlisted in the war fighting under the guise of the union. A simple combat medic felt appropriate to him as he worked his way up the ladder of command in those three years. Every moment he wasn’t treating the wounded or fighting off confederate soldiers, he spent studying and learning the behavioral patterns of one General Abel Nino. Desmond tracked his battles over the years and knew his next location, the battlefield that would be chosen to be their destined terrain. Franklin, Tennessee.
“FIRE!” the roar of a shell exiting the mouth of the allied howitzer whizzed through the air before hitting hard pay dirt on the opposite side, instantly consuming the land below it and the lives of countless men. Through the wisps of smoke created as a byproduct of the cannon fire was a hail of rifles, men rode in on horses that quickly neighed in pain when they were shot or cut down. November 30th, 1864 the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee. It was four hours deep in the soon to be five hour battle, the angered confederate Lieutenant General John Bell has engaged the union forces in an open field staring down enemy repeaters and heavy artillery. The 27,000 men engaged in combat would be annihilated in a myriad of gunfire and open combat. Men died standing up as the bodies stacked around them were too tight to permit them to fall. The perfect storm for two men tied together by the red string of fate to meet their demise. Desmond had lost himself to the madness that befallen he once the anticipation and scent of blood marinated in his nostrils. Tearing through confederate soldiers left and right he made his way to the tether he could feel he had with his maker. The carter house, the epicenter of the battle, was a mere speck in the distance as the two were left to their own devices.
Desmond dispatched the rest of the remaining confederate forces that clogged his way to the open field where Abel stood with his back turned to Desmond. “Look at me. Look at me as I kill you for what you did to my family you monster” Abel turned around in a whimsical gesture, offending his offspring in obnoxious manner. “I think you mean my family Desmond. Oh doesn’t that make us brothers of the flesh? In more ways than just one” Abel targeting the boy’s soft spots, “I did enjoy my time excavating her French caverns. And how sweet your boys are, I could swear they call me daddy by now.” Desmond choking on his rage grabbed a limp body and threw it with inhuman strength at Abel while rushing to his blind side. Abel knocked the body out of the way only to barely block the haymaker coming from Desmond, both arms guarded his head as the force propelled him some feet away, leaving him on the floor. With another gurgling roar Desmond sprinted to Abel, relentless in pursuit, denying the possibility of recovery. His hands came down together like thunder from the sky as he clapped his hands together in a harmonizing motion. The thunderclap rippled through his body like open circuits as the frivolous attempts at standing were crucified by Desmond’s unquelled rage.
Desmond dropped down to a crouch while he grabbed the head of Abel lifting his face off the dirt, his hair matted and crusted with dirt while blood oozed from his mouth and nose. “…Is that all you got junior? You’ve gotten soft in your age hahahaha” blood sputtered out akin to a water spigot, showing no inclination is taking his invitation to ruse mistakes out of Desmond, he continued his work. Smashing his face back into the earth he ran alongside him using his face as a plow, quite poetic in the biblical sense since Cain tilled the soil while Abel was supposed to be the Shepard. Abel tilled the fresh soil before his face was lifted and collided with the rigid bark of the oak tree in front of him. Desmond raised his head slowly while bark grinded itself into the flesh of his maker. Desmond broke off trunks and ran one through the left hand of Abel, pinning him to the tree. The process was repeated with his other hand and his two feet, there wasn’t much fight left in the old vampire, but that didn’t sit well with Desmond, he wanted a fight and knew Abel would be the only one to give him that luxury, the fear and intimacy of death.
After his agonized pains left his mouth Desmond ripped his head back so he could look into his dead absent eyes. “Why aren’t you fighting back? I thought you wanted to win” Desmond spat, “Hahaha my dear boy don’t you see that I’ve already won? This is my victory lap” Desmond suddenly perplexed tried to mask his confusion with anger. “What did you do? Is this some sort of trap? What petty tricks are you up to?” Abel just began to cackle louder and louder, “Oh Desmond my dear boy, it looks like you’re doomed to suffer the same fate you did the first time. Oh how pained you were when I killed your brother and made you turn against your father. Do you remember that fondly? What did that old coot say ”I love you son” was it? How utterly ridiculous and contrived. If he cared about you at all he wouldn’t have tried to kill you, you clearly weren’t his favorite. No…you were the apple of my eye though, I saw great things in you and I still do. I’ll forever serve as a reminder to become a better you, one that can finally outshine me as an Elder. If you hurry now you still might be able to save them.” Abel guffawed as blood rushed up his esophagus while it burned his stomach lining.
The gears in Desmond’s head began to spin uncontrollably, them? The image flashed into his mind when Abel mentioned him resigning to his fate. Estelle, the kids, family. Desmond with a look of utter despair and horror turned to Abel once more and tore at his throat as his hands clasped tighter than any noose that carried a sentence around his neck. Words forcing themselves through shut teeth, “WHERE…ARE…THEY?!” Abel opened his mouth once more, “Don’t you see? I’ve already won like I told you. Let’s just say I lured you out here and told some Hunters the location of some vile vampires and how one of them turned her children into the same twisted fate as she was plagued with. Oh I don’t supposed you know what those are. Hunters well hunt, but not any wolf or bear no no no, they hunt the exotic animals like you and I or werewolves. Yes those exist to, this isn’t the same world you once knew child. They don’t particular take too kindly to vampires who turn children same goes for women but it’s too late for that. There’s other vampires out there boy remember that, there might come a day where it would serve you best. Now you better hurry time is ticking away and I hear they love to use fire hahaha” even in death, Abel managed to mock Desmond.
With one furious roar mixed with sorrow Desmond twisted Abel’s neck for what would be several turns of the head. The life left his eyes as the neck snapped and gnawed at the stretching flesh hoping to be released. Impressions of bone were left permeating through the skin while his neck elongated several inches higher than the average persons. Abel was dead with the first half snap, the rest were added measure and debilitated closure for Desmond. Desmond rushed back to the plantation as fast as he could but it was already too late. The slaves had all but left leaving the chains that imprisoned them behind, the fields of cotton were set ablaze as it consumed the whole farm. Abel was the first to die while Cain became evil and perpetuated violence and hate. Running through the inferno Desmond entered the homes elegant front doors, the house was empty save the echo of Desmond’s own voice as he cried out for his love. Rising to the top of the stairs he kicked Estelle’s door in, only to find signs of a struggle and the screams coming from her open window. The backyard. Cain was powerless as he stood and watched as his wife and two sons were roped and rigged to three make shift wooden crosses piled high with sticks and kindling. The flames were already running up their legs cleansing and purging them of their vile sin.
Estelle looked up to the window feeling Desmond’s presence, her mouth whispered words he couldn’t hear. Their skin turned black, kissed with the embers consuming their skin, before they turned into ash in all of seconds, no bones, no teeth, no trace. The wind carried her message to his ears before she perished, ”I love you darling, you’re already in my veins.” The only light left in his pitch black heart had died out and with it, Desmond’s revenge. Suddenly an image appeared behind him in the reflection of the glass window, his mother had manifested herself back into his life. ”Go my child, do your due diligence and extinguish those hunters flame as they did to your family.” The sickness, the rage, toiled back into his body, fueling his hatred, guiding his path. The glass shattered and before the Hunters could look over to see, Desmond was already on them. One Hunter already missing an arm as Desmond pulled it apart as if it were a torn page from a book. Stakes and crossbows were fumbled in hand, but there was hesitation in the monster unleashed. Like a shroud of darkness Desmond enveloped the two reaming hunters. A hand buried in the neck of one while a stake pierced the chest of the other, a play that has reached its conclusion or was it a self fulfilling tragedy?
The Whitechapel Murderer – 1888-1891 AD- Age 149
“One day men will look back and say I gave birth to the twentieth century."
Shortly after the war Desmond retired once again back to his homeland. There was nothing left for him this time in America nor would their ever be. Being back in London only strengthened the manifestations of his mother in his mind while the thought of mating or being with any other woman than his wife repulsed him. Time had changed so rapidly and sex appeal was emerging rampantly in London abbeys. ”Shameful women Desmond, They must be purged. this obsession gave birth to a new type of bloodshed. Returning to his old abandoned house, Desmond created a lab where he could study and sharpen all his medical and surgical knowledge acquired from all the wars and killings he was a veteran to. The house and mother strengthened the resolution he had when he was first shot in the chest, only his surgical knowledge wouldn’t be utilized to help people.
Cut. Slice. Rip. Repeat. Cut. Slice. Rip. Repeat. Cut. Slice. Rip. Repeat.
The necks of pretty little prostitutes from the slums of the East End of London were slit followed by the ceremonious removal of internal organs and abdominal mutilations. His modus operandi became widely known through the annals of history, first he was the Whitechapel Murderer than he earned himself the title Jack the Ripper. His harrowing tactics and narcissistic arrogance led him to communicate with local law enforcement as he alluded all investigations and led the world into the twentieth century as one of the most infamous serial killers of London.
Intermission – 1892-1898 AD- Age 153
“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered."
Having gained too much notoriety in London for his stint in killing impure woman, Desmond managed to escape the catacombs his mother buried deep within him along with the memory of his wife. Forever will she be in his mind, but buried deeper than purgatory between them. Desmond returns to America to continue his killing spree and return to where it all began, Salem.
The Hunter becomes the Hunted – 1898-1908 AD Age 159
“You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.”
Before Desmond could travel to Salem, he had some unfinished business in Tennessee to tend to. Digging into the cold earth, Desmond retrieved the old gnarled and rotted bones of his maker. A fire was made before he cracked and threw the bones to let the flames of revenge eat away at the last mark he had on this life, all but his progeny. Yet there was something odd about his travels, it felt as though and extra pair of eyes had been heavy on his trail everywhere he went. There was no one who could have known of his crimes in London and if so they would have caught him when he was in London, so why was there a creeping suspicion in the back of his throat? Desmond rising to the challenge his maker left him decided to allow his tail to follow him as to sniff out the hunter.
Death is a creature that is mysterious, that is beautiful, that transcends understanding, but it is also a creature that breaks bonds and defiles the sanctity of truth. Then you might ask, what kind of man could would follow such a creature, trust that its course is just and true. There’s only one man, the only thing most remember about him is his blue curious orbs, a man named Mathias.
Mathias is an old vampire, one who seen much in his many years on earth. He is a man fascinated with death, one who stood as a vigil over wars and death. He has seen many wars, many deaths, but every once and awhile there is a kindred soul for him, one who embodies death more than him. Mathias encountered one such soul during his time in the London of the late 1800s. It all started as a slow arousal of the city, ending in a climax. He first noticed the sweet creature in the form of a young strumpet laying on the ground with her chest split open. But it was the presentation that initially caught his eye, the way her body laid on the cobblestone sidewalk, the calculated and emotion filled lacerations on her face and chest, the precision used to open up the chest cavity, and the still foggy air that carried the scent of death. He was frozen in shock at the masterpiece placed in front of him. Mathias was a clergyman at All Hallows Barking, and truly did think there was a god after this show. After the authorities were contacted, he found himself looking and listening for the next sighting of his new “pet.” He would not see the creature until a week later, and not just one but two harlots where found in the most mouth watering fashion. This is when the arousal grew in the city, and caused old London to blush.
Death after death, murder after murder, blood stained the streets, the sweet smell of crimson ichor permeated the air, and it was all because of this majestic being. Mathias was quick to find out the name people had given it was “Jack the Ripper”, in honor of how he ripped these whores open. Mathias was able to easily pick up his pattern and was soon granted an private audience with the little killer. It now had a face, a body, a identity, “he” was a man, a young vampire that carried a dark aura, even darker than the night. The man ripped, cut, and slashed at the girl all while she silently pleaded for her life in the form whimpers and quiet moans of pain. Anyone would have mistaken these two for young lovers plunging into the depths of lust, but Mathias saw through that facade and look at the situation for what it really was; a killing. He wanted to speak, make a friend, learn from a master, be in his mind, but instead he watched and stuck to his role as vigil.
Mathias continued to watch and take note, he even found the secret place where Jack would toy and play with his cadavers. For the three years he was in London, Jack entransed Mathias to no end, but all of that would soon come to the end. On the day Desmond, Mathias had learned his real name, had decided London everything would change, Mathias quietly followed him to the Americas and watched as his creature became a real “human”.
Desmond continued his return to Salem to restructure his life and continue his lust for blood. The hunger was outweighed by the creeping suspicion of a stalker in his midst. It wasn’t just a gut feeling or a knee jerk reaction, there was someone who had followed him from London then to Tennessee and now Salem. Just who was dumb enough or skilled enough to follow and evade Desmond’s attempts at shaking lose his tail? Having arrived back in Salem, just on the brief outskirts of town, Desmond waited in the open field that was prairie land attached to a large cliff fall that bled into the ocean. The waves were ferocious and eager to swallow up any morsel of a soul who dare challenge the hide tides and the wave pools that had claimed so many before. Desmond would be a cornered beast no longer, Abel was the only chance at his demise, and he would not see his own now. Fear should have been dripping off his body, saturated in anxiety, but Desmond was resolute in his actions.
“You can come out now, I know you’ve been following me since London. You’re not good at hiding.”
Mathias smirked at Desmond, the connection was broken, and the art show closed. Mathias had lost a young curator and his death was the byproduct of this “man’s” birth before him. No longer was he the creature casted in shadow, haunted by screams, a cohort of death. Instead he was a broken vampire who barely knew his as from his fangs, and it disgusted Mathias. He wasted years of his life pinning over nothing but a pretender, a false prophet, one who knew nothing of true death and was simply putting on a show. Mathias was angry, hurt, and sad, the new found love of his life was a fake and needed to feel some inkling of his pain. The elder had no fear in disrupting the young one, he had no fear in snapping the twig and startling the beast, and boldly walked out into the clearing where he could be seen.
“I have never hid from you, I simply watched from your shadow, a place not many would check. But the same could not be said from you…LIAR…Fake...Charlatan!!” Mathias said, his voice was quiet and even at the beginning but he ended in a yelling rage, letting the disappointment and anger seep into every word.
His secret admirer had finally had the gall to break the silence and end the reign of stalking by emerging out of the shadows. The man was old, his wrinkles layered around the corners of his eyes and around his neck. Short and bald too, there was nothing appealing whatsoever about this man. He had a thin and slight goatee that was fringed with gray hair. The off-putting appearance didn’t help calm the stigma of being a stalked. Desmond was wrapped in a bundle of confusion, who was this person? Any fear or suspicion was suspended from belief. “Uhhh listen I think you have me confused with someone else. I don’t want to hurt you so let’s settle this quickly. I have to get home” Desmond laughed his way off the random situation he was displaced in.
Mathias looked taken aback by the young creatures dismissal attention to his existence. Mathias was owed an explanation, he wanted reasoning to path he was led down and if he had to use force to get his answers then so be it. Now, in all his years Mathias was no fighter, sure he was an old vampire with great amount of strength but he was not one so easily inclined to violence. He has had his fair share of trade with hunters and wolves, but at his age dancing around them was no problem. Mathias was a poet, a man of the pen and mind, not the sword and body.
”No so fast young one, I have some questions that need to be answered. Like Why would you do that, ending a glorious career filled with blissful death to the hands of some flawed child. You threw away amazing talent, a gift from god himself for what?! Revenge...Because he hurt your weak family…Ugh disgusting!” Mathias said in a scolding tone, he hated what Desmond did to himself, he hated what Desmond did to him. Sucked him into his black hole only to be pushed out with a slap on the cheek.
Desmond’s eyes rolled and his tongue was in cheek, his good mood had turned sour in hearing his prospects. This man clearly knew of Abel and Cain on a level he was uncomfortable with, Desmond was still fresh off his last feast before taking the plight back to Salem, so his feeding schedule was right around this time. “Like I said I don’t owe you anything and I don’t know who you are, but if you keep watching me I’ll show you a not so blissful death. My family is….was none of your concern. I make my own decisions or did you forget that when you followed me in London. Jack the Ripper? Lest you forget old man.”
Mathias chuckled at his petty threat again. The weakness that oozed form this one was to great to walk past, but that same weakness also drove the elders anger with himself. He was mad at being fooled so well. ”Don’t owe me anything? BUT YOU DO!!! You owe me, a loyal fan, with an explanation to this anti-climatic ending of my Jack the Ripper. You think I care about your ashed family, all I care about was the death of a friend and the unsightful creature in front of me who killed it. You had no right to take it away from me, No right to ruin everything.”
His tongue in cheek and short temperament became vexing, his anger started to peak through, the veins in his head and neck beginning to protrude from his skin while he gnawed at the skin inside his mouth. His facial expression dropped to somber anger while his fist clenched, ”I don’t give a fuck about what you think I owe you or who you think I killed. Jack the Ripper was a sham, a break in my mind that needed more than just a band aid solution.” Of course he meant his mother and the shallow reasoning behind his killings, one of Desmond’s least favorite stints in time. He was almost as neurotic back then as this old man was now, ”You’d do best to turn around and leave now, because I’m this close to killing you where you stand. Abel was an Elder and you saw what I did to him.” Desmond bellowed in rage.
”Child I will go nowhere. And you will pay me what is due. Young one’s like you always waste such potential and I am sick of seeing it , so you will pay for making elders like myself allow the continuation of such failures.” Mathias said with conviction, and steeled face. He meant every word, his world had been shattered, the bliss ended, the tale ripped from his hands and thrown into the fire. The threat the young vampire posed was no threat to him, it would take more than Abel’s demise to kill Mathias. What baffled Mathias even more was the lack of responsibility from Desmond. Even the name rolled around his head in vile acid, leaving a bad taste in the elder’s thoughts.
“I’m tired of talking” Desmond said as he cracked his neck several times before rushing the elder vampire, if there was something that Desmond prided himself on it was his knowledge of battle and the thousands of instances he was entranced by the song and dance of fighting for one’s life. The tag of ‘elder’ did nothing for Desmond aside make him hate the title even more when he thought back to Abel. Desmond was becoming an Elder in his own right, but he paid no attention to that. To think that this frail old man was an Elder vampire left something to be desired within the young vampire filled with vitriol. Desmond closed the distance and feigned a punch hoping the man wasn’t as dumb as he looked, if he did fall for it his other hand would catch the jawline of this shrewd man.
”Yes we have his unfinished business.” Mathias said as the young vampire charged at him with an energy that only the youth possessed. Mathias was no fool, he knew how this would end, and of the possibilities of his “perfect” ending. The change of death doesn't scare him, in fact he wanted this, Mathias wanted to draw out the break in the mind, and be reunited with his old friend. So when Desmond attempted to fake out a punch, Mathias simply opened himself up to the violent onslaught. The first blow caused the old man to stager, and smile as blood filled his mouth and his jaw began to heal. Mathias said nothing and returned to his perch as vigil and watched as his body would become the final masterpiece of the great Jack the Ripper.
His punch connected, whether it was intentional or not. Desmond was already in the mindset of the hunted becoming the hunter, he would be the last one to be someone’s prey. The first shades of red started to fan out of his mouth and only encouraged his rampage. Desmond felt the strength course through his veins and give rise to his muscles and inhuman strength. Consecutives blows landed and rained down on the old man. The savage beast, the dark passenger, took control of all motor functions allowing a flurry of concussive blows connect. The sound of bone crunching under the weight of his fists excited Desmond’s earlobes as his eyes filled with black mist. Fangs sprouted out of his mouth as he grabbed the collar of Mathias’ shirt lifting him to his height. “Killing you would be an injustice, I would just be feeding into your hands. No, I’ll do you one better, I’ll bring back the friend you want so badly.” Desmond hissed in hopes he would respond accordingly.
Mathias smiled with the fledglings words. Everything was going as he wanted, Jack was coming back to him, the black orbs a silent promise of sweet release. Mathias wanted this, he wanted to create a creature worthy of his attention and the birth was going well. He wanted to feel its pain again, see its raw primal emotion, and to every fan becoming art is nothing short of an honor. Mathias looked up at his prized possession and smiled a sickly smile, eyes filled with madness and a fatherly love. ”Yes...yes...yes, show him to me child. Let me see the my lost son and be reunited with its greatness.”
Desmond took great relief in him answering his wishes, the manifestation of evil was personified in Cain. Desmond’s hand moved from his neck to around his lower jaw as he forced the elders mouth open allowing Cain to peer into the wet fleshly caverns of Mathias’ mouth. Utilizing his other hand he cut his fingertip on the canine tooth of the elder vampire. Blood pooled at the edge of his finger which proceeded to drop onto the tongue of Mathias. An instant reaction with his elderly fangs coming out to play, with a devious smile Desmond began to work. With a swift grip and a hearty pull, Desmond ripped out the first fang from Mathias’ mouth. A surge of pain would zip through his gums into his body, but he didn’t stop there. Desmond removed both major vampire fangs from the elder’s mouth leaving him powerless to feed, effectively neutering the aging vampire, he would have to find another way to feed. “I’m going to keep these, the monster is back, let’s just hope Salem doesn’t quiver to their knees like you did. See ya around old man.” Desmond said as he spat to the side of Mathias while he rubbed the rest of the blood away from his cheek. Hopefully an end to the forever stalker.
Mathias silently wailed in pain as his fangs were ripped from their permanent spot of hundreds of years. But all that pain could not compare to the joy he held at the sight of Jack…his Jack. He accepted his bloody baptism with a crimson smile, Mathias was overjoyed at being a part of the Rippers collection, the climax he was promised all those years ago was finally achieved and all that was left for the curator was to find a new project. Jack would forever be his favorite exhibit, but he proved to difficult to tame and Mathias paid the price for summoning his beast. With a smile he waved as Desmond walked away, a silent promise to never give up on the child.
World War II & Procreation – 1914-2000 AD Age 174
“Greater is he who is in me than he who is in the world.”
Flick….Flick….
The darkness was illuminated by the sudden spark of orange and red hues that coalesced around the tip of the zippo lighter in Desmond’s hands. A single bent cigarette hung from his mouth stained with the crimson color of blood. The flame died away as quickly as it was born, cloaking the vampire once again in his hidden environment. It was the resolution of World War II, the climax was over and now the falling action was taking place. The Battle of Normandy or soon to be known as D Day was the day that would live in infamy. The beaches were torn asunder and ravished in the piles of bodies and intestines, blurred vision, and broken sound was shrouded by the veil of enemy gunfire and explosions. It was a gruesome scene and men died by the hundreds with each docking boat. It was a miracle that the allied forces were able to storm the beach despite their loss of life. The carnage and entrails painted a road outlining where the flow of battle was directed, except there was something oddly off about the road pathed with good intentions. Germany’s armies were being pummeled into submission, platoon by platoon there forces were diminishing and the surrender would soon come to fruition.
Elsewhere allied forces were marching down whilst suckling on the taste of victory despite their enormous loss in casualties. The war would officially end, but the war was just beginning somewhere else. Back to the road that had forked off from the main squadron and bandolier of soldiers. The reminiscent hues of fire were now dancing on the withered ash of the pale white stick in Desmond’s mouth, his fingers glazed in an ichor of blood. Desmond walked out of the darkness that engulfed him before, the nonexistent door adjacent to broken hinges. The sunlight kissed his skin and illuminated his pale translucent flesh while red painted his uniform in a cascading splatter. A body dragged beside him, limp, with the color of axis powers draped on his tattered body. Desmond took one last drag from the ailing stick and flicked it away. Suddenly a cacophony of sound erupted a few yards away from him with a dazzling theatre of explosions. A smirk was caught in the mouth of the wolf excited for his next dish, Desmond was a glutton there was no mistaking it. He had paid for his sins handsomely before, there was no salvation for a soul like his.
Desmond made his way casually to the house flicking up his lighter then clapping it back shut. The lighter was scuffed and worn as if it had seen countless battles. Well it had, this was his lighter from the very start of this long arduous war and was kept by his side since. The hungry wolf made his way over to the building but waited in the wings as a German soldier made his way up and into the broken building.
Months later Milo would not feel the same as he lay helpless in his tattered bed fully exposed, left bare and raw by whatever “patron” had just left his room. Things had gone too far, the pain was too much, and love no longer covered up everything Milo felt; the hate, fear, anger, and sorrow. Milo was not much more the flesh and blood, he could be mistaken as a corpse and was treated as one. The young boy wondered why his father allowed this, why the man let his son lose what little innocence he had left to the war, and all Milo could come up with was that he was no longer his dad. It was in these thoughts that he could numb himself to the situation on the outside, he could put up his walls, block out the hands, touches, and words. Milo laid and pondered all day about what he could do to change his situation, or why this happened to him. The man who used to be his father roamed the halls speaking to himself and inviting in soldier after soldier, and with ever “sell” the boy lost another part of his soul.
Around the time The Invasion of Normandy happened Milo and his father where ghost to the world. Jean bore a heavy resemblance to a drug addict living on the street, always dirty with a spiteful look in his eyes. He felt that France owed him something, that the Germans owed him something, that the war owed him something, and took it all out on Milo. Jean would beat, and starve Milo for days at a time, on top of already selling his son to the German soldiers for liquor. Now his father was a broken man, but Milo was a shadow in the night, he was barely talking, covered in dirt, used, malnourished, and abused. Milo no longer prayed and now just hoped that it would all end soon, either with his death or the death of his father.
When the invasion started, the Germans had begun to retreat but not without “cleaning house.” They went from house to house “cleansing” the streets of the “French filth” (as they called it); shooting, grenades, tear gas, using any all things they had available aside from the cannon fire to rain death. By the time allies reached Angiens, it was 3 days of cannon fire, missile rainfall and mist of smoke made by fire and guns. Their house had been untouched, “a miracle of god" Jean would say, but that miracle soon came to an end. Milo would often hide from his father in his closet upstairs (when he had the strength) and would wait out the onslaught, as his old man thrashed and raved with each shake of the ground and sound of fire.
It was at noon on the last day of the siege on their city (of course ending in the Allies victory) and as they retreated the Germans began to kill any civilians left in the town. They rained hell on the little city in those a last few hours and for the first time in a year Milo prayed, he prayed that he would live, that he wanted to live and move on with his life, but his prayer fell upon the ears of the wrong god. There was a moment of silence before the last mortar shot from the Germans could be heard being shot across the city. It whizzed through the air and as it got closer and closer, Milo began to sweat with fear, he knew that it would hit his house, it was as if the missile had his name on it and could seek out what was left of his light. It landed directly on his house and split the brick and wood home in half utterly destroying it. The entire back half of the house was gone, the kitchen destroyed, only a weak staircase left attached to the wall, and a nice view of the destroyed city behind them. Upstairs all the rooms except for Milo’s (which is closest to the stairs) were either destroyed or inaccessible. Milo would get bruised and cut up in his hiding spot from being thrashed around, the scraps of clothing he wore, now stained lightly in fresh blood.
It was silent enough to hear a pin drop, and Milo waited and waited, until the sound of boots crunching against the debris was heard in the distance getting closer and closer. Milo could hear the sound of combat boots, the clanking of dog tags and other metal items touching against each other. He was happy that it was someone here to save him, so he waited for his salvation in the tiny closet.
The lighter snapped shut as Desmond made his way silently into the house. The floorboards were old and the varnish had been eaten away from years of wear. With every step there was an audible creak from any pressure applied. Luckily for Desmond, he was the perfect assassin even in the daytime, his steps were light and nimble. His vision was met with the chalk of blasted concrete on the walls, but also layered with something else. Red mist. Someone had been the unfortunate recipient of the last mortar strike by the last of the fleeting German soldiers. The smell was putrid, burnt flesh and hair were among the worst smells that could capacitate the heightened senses of a vampire. Specks of what he could only presume to be flesh and bone, were scattered around the room like Christmas ornaments. The holiday cheer was devoid of the current scene, regardless Desmond decided to ignore whatever had occurred in this part of the house and focus on the sound resonating from the top of the intact stairs. He moved forward before he stepped in a large pile of mush that felt like a vat of mud under his shoes.
With a horrid look of discuss and the squishing of whatever matter was underneath his feet, he moved his foot back. Under his shoe was brain matter lined with a parchment of flesh and the beginning of a furrowed eyebrow. Much like dog shit, Desmond scraped the remains of whatever ‘it’ was on the neighboring cabinet. Looking both up and down to make sure he didn’t step in any more ghastly mystery stew, Desmond danced around the floor like an agile cat never missing a beat. The stairs were perfectly clear of any remains and human poultry. With each step the sound became more distinct, more alive, the howling of an SS officer cackling while the hysteria bled deeply out of whomever was suffering at their hands became clear to Desmond. The fresh hint of iron tinged his nose, the smell that never seemed to get old made his skin crawl in anticipation. Goosebumps lined his skin as his eyes clouded into a jet black while his fangs unsheathed themselves.
The spiral staircase ran out of steps as Desmond made his grand entrance into the room, except there was no warm reception for the vampire who made no noise. The death squadron officer had his bayonet deep within the intestinal tract of what seemed to be a scared little boy, pathetic. With no hint of hesitation Desmond moved in behind the unsuspecting German and grabbed his face and shoulder as he ripped open his throat in a rush of barbarism. The soldier in disarray tried to react but it was no use, the venom of Desmond's will poured into him rendering him useless. His eyes rolled back before his body went limp, thus dropping his Gewehr 43 with the bayonet still attached. With one violent gurgled roar, Desmond ripped that section of the soldier’s throat out while he pushed the body away. The body hit the floor with a thunderous thud while Desmond spit the chunk of flesh out in the opposite direction, “I hope you taste better boy.”
Milo listened as his savior got closer, he waited as weight was put on his home’s steps and they screamed in protest. When Milo could hear the soldier looking around his room, the boy smiled and used what little strength he had to push the door open. Before him stood the devil in a wehrmacht uniform, and like the devil a cruel smile dawned on his face. The German soldier wasted no time and charged at Milo with his Gewehr 43. They tangled together, if you call Milo’s weak attempt at stopping the bayonet from being plunged into his gut any form of resistance. Milo was in such a weak state that when he grabbed the weapon and tried to stop it, he ended up just guiding it to his stomach and helping the German “purge” him. As the man impaled him, Milo looked into his eyes and saw nothing but a crazy bloodlust and man lost in madness. In those moments Milo felt no despair just sweet release, he was glad things were ending and dying slowly would suit him just fine, as long as the pain ended.
In a blink of an eye the German’s neck was ripped out by another man, Milo gasped as he saw the fangs, felt the blood, and saw the look in his black eyes. The second soldier had an air around him that screamed power and a look in his eyes that demanded fear. “I hope you taste better boy.” The man said, and Milo could only nod in his death filled haze. His life was quickly slipping away, as if the mere presence of this man scared it away, and he gripped at the weapon in his gut and slowly pulled it out with a pain filled grunt. Milo then registered that his slow and peaceful death would not happen and this man was going to cause him for pain, this thought caused his fear to return. Milo did not want a painful death, he wanted to die differently from how he was living, but the “man” in front of him threatened his last request.
”Plea-” Milo tried to say before breaking down in a coughing fit. His vision got blurry and when he looked up at the man, Milo saw something flicker in through the man’s eyes. He couldn't tell what it was, and was in no state to try to decipher what that man was feeling, he just wanted to die. The man moved faster than Milo could track and grabbed the boy by the neck, then dragged him out the room and down the stairs, making sure to cause as much pain on the way down.
When they reached the bottom the man, the monster, threw Milo in the remains of his father. “Say hello to what’s left of your family.” The man said with a sinister chuckle as Milo struggled to pick himself up and get away. As he struggled, the man grew impatient and used his foot to keep Milo’s head face down in his father’s brains. Milo knew it was his dad because of a lone eye he saw resting in what looked like a piece of the man’s head, this caused what tear’s he had left to come crawling down his face. “Do you want to live? Or do you want to end up like this pile of shit here?” The man sneered, and with each question his foot applies more pressure to the boy’s head, causing him to sink further into the brain matter until his head began throb. As the pain grew, Milo weakly thrashed around and gripped at the bloody floor. He wanted to die, but this man was making him fear a death, this man made him fear dying in such pain.
“Answer me boy, or I’ll crush you like the insignificant bug you are.” The man said, and applied a little more force, he couldn’t stand weakness. In his desperation for the pain to stop, Milo started to shake his head slowly under the man’s boot. He would do anything to make the pain stop, and once his answer was accepted it did. The boot gone, pressed disappeared, instantly Milo was thrown against the messy wall, his whole front side was covered in blood and bodily matter. The pain in his gut grew and his eyesight was fading to black. The man quickly slit his wrist “Ah...no you don’t. Your life belongs to me now Enoch. Drink!” The man said, and forced Milo to drink his blood. The moment the crimson liquid touched his tongue, Milo gained a new found strength and began to drink. Taking large gulps until the wrist was ripped away from him, this made Milo whimper in hunger and he stood up against the wall and stared at the man in front of him with clear eyes. The only thing on his mind, in his heart, and driving his body was hunger. He was hungry for this man’s blood, and in that moment Milo would do anything to get it. He began to walk/stumble towards the man whispering “M-more”, over and over. His newfound hunger was driving him crazy and caused him to lunge at the man.
The thirst the boy had was quite endearing, it was unlike Desmond’s first time. The fear, the rage, the naivety to the situation at hand. Desmond wasn’t in his natural mind, but so existed the dark passenger to take over when Desmond was too weak to succumb to the flaws of flesh. While he hadn’t noted it, Desmond was acting exactly as his maker did to him. If he could only look himself in the mirror now, how disgusted would he be? Would the image of Abel come rushing into his mind and manifest itself behind him in the mirror? The cold touch of his proud maker resting on his shoulders as Abel’s smile of contempt and arrogance congealed into this final moment. The student became the teacher, Abel had won. Desmond without skipping a beat, pirouetted around the lustful fletching and cusped his hand behind the boys head, using his energy against him. His face would be thrusted head first into the concrete wall in front of him. Smearing the boy’s face in the dried blood of his father before pulling him back by his hair. With a quick thrust the boy’s body collapsed to the floor, Desmond’s hands dove into his open stomach, grinding his hands along his intestinal cavities.
Enoch would jolt up by involuntary action, one of the reactions Desmond had come to learn by investigating human anatomy through the years. The look of his new son instantly burned the memory of his own brother back into his mind. They both shared the same fate and destined look of torture in their eyes when Vampires had come onto the scene looking for their next meal. Breaking his drunken rage, Desmond felt his humanity trickle down his spine. The boy was slipping off the edge of mortality and about to meet the cold unforgiving afterlife that was once robbed from Desmond. With the boy on the scales of fate, Desmond acted quickly to keep the boy alive. Now that he was unconscious it would be easier to work on him. Desmond had run off in search of the bodies of the medical German Soldiers he had feasted on just before entering the house. Doing his best work with a shorthand of supplies and utensils, the crazed doctor slowly put the boy back together piece by piece. The second feeding of vampire blood also helped to start the full conversion into the life of the night. The regenerative properties would grow from a budding seed into a blossoming fruit in due time, unfortunately for Enoch, his scars would remain forever.
Desmond stumbled to his feet admiring his shoddy work while hoping to atone for his sins regarding his brother. A crumpled cigarette met his lips as he attempted to flick his lighter one last time, except there was no flame. Was it a sign of what his life would come to? Desmond kept the cigarette in his mouth, but tossed the lighter to the floor. Enoch would never have the burden of having Desmond ruin his life, as if he hadn’t already.
Advent of Humanity – 2000 AD Age 260
“You must not forget that a monster is only a variation, and that to a monster the norm is monstrous.”
And so the excitement and thrill of Desmond’s long and historic life has come to a resounding end and a level of normalcy for now. With the crisis of Y2K being over and his humanity taking precedence over his moral compass, Desmond decided to disappear into transparency and become a functioning part of society. The 21st century had been a complete uprooting of the shell of what America was in the 18th Century. As society evolved so must Desmond as the apex predator. Desmond resigned himself to attending college under the guise of a fresh new student from Salem. Not movie very far from his humble beginnings he attended Harvard University for four years starting in 2000 which then bled into Harvard Medical School which he attended for another four years. Jumping to the top of the class aided by his intrinsic knowledge on the subject from his infinite life led to greater opportunities. When he wasn’t studying he was relishing in the ‘college life’ as he drowned in both beautiful women and bountiful blood. His last two years of schooling was spent in specializing in trauma, before he went on to become a resident and work in the local Salem hospital. Trauma Surgeon for the ER seemed like the best fit for a natural predator.
Refined Butcher – 2010 to Present Day Age 277
“There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.”
For the last odd number of years Desmond has been nimbly working his way as head Trauma Surgeon at NSMC Salem Hospital. The perfect balance of killer and human has been attained by the lone wanderer, his mother has been imprisoned in the recesses of his mind while his playfully social side has come out leaving him with friends and the occasional invite to a work party or bar scene. All that’s left for Desmond is to continue growing and expanding his knowledge and refining his killing technique. The art he draws of his victims and the vials of blood are all he needs to keep his mind sane. Desmond has become refined and with a life that most others would dub normal, well as normal as you can get with being a vampire. Question is, how long will it last? And who will let his thin veil fall from grace? The story left to be continued.
| {Extra} |
Desmond believes the most intimate moment a killer can have is the pinnacle of death, when the light of the victim’s life is fleeting and dissipating from their eyes. This romantic relationship brings the two together in the last few moments, the last touch of humanity before the plunge. Becoming an accomplished serial killer, Desmond has perfected his techniques for murder to satiate the beast within. While working in the trauma center, Desmond will either pick a victim who can no longer live without medical aid or track the culprit who sent the person to the trauma unit in the first place. Regardless of whom he picks his process is the same, instill fear, plunge his hand to hold their beating heart, and extinguish the flame of life as they speak to him. Desmond will take part in a cannibalistic feast while he inhales the blood of his victim to tide him over for his next hit. Once sentient again, Desmond will keep a vial of his victim’s blood and keep it within his coffin. Later on he will sketch and draw his victims in their glistening light while smelling the fragrance of their veins.
Beyond that Desmond actually has no inclination of hate towards werewolves, he’s indifferent to witches and werewolves.
Beyond that Desmond actually has no inclination of hate towards werewolves, he’s indifferent to witches and werewolves.
| {Full Name} |
| {Nickname} |
| {Date of Birth} |
| {Age} |
| {Gender} |
| {Sexuality} |
| {Relationship Status} |
| {Role} |
| {Occupation} |
| {Face Claim} |
| {Dialogue Color} |
Milo Aubert Gaspard
| {Nickname} |
Enoch
| {Date of Birth} |
Octoer 31, 1927
| {Age} |
90 (Was turned at 17)
| {Gender} |
Male
| {Sexuality} |
Homosexual
| {Relationship Status} |
Single
| {Role} |
Vampire
| {Occupation} |
Works at the French themed cafe/book store called "Bonnes Idées".
| {Face Claim} |
Alexander Ferrario
| {Dialogue Color} |
Aquamarine (7FFFD4)
| {Appearance} |
Milo was frozen in time at his 17 year old scrawny school boy phase and has remained the same ever since. He stands at 5’9” and weighs in around 117 pounds. He has brown hair and brown eyes, these feature along with his wide baby face help to portray the image of innocents and youth. He could never get away with having a fake, and would most likely be the one to get pulled over for looking to young while driving. Along with his height, Milo has a small frame and thin build, not really packing much on the muscle side and leaning more towards skin and bones. Milo tends to keep up with the times when it comes down to clothing, he likes to wear the latest clothes by whatever company while dressing comfortably and affordably. Throughout the years he has succeeded at dressing like some late high school early college student, while at the same times sometimes adding in his own flare. Milo always felt that he was to young to get tattoos and piercings (plus his father would have not allowed him to get them anyways). He is always changing, trying to keep up with the latest styles while staying true to himself.
| {Habits & Quirks} |
💥Milo has a habit to flick his zippo lighter back and forth, on and off, not really lighting anything just fidgeting with it. He carries the lighter with him wherever he goes and mostly plays with it when he is bored or is trying to think about something. The same can be said for his cross, he will rub it and fidget with it.
💥Milo has a way to show others he is uncomfortable, when he has been caught red handed, and when he is just playing awkward, he attempts to flash those puppy dog eyes and scratches his head. He also does this during those times when at a loss for words, those times when he does not know how to deal with a situation or a certain person, and even whens someone who has more authority then him comes into his space.
💥Milo will run his hands though his hair after a work out, doing sports, a long run, over all her does this to calm himself. When he leaves a movie he thought was scary, or after he gets caught up in a bad situation but got away, he can be seen running his hands through his hair. He does this as a way to relive stress and calm his beating heart.
💥Milo has a way to show others he is uncomfortable, when he has been caught red handed, and when he is just playing awkward, he attempts to flash those puppy dog eyes and scratches his head. He also does this during those times when at a loss for words, those times when he does not know how to deal with a situation or a certain person, and even whens someone who has more authority then him comes into his space.
💥Milo will run his hands though his hair after a work out, doing sports, a long run, over all her does this to calm himself. When he leaves a movie he thought was scary, or after he gets caught up in a bad situation but got away, he can be seen running his hands through his hair. He does this as a way to relive stress and calm his beating heart.
| {Hobbies} |
🃏Gambling People out their money
🃏Reading
🃏Writing
🃏Cooking
🃏Feeding
🃏Setting Things on fire
🃏Reading
🃏Writing
🃏Cooking
🃏Feeding
🃏Setting Things on fire
| {Likes} |
🎲Trying New things
🎲Traveling
🎲History
🎲The Outdoors
🎲Innocence
🎲Animals (especially cats)
🎲Long Walks at night
🎲Gambling Games (cards, dice, roulette, pool, mahjong etc.)
🎲The evolution of things (especially music and cars)
🎲Traveling
🎲History
🎲The Outdoors
🎲Innocence
🎲Animals (especially cats)
🎲Long Walks at night
🎲Gambling Games (cards, dice, roulette, pool, mahjong etc.)
🎲The evolution of things (especially music and cars)
| {Dislikes} |
🀄Older Vampires
🀄Aggressive People
🀄Magic (He was raised Catholic)
🀄Fighting
🀄Wars, guns, violence
🀄Snails
🀄Solider, and military in general
🀄Hunters
🀄Older Men
🀄Religion (Catholicism and Christianity)
🀄Aggressive People
🀄Magic (He was raised Catholic)
🀄Fighting
🀄Wars, guns, violence
🀄Snails
🀄Solider, and military in general
🀄Hunters
🀄Older Men
🀄Religion (Catholicism and Christianity)
| {Fears} |
🎱Milo fears death. His fear of death originates from his own "death". The moments leading up to him dying were the worst of his life, and it scared the life out him. That fear forever stuck to Milo and never left him, it drives his fight or flight, it helps him make important decisions, all the while keeping him up at night.
🎱The World War Era is a harsh memory on Milo's mental. He has dealt with much of WWII and the remnants of WWI, so any museums, items and people (vampire or witches, surviving humans?), cause him to clam up with fear as he relives those memories.
🎱Milo is afraid of magic, but only because he does not understand it. He was raised as a catholic, so aside from dealing with his own sexuality, magic came as a shock and then turned fear. There was no explanation, he was only ever told that "its the way things work" and this caused him to be turned off to the subject. Even his creation is a frightful thing to talk about, his lack of understanding produced fear for things that were not explained by the bible.
🎱The World War Era is a harsh memory on Milo's mental. He has dealt with much of WWII and the remnants of WWI, so any museums, items and people (vampire or witches, surviving humans?), cause him to clam up with fear as he relives those memories.
🎱Milo is afraid of magic, but only because he does not understand it. He was raised as a catholic, so aside from dealing with his own sexuality, magic came as a shock and then turned fear. There was no explanation, he was only ever told that "its the way things work" and this caused him to be turned off to the subject. Even his creation is a frightful thing to talk about, his lack of understanding produced fear for things that were not explained by the bible.
| {Secrets} |
🎰Milo's brother lived on after the war and his family grew to be strong and prosperous, not only in America but in France as well. To pay respects to his family and make up for letting his father die, every time some one dies in his "family" he makes sure to bury them and pay for all the expenses. He also tries to be there for all the births, graduations, birthdays, and major events in a person's life. Of course he is not resourceful enough to be able to go all the time, but for years within the Gaspard (human) line there has been tales that if the ghost of Milo appears at any point in your life then you are blessed. He has become some sort of saint/angle to his brothers family and wants to continue this tradition of his until the day he dies.
🎰No one knows about the man buried under the Yule Tree. The Yule Tree on the outskirts of town that is surrounded by a sea of yellow and red wildflowers, has a small patch of purple tulips. 20 feet under this small patch of tulips is the Elder Vampire Mathias, he was the "father" of Milo, and asked Milo to bury him under a Yule Tree so he could rest peacefully for the next century. Taking deep slumbers is a dangerous thing for vampires to do and without proper preparation, few survive the sleep and end up dying. Milo did not know what steps his second father took to prepare so he panicked, asked around, found out about a Yule Tree and buried him under one, hoping that he could fulfill the man's final wishes.
🎰No one knows about the man buried under the Yule Tree. The Yule Tree on the outskirts of town that is surrounded by a sea of yellow and red wildflowers, has a small patch of purple tulips. 20 feet under this small patch of tulips is the Elder Vampire Mathias, he was the "father" of Milo, and asked Milo to bury him under a Yule Tree so he could rest peacefully for the next century. Taking deep slumbers is a dangerous thing for vampires to do and without proper preparation, few survive the sleep and end up dying. Milo did not know what steps his second father took to prepare so he panicked, asked around, found out about a Yule Tree and buried him under one, hoping that he could fulfill the man's final wishes.
| {Abilities} |
🎯Vampiric Physiology: Milo has the "normal" vampire enhanced strength, speed, sight, smell, hearing, etc.
🎯Compulsion: Milo has the vampiric ability to compel others, and can alter emotions of others.
🎯Edge weapon expert: Milo learned earlier on in his life how to handle a sword quiet well (his father was a man of the old ways) and also is good with knives and throwing edged weapons.
🎯Runner: Milo is a good runner, and has been his whole life. He was good at track in school and could out run most in his class. When he became a vampire his speed was top notch, werewolves and vampires will have a hard time catching him once his feet hit the ground and his legs start going.
🎯Compulsion: Milo has the vampiric ability to compel others, and can alter emotions of others.
🎯Edge weapon expert: Milo learned earlier on in his life how to handle a sword quiet well (his father was a man of the old ways) and also is good with knives and throwing edged weapons.
🎯Runner: Milo is a good runner, and has been his whole life. He was good at track in school and could out run most in his class. When he became a vampire his speed was top notch, werewolves and vampires will have a hard time catching him once his feet hit the ground and his legs start going.
| {Limitations} |
🎮Sunlight, stakes, vervain: All of the normal vampire weaknesses.
🎮Head Trauma: For some reason Milo cannot take major head trauma. When he is dealt a strong enough blow to the head by either enhanced strength or blunt object he is dazed, might get a nose bleed and has a slow recovery.
🎮Head Trauma: For some reason Milo cannot take major head trauma. When he is dealt a strong enough blow to the head by either enhanced strength or blunt object he is dazed, might get a nose bleed and has a slow recovery.
| {Personality} |
♠ Youthful ♠ Unnerved ♠ Insouciant ♠ Intuitive ♠
Milo is a young lad at heart. He will be forever 17 and acts like it, despite being 90 years old and only getting older. His youthful attitude and young disposition will anger most older vampires because they know he is not some new born. Even though he is not fresh out and is still considered young, Milo still acts although he is a 17 bear old boy running the track and playing catch with his friends. He does this as a way to not have to face the fact that he has a long time to live, this fact alone scares him. He never had a chance to find out who he is and what he likes, where he stands in a crowd and how to get the girl (guy), due to the war and his maker Milo missed out on many things. In his mind, he is gonna be stuck looking that young for a while so might as well act the part, plus no one would believe a 17 speaking like someone who has seen the horrors he has. Instead its easier for everyone involved (himself included) if he just acts his role and plays the part he was stuck with. Behind closed doors, he can be seen betraying his role and those eyes full of life and youth are replaced with a dull stress, one so heavy if it would up to world to carry, the world would break. When he is alone or even sometimes when he is reminded of the past his whole demeanor changes and a trained eye will pick up on his true self, while one not so keen to these things will only see him staring off into space. The reasons he chooses youth instead of his true self is because of all the pain that he really carries and the constant reminders that float within him attacking on a daily. Its one reason games are his favorite pastime, games are innocent, they are childish, and they take him back to times of fun and joy.
All his life there has always been a stable man who acted as a father figure, some male role model who lead him down the right path, someone Milo could admire. When he was a child it was his grandfather and uncle, when he was a pre-teen it was his older brother, and when he was growing into adulthood it was his father. After he was turned Milo me the first man who had ruined his image of the older male, his maker had utterly ruined his entire firs 17 years by acting the way he had, the man did not fit into cookie cuter outline Milo had created about older males. This changed everything he ever knew, it showed him the darker side of the world and what really lurks behind the face of men with more power. This planted a seed of doubt in him, everything Milo had ever seen or known, everything he had ever done or any action he had ever made was now in question. He did not want to face the fact that he could have been led astray by evil men wear sheep's clothing, this caused him to second guess everything he did (even to the present day). The clothes he wears, how he responds, who he talks to, the friends he makes, Milo called his entire character into question and drowned it in a pool of insecurity. His rebirth brought doubts with it, and being immortal has only given him more time to think about what he might be doing wrong.
For all his mental troubles and his physical pain through out his life, Milo has walked away with a particular attitude on most situations. He learned early on what his favorite author meant by "Vampires do not hold grudges, we harbor them." In other words he honestly believes when life gives you lemons you have to make lemonade, and not really worry about anything else. There is no point in trying to control things that you can't, or trying to deal with people who don't want to be bothered. Milo thinks that life should be taken a day at a time and worrying about such things like the future and trying to make sure everything is done a certain way, at a certain time, waste the time you are given each day. He believes that think like that and living in such a constant state of preparation is why people have regrets when they die. Instead he chooses to live life like he has nothing to lose, and not be sorry for it. Granted he may be held back by his past at times but that is his struggle in life, getting over his problems and instead using them to make himself better as a whole instead of letting them crush his resolve and make him weak. He tries to let things roll of his back like water off a duck, making sure to only care for truly life threatening instances. All in all he can be quiet indifferent about most people (except his family and maker) and tries not to care about other people's situations or events.
Milo can act all he wants, but his age shows in how he responds to certain things. He is seen as highly intuitive and wise. Milo can easily see through people facades and tear down the walls they put up. It is easy for him because of two things: those are teenage tactics people use in everyday life and Milo will forever be a teenager so things like that don't get past him that easily, the second is that he is the master of putting up walls and wear mask. His "father" taught him that the life of a vampire should be lived as if it were a play, "We have one script but many costume changes and mask we must wear, it is up to us how we act in these costumes. But you must never forget you only get one script." The man taught him that no matter how many changes people make they still only have one script, even vampires, and showed him how to see past these walls and at the true character of a person. If one were to have watched Milo's life they would tell you not to lie to him for he would know, don't hold your feelings back because he can see them, and don't be afraid to cry because h knows you need it. Reading in between the lines is easy to Milo and seeing in between people is even easier, he is rarely surprised by people's actions, and it takes a true wildcard to throw him off his horse. Most things coming from his elders surprise him, and add further to his knowledge of the living person and their acts.
All his life there has always been a stable man who acted as a father figure, some male role model who lead him down the right path, someone Milo could admire. When he was a child it was his grandfather and uncle, when he was a pre-teen it was his older brother, and when he was growing into adulthood it was his father. After he was turned Milo me the first man who had ruined his image of the older male, his maker had utterly ruined his entire firs 17 years by acting the way he had, the man did not fit into cookie cuter outline Milo had created about older males. This changed everything he ever knew, it showed him the darker side of the world and what really lurks behind the face of men with more power. This planted a seed of doubt in him, everything Milo had ever seen or known, everything he had ever done or any action he had ever made was now in question. He did not want to face the fact that he could have been led astray by evil men wear sheep's clothing, this caused him to second guess everything he did (even to the present day). The clothes he wears, how he responds, who he talks to, the friends he makes, Milo called his entire character into question and drowned it in a pool of insecurity. His rebirth brought doubts with it, and being immortal has only given him more time to think about what he might be doing wrong.
For all his mental troubles and his physical pain through out his life, Milo has walked away with a particular attitude on most situations. He learned early on what his favorite author meant by "Vampires do not hold grudges, we harbor them." In other words he honestly believes when life gives you lemons you have to make lemonade, and not really worry about anything else. There is no point in trying to control things that you can't, or trying to deal with people who don't want to be bothered. Milo thinks that life should be taken a day at a time and worrying about such things like the future and trying to make sure everything is done a certain way, at a certain time, waste the time you are given each day. He believes that think like that and living in such a constant state of preparation is why people have regrets when they die. Instead he chooses to live life like he has nothing to lose, and not be sorry for it. Granted he may be held back by his past at times but that is his struggle in life, getting over his problems and instead using them to make himself better as a whole instead of letting them crush his resolve and make him weak. He tries to let things roll of his back like water off a duck, making sure to only care for truly life threatening instances. All in all he can be quiet indifferent about most people (except his family and maker) and tries not to care about other people's situations or events.
Milo can act all he wants, but his age shows in how he responds to certain things. He is seen as highly intuitive and wise. Milo can easily see through people facades and tear down the walls they put up. It is easy for him because of two things: those are teenage tactics people use in everyday life and Milo will forever be a teenager so things like that don't get past him that easily, the second is that he is the master of putting up walls and wear mask. His "father" taught him that the life of a vampire should be lived as if it were a play, "We have one script but many costume changes and mask we must wear, it is up to us how we act in these costumes. But you must never forget you only get one script." The man taught him that no matter how many changes people make they still only have one script, even vampires, and showed him how to see past these walls and at the true character of a person. If one were to have watched Milo's life they would tell you not to lie to him for he would know, don't hold your feelings back because he can see them, and don't be afraid to cry because h knows you need it. Reading in between the lines is easy to Milo and seeing in between people is even easier, he is rarely surprised by people's actions, and it takes a true wildcard to throw him off his horse. Most things coming from his elders surprise him, and add further to his knowledge of the living person and their acts.
| {Place of Origin} |
Angiens, France
| {Background} |
"Children are the living messages we send to a time we will not see."
-Neil Postman
-Neil Postman
The life of a child is one filled with happiness, joy, fun times that outweigh the bad, and its supposed to be led down the right path by strong figures. Milo Gaspard was born in 1927 on October 31st, he is the youngest of two boys and has always been a sweet, fun loving child. His parents where Hilda and Jean Gaspard, Hilda was a German woman with strong values but a soft heart, she baked the best sweets in the neighborhood and loved both her sons from the bottom of her heart. She married Jean because of an agreement made by their parents a long time ago, but did not regret it. In Jean's youth he was a jock; sports, ladies man, not to well in school, he embodied all the qualities of the word but was a romantic and quick to fall in and out of love. When they became of age (18) their parents reviled their arranged marriage, and set them up for life. The Gaspard family is know for making shoes by hand in France, and Jean inherited this business after he got married. For years they lived happily, working on the shoe business, hosting parties, living out their youth as a married couple until WWI happened. It was a bad time to get drafted to the French military, Hilda was pregnant, Jean was worrying who would run the place while he was gone, and what about their son coming into this world. The time of the first world war was brutal and Milo's older brother was born into it, of course he would not remember them going from home to home trying to hide from the Germans, he would not remember the smell of burning bodies and gunpowder in the morning, he would not remember the things his mother had to do to keep them safe, Mark (the older brother) was nothing but a baby. After the war was over Jean returned not a young boy, but a hardened man with one less arm. He was suffering form a mental sickness and had remarried Cointreau, years after he would fall deeper into his own word of inhibitions and soon they gave birth to Milo 1927.
While his father was off trying to find his next drink and his mother was to busy running the shoes company (attempting to piece back together what they had left after the war), Milo was left to be raised by his grandparents. Milo grew up under the warm hand of his grandfather as they traveled around France. He learned about the good things of the world and made many friends on his trip. He grew into a fine young teen, ran track, had good grades, great friends and overall was living life to the fullest. Milo was the embodiment of youth at the age of 12, that is until his grandfather died. Milo cried for three days until his mother came to pick him up and take him back home, he did not want to leave the old man but had no choice. When arrived at his original home, Milo was met with the sight of his drunken father lounging on the couch and his brother trying to do work in the kitchen. The boy was not a fool he could tell the situation was shit but instead decided to work with what he had, from the next day on Milo acted as a shining beacon for his small little family. No matter the struggle they faced or the adversity they had to climb over, Milo was a bright child who inspired those around him. His light even reached Jean and pulled the man out of drunken world.
It was after his father went on a sober streak that Milo and him grew close, they were glued at the hip and did almost everything together. When Milo was 14 their house was divided; his brother and mother on one side, and Milo and his father on the other side. The children each had one parent each and did not receive much from the other. Milo's father taught him many things he learned himself in the war, all Jean wanted was to make sure his son could survive out there on is own and defend himself if the time called for it. He is also the man who instill the catholic teachings in Milo, hooking him on the promise of heave, and the threat of hell, showing him the "truth" of our lord and savior and of the fallen prince. Milo fell in love with these teachings and made it a bigger part of his life, all the while the threat of war looms in the background. This reignited the spark of anger and malice in his home, the two sides of the house hold argued day after day trying to decided if they should leave to America now or wait until the war blew over.
Hilda wanted to leave an never look back, while Jean was proud of the French military he once fought for, the military he gave his arm to, and trusted that they would be protected. After the war began a bomb was lit to blow in the house hold, everyone was walking on egg shells making sure to not step on any land mines, their little home had been turned into a battle field and Milo could feel all the tension. May 10, 1940 marked the explosion of said bomb, allies where losing battles left and right and the Germans where invading France. Hilda had enough, packed up half the house and took Mark with her as she left, swearing never to return to the two fools if they did survive the wars. Milo trusted his father, and they prayed together every day, they prayed as the Germans bombarded their town and raided the nearby homes, they prayed as the Nazis marched down he streets shouting their propaganda for any who might be left, they prayed that their house would be unnoticed, and left alone. To them it seemed that their prayers had been answered, and during the middle of the war both men had to work together to live. Milo would handle making runs and getting food while Jean would take care of the home and ensure that they were as safe as they could be. For a time it worked, until the food ran out, until the Germans stated to kill the reaming French, until the prayers no longer worked. Milo started to grow resentful towards his father, the man would take bigger portions of what little food he could find, he would never leave the house to find food, and even if Milo go caught and had to fight his way out, Jean only cared that he brought back a meal. When Milo couldn't he would beat the boy senseless and then throw him back out into the wild land of stray bullets and falling missiles until he found something. But Milo still loved his dad and trusted his words, so he persevered through it and made sure to "do his part."
Flick….Flick….
The darkness was illuminated by the sudden spark of orange and red hues that coalesced around the tip of the zippo lighter in Desmond’s hands. A single bent cigarette hung from his mouth stained with the crimson color of blood. The flame died away as quickly as it was born, cloaking the vampire once again in his hidden environment. It was the resolution of World War II, the climax was over and now the falling action was taking place. The Battle of Normandy or soon to be known as D Day was the day that would live in infamy. The beaches were torn asunder and ravished in the piles of bodies and intestines, blurred vision, and broken sound was shrouded by the veil of enemy gunfire and explosions. It was a gruesome scene and men died by the hundreds with each docking boat. It was a miracle that the allied forces were able to storm the beach despite their loss of life. The carnage and entrails painted a road outlining where the flow of battle was directed, except there was something oddly off about the road pathed with good intentions. Germany’s armies were being pummeled into submission, platoon by platoon there forces were diminishing and the surrender would soon come to fruition.
Elsewhere allied forces were marching down whilst suckling on the taste of victory despite their enormous loss in casualties. The war would officially end, but the war was just beginning somewhere else. Back to the road that had forked off from the main squadron and bandolier of soldiers. The reminiscent hues of fire were now dancing on the withered ash of the pale white stick in Desmond’s mouth, his fingers glazed in an ichor of blood. Desmond walked out of the darkness that engulfed him before, the nonexistent door adjacent to broken hinges. The sunlight kissed his skin and illuminated his pale translucent flesh while red painted his uniform in a cascading splatter. A body dragged beside him, limp, with the color of axis powers draped on his tattered body. Desmond took one last drag from the ailing stick and flicked it away. Suddenly a cacophony of sound erupted a few yards away from him with a dazzling theatre of explosions. A smirk was caught in the mouth of the wolf excited for his next dish, Desmond was a glutton there was no mistaking it. He had paid for his sins handsomely before, there was no salvation for a soul like his.
Desmond made his way casually to the house flicking up his lighter then clapping it back shut. The lighter was scuffed and worn as if it had seen countless battles. Well it had, this was his lighter from the very start of this long arduous war and was kept by his side since. The hungry wolf made his way over to the building but waited in the wings as a German soldier made his way up and into the broken building.
Months later Milo would not feel the same as he lay helpless in his tattered bed fully exposed, left bare and raw by whatever “patron” had just left his room. Things had gone too far, the pain was too much, and love no longer covered up everything Milo felt; the hate, fear, anger, and sorrow. Milo was not much more the flesh and blood, he could be mistaken as a corpse and was treated as one. The young boy wondered why his father allowed this, why the man let his son lose what little innocence he had left to the war, and all Milo could come up with was that he was no longer his dad. It was in these thoughts that he could numb himself to the situation on the outside, he could put up his walls, block out the hands, touches, and words. Milo laid and pondered all day about what he could do to change his situation, or why this happened to him. The man who used to be his father roamed the halls speaking to himself and inviting in soldier after soldier, and with ever “sell” the boy lost another part of his soul.
Around the time The Invasion of Normandy happened Milo and his father where ghost to the world. Jean bore a heavy resemblance to a drug addict living on the street, always dirty with a spiteful look in his eyes. He felt that France owed him something, that the Germans owed him something, that the war owed him something, and took it all out on Milo. Jean would beat, and starve Milo for days at a time, on top of already selling his son to the German soldiers for liquor. Now his father was a broken man, but Milo was a shadow in the night, he was barely talking, covered in dirt, used, malnourished, and abused. Milo no longer prayed and now just hoped that it would all end soon, either with his death or the death of his father.
When the invasion started, the Germans had begun to retreat but not without “cleaning house.” They went from house to house “cleansing” the streets of the “French filth” (as they called it); shooting, grenades, tear gas, using any all things they had available aside from the cannon fire to rain death. By the time allies reached Angiens, it was 3 days of cannon fire, missile rainfall and mist of smoke made by fire and guns. Their house had been untouched, “a miracle of god" Jean would say, but that miracle soon came to an end. Milo would often hide from his father in his closet upstairs (when he had the strength) and would wait out the onslaught, as his old man thrashed and raved with each shake of the ground and sound of fire.
It was at noon on the last day of the siege on their city (of course ending in the Allies victory) and as they retreated the Germans began to kill any civilians left in the town. They rained hell on the little city in those a last few hours and for the first time in a year Milo prayed, he prayed that he would live, that he wanted to live and move on with his life, but his prayer fell upon the ears of the wrong god. There was a moment of silence before the last mortar shot from the Germans could be heard being shot across the city. It whizzed through the air and as it got closer and closer, Milo began to sweat with fear, he knew that it would hit his house, it was as if the missile had his name on it and could seek out what was left of his light. It landed directly on his house and split the brick and wood home in half utterly destroying it. The entire back half of the house was gone, the kitchen destroyed, only a weak staircase left attached to the wall, and a nice view of the destroyed city behind them. Upstairs all the rooms except for Milo’s (which is closest to the stairs) were either destroyed or inaccessible. Milo would get bruised and cut up in his hiding spot from being thrashed around, the scraps of clothing he wore, now stained lightly in fresh blood.
It was silent enough to hear a pin drop, and Milo waited and waited, until the sound of boots crunching against the debris was heard in the distance getting closer and closer. Milo could hear the sound of combat boots, the clanking of dog tags and other metal items touching against each other. He was happy that it was someone here to save him, so he waited for his salvation in the tiny closet.
The lighter snapped shut as Desmond made his way silently into the house. The floorboards were old and the varnish had been eaten away from years of wear. With every step there was an audible creak from any pressure applied. Luckily for Desmond, he was the perfect assassin even in the daytime, his steps were light and nimble. His vision was met with the chalk of blasted concrete on the walls, but also layered with something else. Red mist. Someone had been the unfortunate recipient of the last mortar strike by the last of the fleeting German soldiers. The smell was putrid, burnt flesh and hair were among the worst smells that could capacitate the heightened senses of a vampire. Specks of what he could only presume to be flesh and bone, were scattered around the room like Christmas ornaments. The holiday cheer was devoid of the current scene, regardless Desmond decided to ignore whatever had occurred in this part of the house and focus on the sound resonating from the top of the intact stairs. He moved forward before he stepped in a large pile of mush that felt like a vat of mud under his shoes.
With a horrid look of discuss and the squishing of whatever matter was underneath his feet, he moved his foot back. Under his shoe was brain matter lined with a parchment of flesh and the beginning of a furrowed eyebrow. Much like dog shit, Desmond scraped the remains of whatever ‘it’ was on the neighboring cabinet. Looking both up and down to make sure he didn’t step in any more ghastly mystery stew, Desmond danced around the floor like an agile cat never missing a beat. The stairs were perfectly clear of any remains and human poultry. With each step the sound became more distinct, more alive, the howling of an SS officer cackling while the hysteria bled deeply out of whomever was suffering at their hands became clear to Desmond. The fresh hint of iron tinged his nose, the smell that never seemed to get old made his skin crawl in anticipation. Goosebumps lined his skin as his eyes clouded into a jet black while his fangs unsheathed themselves.
The spiral staircase ran out of steps as Desmond made his grand entrance into the room, except there was no warm reception for the vampire who made no noise. The death squadron officer had his bayonet deep within the intestinal tract of what seemed to be a scared little boy, pathetic. With no hint of hesitation Desmond moved in behind the unsuspecting German and grabbed his face and shoulder as he ripped open his throat in a rush of barbarism. The soldier in disarray tried to react but it was no use, the venom of Desmond's will poured into him rendering him useless. His eyes rolled back before his body went limp, thus dropping his Gewehr 43 with the bayonet still attached. With one violent gurgled roar, Desmond ripped that section of the soldier’s throat out while he pushed the body away. The body hit the floor with a thunderous thud while Desmond spit the chunk of flesh out in the opposite direction, “I hope you taste better boy.”
Milo listened as his savior got closer, he waited as weight was put on his home’s steps and they screamed in protest. When Milo could hear the soldier looking around his room, the boy smiled and used what little strength he had to push the door open. Before him stood the devil in a wehrmacht uniform, and like the devil a cruel smile dawned on his face. The German soldier wasted no time and charged at Milo with his Gewehr 43. They tangled together, if you call Milo’s weak attempt at stopping the bayonet from being plunged into his gut any form of resistance. Milo was in such a weak state that when he grabbed the weapon and tried to stop it, he ended up just guiding it to his stomach and helping the German “purge” him. As the man impaled him, Milo looked into his eyes and saw nothing but a crazy bloodlust and man lost in madness. In those moments Milo felt no despair just sweet release, he was glad things were ending and dying slowly would suit him just fine, as long as the pain ended.
In a blink of an eye the German’s neck was ripped out by another man, Milo gasped as he saw the fangs, felt the blood, and saw the look in his black eyes. The second soldier had an air around him that screamed power and a look in his eyes that demanded fear. “I hope you taste better boy.” The man said, and Milo could only nod in his death filled haze. His life was quickly slipping away, as if the mere presence of this man scared it away, and he gripped at the weapon in his gut and slowly pulled it out with a pain filled grunt. Milo then registered that his slow and peaceful death would not happen and this man was going to cause him for pain, this thought caused his fear to return. Milo did not want a painful death, he wanted to die differently from how he was living, but the “man” in front of him threatened his last request.
”Plea-” Milo tried to say before breaking down in a coughing fit. His vision got blurry and when he looked up at the man, Milo saw something flicker in through the man’s eyes. He couldn't tell what it was, and was in no state to try to decipher what that man was feeling, he just wanted to die. The man moved faster than Milo could track and grabbed the boy by the neck, then dragged him out the room and down the stairs, making sure to cause as much pain on the way down.
When they reached the bottom the man, the monster, threw Milo in the remains of his father. “Say hello to what’s left of your family.” The man said with a sinister chuckle as Milo struggled to pick himself up and get away. As he struggled, the man grew impatient and used his foot to keep Milo’s head face down in his father’s brains. Milo knew it was his dad because of a lone eye he saw resting in what looked like a piece of the man’s head, this caused what tear’s he had left to come crawling down his face. “Do you want to live? Or do you want to end up like this pile of shit here?” The man sneered, and with each question his foot applies more pressure to the boy’s head, causing him to sink further into the brain matter until his head began throb. As the pain grew, Milo weakly thrashed around and gripped at the bloody floor. He wanted to die, but this man was making him fear a death, this man made him fear dying in such pain.
“Answer me boy, or I’ll crush you like the insignificant bug you are.” The man said, and applied a little more force, he couldn’t stand weakness. In his desperation for the pain to stop, Milo started to shake his head slowly under the man’s boot. He would do anything to make the pain stop, and once his answer was accepted it did. The boot gone, pressed disappeared, instantly Milo was thrown against the messy wall, his whole front side was covered in blood and bodily matter. The pain in his gut grew and his eyesight was fading to black. The man quickly slit his wrist “Ah...no you don’t. Your life belongs to me now Enoch. Drink!” The man said, and forced Milo to drink his blood. The moment the crimson liquid touched his tongue, Milo gained a new found strength and began to drink. Taking large gulps until the wrist was ripped away from him, this made Milo whimper in hunger and he stood up against the wall and stared at the man in front of him with clear eyes. The only thing on his mind, in his heart, and driving his body was hunger. He was hungry for this man’s blood, and in that moment Milo would do anything to get it. He began to walk/stumble towards the man whispering “M-more”, over and over. His newfound hunger was driving him crazy and caused him to lunge at the man.
The thirst the boy had was quite endearing, it was unlike Desmond’s first time. The fear, the rage, the naivety to the situation at hand. Desmond wasn’t in his natural mind, but so existed the dark passenger to take over when Desmond was too weak to succumb to the flaws of flesh. While he hadn’t noted it, Desmond was acting exactly as his maker did to him. If he could only look himself in the mirror now, how disgusted would he be? Would the image of Abel come rushing into his mind and manifest itself behind him in the mirror? The cold touch of his proud maker resting on his shoulders as Abel’s smile of contempt and arrogance congealed into this final moment. The student became the teacher, Abel had won. Desmond without skipping a beat, pirouetted around the lustful fletching and cusped his hand behind the boys head, using his energy against him. His face would be thrusted head first into the concrete wall in front of him. Smearing the boy’s face in the dried blood of his father before pulling him back by his hair. With a quick thrust the boy’s body collapsed to the floor, Desmond’s hands dove into his open stomach, grinding his hands along his intestinal cavities.
Enoch would jolt up by involuntary action, one of the reactions Desmond had come to learn by investigating human anatomy through the years. The look of his new son instantly burned the memory of his own brother back into his mind. They both shared the same fate and destined look of torture in their eyes when Vampires had come onto the scene looking for their next meal. Breaking his drunken rage, Desmond felt his humanity trickle down his spine. The boy was slipping off the edge of mortality and about to meet the cold unforgiving afterlife that was once robbed from Desmond. With the boy on the scales of fate, Desmond acted quickly to keep the boy alive. Now that he was unconscious it would be easier to work on him. Desmond had run off in search of the bodies of the medical German Soldiers he had feasted on just before entering the house. Doing his best work with a shorthand of supplies and utensils, the crazed doctor slowly put the boy back together piece by piece. The second feeding of vampire blood also helped to start the full conversion into the life of the night. The regenerative properties would grow from a budding seed into a blossoming fruit in due time, unfortunately for Enoch, his scars would remain forever.
Desmond stumbled to his feet admiring his shoddy work while hoping to atone for his sins regarding his brother. A crumpled cigarette met his lips as he attempted to flick his lighter one last time, except there was no flame. Was it a sign of what his life would come to? Desmond kept the cigarette in his mouth, but tossed the lighter to the floor. Enoch would never have the burden of having Desmond ruin his life, as if he hadn’t already.
Milo woke the next day covered by a thick tarp that blocked out the light. His initial thought that the he was dead, and this was its truth: a silent darkness. But when Milo tuned into the sounds of insects buzzing, and the rancid smell of death infiltrating his nostrils, he knew that death was not lucky enough to find him, and all that happened yesterday was real. That means he should be a creature now, no longer human and a living offence to god. But Milo did not care, god did nothing to save him from this war, god sat and watched as "he" ruined his life. It was yet another time in his life that the man killed everything he loved in life. So he sat there for hours until the heat of the sun faded away, Milo listened to steps of soldiers and survivors alike, he listened to the wails of pain and the cries of joy. The joy of surviving the war and getting out of the Nazi created hell was not shared by everyone, Milo was hurt, he was reduced to nothing and left raw the only comfort were the rags that hung off his now lean muscles.
When night finally fell, Milo was startled by the tarp being ripped away and Mathias being the culprit for disturbing his moment of ignorant bliss. The older vampire smiled at Milo, as a father would his long lost son. Mathias had been watching his lost child turn this poor boy into a creature of the night. Even after his failed rebirth, Jack still came through from time to time and Mathias would miss none of it, he just watched from a higher perch this time around. But the turning of this boy was not Jack, it had nothing to do with his great child, this was all that abomination Desmond's fault. Mathias had been faced with a choice all day: put the boy out of his misery, or make him into something more. Mathias made his decision before he even noticed and pulled off the tarp separating him from his new child.
"It is alright child, I am here to help. Now come on lets go get you some food." Mathias said with a warm smile, but a stern look in his eyes that would not be questioned. He would not let his new "specimen" get away like Jack had, no, Mathias would plant the seeds of his legacy and watch them bloom.
Milo shuddered as a cold hand, wrapped it self around his neck. He was petrified as that dominating look pierced his soul and forced him into submission. Milo nodded and stood up on shaky legs like a new born calf. He followed the smiling on old man throughout the ruined city. Bodies littered the french town, some burnt, some stained with dried blood, some looked fresh, maybe even slightly breathing those last breaths. All the buildings where littered with bullet holes, if they were not ripped in half and left to pieces. The city of Angiens was decimated and one of the first it by the invasion, the few hundreds of citizens left were put into a "resuscitation camp" which was really a cesspool of French natives that the Americans did not know where to put. When Milo and Mathias arrived at the camp, the young boys senses were on a whole new level. He could feel everything, and it was overloading his very being, he could only stand there at the entrance as the smells filled his nose, and vibrations crawled on his, and sounds bounced in and out of his ears. Mathias put a soothing hand on his shoulder and for the second time today scared the boy.
"Calm down boy, it is only me, now you can have your fill. Just make sure to clean up your mess after." Mathias said with a smile, then urged him forward towards young girl nearby. Mathias wold then give him his first feeding experience, he would show the boy (to the best of his abilities) how to deliver true death, and began molding the child. "Me d-drink." Milo said with his thick french accent. This caused Mathias to smile and as Milo got his first taste, and it was a sight to behold. The child feeding was something only second to Jack's killings, the single drop of blood falling from his lips and another cascading down the side of his mouth onto his white skin. Mathias was entranced for the second time in his life and simply watched as his new "son" took the first steps to becoming a vampire.
Milo on the other hand was lost on cloud nine, the warm blood cascading down his throat filling him with warmth took away the pain he felt and momentary changed his perception on life. Milo would drain the young helpless girl dry and then proceed to ask for "More" Milo half moaned in pleasure and he got more, the whole camp to be exact. He proceeded to kill all 250 in a blood daze, snapping necks, drain men women and children alike until there were only corpses left. Milo would enter into his blood drunk haze for the next years with Mathias, the aging elder would watch with fascination as hi new pet would give him the show of a life time and kill to his hearts content.
From then on, Milo was now the adopted son of Elder Mathias Burradock, the man was not cruel just firm, he was not nice just warm, he did not snip, bite, or cut off Milo, he just explained why the boy was doing it wrong. They developed a twisted master servant relationship that had a mixture of father and son components. Milo would learn everything his new master had to teach him, while fetching blood for the fangless elder. The years that followed reminded him of the time with his grandfather, a happy time, they visited most war scenes form present and past, went to places no man could and that only one as old as Mathias would know about. Mathias and Milo would become kindred beings and liked how they lived.
In the year 2000, Milo and his master (whose name he never learned after all these years, Mathias simply told him to call him "master" or "M") went to the US for the first time and found his brother. His brother was a old man now with kids of his own, and his children had children, they all lived in California happily. It was on Thanksgiving of that year, as he watch his brothers "village" laugh and share good times over a table full of food that he swore to make sure none of them became vampires, and if they did he could kill them himself. This scene snapped out of the blood furry he was stuck in, and caused him to cry in horror at what he had done for all those years at the behest of yet another "father"in his life. Milo's light could be seen in his eyes again, and it shinned with sadness at the lives he had taken and the pain he caused.
After seeing his family, Milo struck out on his own and left Mathias in Los Angeles, leaving the elder for a different life. He travel all throughout the US looking for something but he could pinpoint what exactly. It was during these years of wander that he would compel his way into people's families and complete high school over and over again, getting hooked on the life of youth and the present, instead of living in the past. Milo was living in New York City 2 year ago from the present time, when he received a letter form his master telling him to come to Salem, Massachusetts for an important matter and left him an address. Milo had not heard form him for 15 years so he quickly left in the night and arrived a day later in the town, the first thing that hit his senses was the presence of "others." Milo had met his fair share of wolves, witches, and hunters, he learned to deal with each of them in his own way. This city as filled with them, and it felt as if their presence lived in the land. When he went to house that was on the letter, Milo found nothing inside but coffin a st of keys and a letter baring the seal of his second father. Mathias had left specific directions for Milo to follow and given him his freedom upon completing his last order. At the end of the directions he signed with his name and told Milo he was honored to be his father. Milo buried a father for the third time in his life that day and decided to not leave Salem, instead he stayed and joined the local coven, living in his old masters house.
While his father was off trying to find his next drink and his mother was to busy running the shoes company (attempting to piece back together what they had left after the war), Milo was left to be raised by his grandparents. Milo grew up under the warm hand of his grandfather as they traveled around France. He learned about the good things of the world and made many friends on his trip. He grew into a fine young teen, ran track, had good grades, great friends and overall was living life to the fullest. Milo was the embodiment of youth at the age of 12, that is until his grandfather died. Milo cried for three days until his mother came to pick him up and take him back home, he did not want to leave the old man but had no choice. When arrived at his original home, Milo was met with the sight of his drunken father lounging on the couch and his brother trying to do work in the kitchen. The boy was not a fool he could tell the situation was shit but instead decided to work with what he had, from the next day on Milo acted as a shining beacon for his small little family. No matter the struggle they faced or the adversity they had to climb over, Milo was a bright child who inspired those around him. His light even reached Jean and pulled the man out of drunken world.
It was after his father went on a sober streak that Milo and him grew close, they were glued at the hip and did almost everything together. When Milo was 14 their house was divided; his brother and mother on one side, and Milo and his father on the other side. The children each had one parent each and did not receive much from the other. Milo's father taught him many things he learned himself in the war, all Jean wanted was to make sure his son could survive out there on is own and defend himself if the time called for it. He is also the man who instill the catholic teachings in Milo, hooking him on the promise of heave, and the threat of hell, showing him the "truth" of our lord and savior and of the fallen prince. Milo fell in love with these teachings and made it a bigger part of his life, all the while the threat of war looms in the background. This reignited the spark of anger and malice in his home, the two sides of the house hold argued day after day trying to decided if they should leave to America now or wait until the war blew over.
Hilda wanted to leave an never look back, while Jean was proud of the French military he once fought for, the military he gave his arm to, and trusted that they would be protected. After the war began a bomb was lit to blow in the house hold, everyone was walking on egg shells making sure to not step on any land mines, their little home had been turned into a battle field and Milo could feel all the tension. May 10, 1940 marked the explosion of said bomb, allies where losing battles left and right and the Germans where invading France. Hilda had enough, packed up half the house and took Mark with her as she left, swearing never to return to the two fools if they did survive the wars. Milo trusted his father, and they prayed together every day, they prayed as the Germans bombarded their town and raided the nearby homes, they prayed as the Nazis marched down he streets shouting their propaganda for any who might be left, they prayed that their house would be unnoticed, and left alone. To them it seemed that their prayers had been answered, and during the middle of the war both men had to work together to live. Milo would handle making runs and getting food while Jean would take care of the home and ensure that they were as safe as they could be. For a time it worked, until the food ran out, until the Germans stated to kill the reaming French, until the prayers no longer worked. Milo started to grow resentful towards his father, the man would take bigger portions of what little food he could find, he would never leave the house to find food, and even if Milo go caught and had to fight his way out, Jean only cared that he brought back a meal. When Milo couldn't he would beat the boy senseless and then throw him back out into the wild land of stray bullets and falling missiles until he found something. But Milo still loved his dad and trusted his words, so he persevered through it and made sure to "do his part."
“Greater is he who is in me, than he who is in the world.”
-1 John 4:4
-1 John 4:4
Flick….Flick….
The darkness was illuminated by the sudden spark of orange and red hues that coalesced around the tip of the zippo lighter in Desmond’s hands. A single bent cigarette hung from his mouth stained with the crimson color of blood. The flame died away as quickly as it was born, cloaking the vampire once again in his hidden environment. It was the resolution of World War II, the climax was over and now the falling action was taking place. The Battle of Normandy or soon to be known as D Day was the day that would live in infamy. The beaches were torn asunder and ravished in the piles of bodies and intestines, blurred vision, and broken sound was shrouded by the veil of enemy gunfire and explosions. It was a gruesome scene and men died by the hundreds with each docking boat. It was a miracle that the allied forces were able to storm the beach despite their loss of life. The carnage and entrails painted a road outlining where the flow of battle was directed, except there was something oddly off about the road pathed with good intentions. Germany’s armies were being pummeled into submission, platoon by platoon there forces were diminishing and the surrender would soon come to fruition.
Elsewhere allied forces were marching down whilst suckling on the taste of victory despite their enormous loss in casualties. The war would officially end, but the war was just beginning somewhere else. Back to the road that had forked off from the main squadron and bandolier of soldiers. The reminiscent hues of fire were now dancing on the withered ash of the pale white stick in Desmond’s mouth, his fingers glazed in an ichor of blood. Desmond walked out of the darkness that engulfed him before, the nonexistent door adjacent to broken hinges. The sunlight kissed his skin and illuminated his pale translucent flesh while red painted his uniform in a cascading splatter. A body dragged beside him, limp, with the color of axis powers draped on his tattered body. Desmond took one last drag from the ailing stick and flicked it away. Suddenly a cacophony of sound erupted a few yards away from him with a dazzling theatre of explosions. A smirk was caught in the mouth of the wolf excited for his next dish, Desmond was a glutton there was no mistaking it. He had paid for his sins handsomely before, there was no salvation for a soul like his.
Desmond made his way casually to the house flicking up his lighter then clapping it back shut. The lighter was scuffed and worn as if it had seen countless battles. Well it had, this was his lighter from the very start of this long arduous war and was kept by his side since. The hungry wolf made his way over to the building but waited in the wings as a German soldier made his way up and into the broken building.
Months later Milo would not feel the same as he lay helpless in his tattered bed fully exposed, left bare and raw by whatever “patron” had just left his room. Things had gone too far, the pain was too much, and love no longer covered up everything Milo felt; the hate, fear, anger, and sorrow. Milo was not much more the flesh and blood, he could be mistaken as a corpse and was treated as one. The young boy wondered why his father allowed this, why the man let his son lose what little innocence he had left to the war, and all Milo could come up with was that he was no longer his dad. It was in these thoughts that he could numb himself to the situation on the outside, he could put up his walls, block out the hands, touches, and words. Milo laid and pondered all day about what he could do to change his situation, or why this happened to him. The man who used to be his father roamed the halls speaking to himself and inviting in soldier after soldier, and with ever “sell” the boy lost another part of his soul.
Around the time The Invasion of Normandy happened Milo and his father where ghost to the world. Jean bore a heavy resemblance to a drug addict living on the street, always dirty with a spiteful look in his eyes. He felt that France owed him something, that the Germans owed him something, that the war owed him something, and took it all out on Milo. Jean would beat, and starve Milo for days at a time, on top of already selling his son to the German soldiers for liquor. Now his father was a broken man, but Milo was a shadow in the night, he was barely talking, covered in dirt, used, malnourished, and abused. Milo no longer prayed and now just hoped that it would all end soon, either with his death or the death of his father.
When the invasion started, the Germans had begun to retreat but not without “cleaning house.” They went from house to house “cleansing” the streets of the “French filth” (as they called it); shooting, grenades, tear gas, using any all things they had available aside from the cannon fire to rain death. By the time allies reached Angiens, it was 3 days of cannon fire, missile rainfall and mist of smoke made by fire and guns. Their house had been untouched, “a miracle of god" Jean would say, but that miracle soon came to an end. Milo would often hide from his father in his closet upstairs (when he had the strength) and would wait out the onslaught, as his old man thrashed and raved with each shake of the ground and sound of fire.
It was at noon on the last day of the siege on their city (of course ending in the Allies victory) and as they retreated the Germans began to kill any civilians left in the town. They rained hell on the little city in those a last few hours and for the first time in a year Milo prayed, he prayed that he would live, that he wanted to live and move on with his life, but his prayer fell upon the ears of the wrong god. There was a moment of silence before the last mortar shot from the Germans could be heard being shot across the city. It whizzed through the air and as it got closer and closer, Milo began to sweat with fear, he knew that it would hit his house, it was as if the missile had his name on it and could seek out what was left of his light. It landed directly on his house and split the brick and wood home in half utterly destroying it. The entire back half of the house was gone, the kitchen destroyed, only a weak staircase left attached to the wall, and a nice view of the destroyed city behind them. Upstairs all the rooms except for Milo’s (which is closest to the stairs) were either destroyed or inaccessible. Milo would get bruised and cut up in his hiding spot from being thrashed around, the scraps of clothing he wore, now stained lightly in fresh blood.
It was silent enough to hear a pin drop, and Milo waited and waited, until the sound of boots crunching against the debris was heard in the distance getting closer and closer. Milo could hear the sound of combat boots, the clanking of dog tags and other metal items touching against each other. He was happy that it was someone here to save him, so he waited for his salvation in the tiny closet.
The lighter snapped shut as Desmond made his way silently into the house. The floorboards were old and the varnish had been eaten away from years of wear. With every step there was an audible creak from any pressure applied. Luckily for Desmond, he was the perfect assassin even in the daytime, his steps were light and nimble. His vision was met with the chalk of blasted concrete on the walls, but also layered with something else. Red mist. Someone had been the unfortunate recipient of the last mortar strike by the last of the fleeting German soldiers. The smell was putrid, burnt flesh and hair were among the worst smells that could capacitate the heightened senses of a vampire. Specks of what he could only presume to be flesh and bone, were scattered around the room like Christmas ornaments. The holiday cheer was devoid of the current scene, regardless Desmond decided to ignore whatever had occurred in this part of the house and focus on the sound resonating from the top of the intact stairs. He moved forward before he stepped in a large pile of mush that felt like a vat of mud under his shoes.
With a horrid look of discuss and the squishing of whatever matter was underneath his feet, he moved his foot back. Under his shoe was brain matter lined with a parchment of flesh and the beginning of a furrowed eyebrow. Much like dog shit, Desmond scraped the remains of whatever ‘it’ was on the neighboring cabinet. Looking both up and down to make sure he didn’t step in any more ghastly mystery stew, Desmond danced around the floor like an agile cat never missing a beat. The stairs were perfectly clear of any remains and human poultry. With each step the sound became more distinct, more alive, the howling of an SS officer cackling while the hysteria bled deeply out of whomever was suffering at their hands became clear to Desmond. The fresh hint of iron tinged his nose, the smell that never seemed to get old made his skin crawl in anticipation. Goosebumps lined his skin as his eyes clouded into a jet black while his fangs unsheathed themselves.
The spiral staircase ran out of steps as Desmond made his grand entrance into the room, except there was no warm reception for the vampire who made no noise. The death squadron officer had his bayonet deep within the intestinal tract of what seemed to be a scared little boy, pathetic. With no hint of hesitation Desmond moved in behind the unsuspecting German and grabbed his face and shoulder as he ripped open his throat in a rush of barbarism. The soldier in disarray tried to react but it was no use, the venom of Desmond's will poured into him rendering him useless. His eyes rolled back before his body went limp, thus dropping his Gewehr 43 with the bayonet still attached. With one violent gurgled roar, Desmond ripped that section of the soldier’s throat out while he pushed the body away. The body hit the floor with a thunderous thud while Desmond spit the chunk of flesh out in the opposite direction, “I hope you taste better boy.”
Milo listened as his savior got closer, he waited as weight was put on his home’s steps and they screamed in protest. When Milo could hear the soldier looking around his room, the boy smiled and used what little strength he had to push the door open. Before him stood the devil in a wehrmacht uniform, and like the devil a cruel smile dawned on his face. The German soldier wasted no time and charged at Milo with his Gewehr 43. They tangled together, if you call Milo’s weak attempt at stopping the bayonet from being plunged into his gut any form of resistance. Milo was in such a weak state that when he grabbed the weapon and tried to stop it, he ended up just guiding it to his stomach and helping the German “purge” him. As the man impaled him, Milo looked into his eyes and saw nothing but a crazy bloodlust and man lost in madness. In those moments Milo felt no despair just sweet release, he was glad things were ending and dying slowly would suit him just fine, as long as the pain ended.
In a blink of an eye the German’s neck was ripped out by another man, Milo gasped as he saw the fangs, felt the blood, and saw the look in his black eyes. The second soldier had an air around him that screamed power and a look in his eyes that demanded fear. “I hope you taste better boy.” The man said, and Milo could only nod in his death filled haze. His life was quickly slipping away, as if the mere presence of this man scared it away, and he gripped at the weapon in his gut and slowly pulled it out with a pain filled grunt. Milo then registered that his slow and peaceful death would not happen and this man was going to cause him for pain, this thought caused his fear to return. Milo did not want a painful death, he wanted to die differently from how he was living, but the “man” in front of him threatened his last request.
”Plea-” Milo tried to say before breaking down in a coughing fit. His vision got blurry and when he looked up at the man, Milo saw something flicker in through the man’s eyes. He couldn't tell what it was, and was in no state to try to decipher what that man was feeling, he just wanted to die. The man moved faster than Milo could track and grabbed the boy by the neck, then dragged him out the room and down the stairs, making sure to cause as much pain on the way down.
When they reached the bottom the man, the monster, threw Milo in the remains of his father. “Say hello to what’s left of your family.” The man said with a sinister chuckle as Milo struggled to pick himself up and get away. As he struggled, the man grew impatient and used his foot to keep Milo’s head face down in his father’s brains. Milo knew it was his dad because of a lone eye he saw resting in what looked like a piece of the man’s head, this caused what tear’s he had left to come crawling down his face. “Do you want to live? Or do you want to end up like this pile of shit here?” The man sneered, and with each question his foot applies more pressure to the boy’s head, causing him to sink further into the brain matter until his head began throb. As the pain grew, Milo weakly thrashed around and gripped at the bloody floor. He wanted to die, but this man was making him fear a death, this man made him fear dying in such pain.
“Answer me boy, or I’ll crush you like the insignificant bug you are.” The man said, and applied a little more force, he couldn’t stand weakness. In his desperation for the pain to stop, Milo started to shake his head slowly under the man’s boot. He would do anything to make the pain stop, and once his answer was accepted it did. The boot gone, pressed disappeared, instantly Milo was thrown against the messy wall, his whole front side was covered in blood and bodily matter. The pain in his gut grew and his eyesight was fading to black. The man quickly slit his wrist “Ah...no you don’t. Your life belongs to me now Enoch. Drink!” The man said, and forced Milo to drink his blood. The moment the crimson liquid touched his tongue, Milo gained a new found strength and began to drink. Taking large gulps until the wrist was ripped away from him, this made Milo whimper in hunger and he stood up against the wall and stared at the man in front of him with clear eyes. The only thing on his mind, in his heart, and driving his body was hunger. He was hungry for this man’s blood, and in that moment Milo would do anything to get it. He began to walk/stumble towards the man whispering “M-more”, over and over. His newfound hunger was driving him crazy and caused him to lunge at the man.
The thirst the boy had was quite endearing, it was unlike Desmond’s first time. The fear, the rage, the naivety to the situation at hand. Desmond wasn’t in his natural mind, but so existed the dark passenger to take over when Desmond was too weak to succumb to the flaws of flesh. While he hadn’t noted it, Desmond was acting exactly as his maker did to him. If he could only look himself in the mirror now, how disgusted would he be? Would the image of Abel come rushing into his mind and manifest itself behind him in the mirror? The cold touch of his proud maker resting on his shoulders as Abel’s smile of contempt and arrogance congealed into this final moment. The student became the teacher, Abel had won. Desmond without skipping a beat, pirouetted around the lustful fletching and cusped his hand behind the boys head, using his energy against him. His face would be thrusted head first into the concrete wall in front of him. Smearing the boy’s face in the dried blood of his father before pulling him back by his hair. With a quick thrust the boy’s body collapsed to the floor, Desmond’s hands dove into his open stomach, grinding his hands along his intestinal cavities.
Enoch would jolt up by involuntary action, one of the reactions Desmond had come to learn by investigating human anatomy through the years. The look of his new son instantly burned the memory of his own brother back into his mind. They both shared the same fate and destined look of torture in their eyes when Vampires had come onto the scene looking for their next meal. Breaking his drunken rage, Desmond felt his humanity trickle down his spine. The boy was slipping off the edge of mortality and about to meet the cold unforgiving afterlife that was once robbed from Desmond. With the boy on the scales of fate, Desmond acted quickly to keep the boy alive. Now that he was unconscious it would be easier to work on him. Desmond had run off in search of the bodies of the medical German Soldiers he had feasted on just before entering the house. Doing his best work with a shorthand of supplies and utensils, the crazed doctor slowly put the boy back together piece by piece. The second feeding of vampire blood also helped to start the full conversion into the life of the night. The regenerative properties would grow from a budding seed into a blossoming fruit in due time, unfortunately for Enoch, his scars would remain forever.
Desmond stumbled to his feet admiring his shoddy work while hoping to atone for his sins regarding his brother. A crumpled cigarette met his lips as he attempted to flick his lighter one last time, except there was no flame. Was it a sign of what his life would come to? Desmond kept the cigarette in his mouth, but tossed the lighter to the floor. Enoch would never have the burden of having Desmond ruin his life, as if he hadn’t already.
“I am a Vampire, and that is the Truth”
-Christopher Pike
-Christopher Pike
Milo woke the next day covered by a thick tarp that blocked out the light. His initial thought that the he was dead, and this was its truth: a silent darkness. But when Milo tuned into the sounds of insects buzzing, and the rancid smell of death infiltrating his nostrils, he knew that death was not lucky enough to find him, and all that happened yesterday was real. That means he should be a creature now, no longer human and a living offence to god. But Milo did not care, god did nothing to save him from this war, god sat and watched as "he" ruined his life. It was yet another time in his life that the man killed everything he loved in life. So he sat there for hours until the heat of the sun faded away, Milo listened to steps of soldiers and survivors alike, he listened to the wails of pain and the cries of joy. The joy of surviving the war and getting out of the Nazi created hell was not shared by everyone, Milo was hurt, he was reduced to nothing and left raw the only comfort were the rags that hung off his now lean muscles.
When night finally fell, Milo was startled by the tarp being ripped away and Mathias being the culprit for disturbing his moment of ignorant bliss. The older vampire smiled at Milo, as a father would his long lost son. Mathias had been watching his lost child turn this poor boy into a creature of the night. Even after his failed rebirth, Jack still came through from time to time and Mathias would miss none of it, he just watched from a higher perch this time around. But the turning of this boy was not Jack, it had nothing to do with his great child, this was all that abomination Desmond's fault. Mathias had been faced with a choice all day: put the boy out of his misery, or make him into something more. Mathias made his decision before he even noticed and pulled off the tarp separating him from his new child.
"It is alright child, I am here to help. Now come on lets go get you some food." Mathias said with a warm smile, but a stern look in his eyes that would not be questioned. He would not let his new "specimen" get away like Jack had, no, Mathias would plant the seeds of his legacy and watch them bloom.
Milo shuddered as a cold hand, wrapped it self around his neck. He was petrified as that dominating look pierced his soul and forced him into submission. Milo nodded and stood up on shaky legs like a new born calf. He followed the smiling on old man throughout the ruined city. Bodies littered the french town, some burnt, some stained with dried blood, some looked fresh, maybe even slightly breathing those last breaths. All the buildings where littered with bullet holes, if they were not ripped in half and left to pieces. The city of Angiens was decimated and one of the first it by the invasion, the few hundreds of citizens left were put into a "resuscitation camp" which was really a cesspool of French natives that the Americans did not know where to put. When Milo and Mathias arrived at the camp, the young boys senses were on a whole new level. He could feel everything, and it was overloading his very being, he could only stand there at the entrance as the smells filled his nose, and vibrations crawled on his, and sounds bounced in and out of his ears. Mathias put a soothing hand on his shoulder and for the second time today scared the boy.
"Calm down boy, it is only me, now you can have your fill. Just make sure to clean up your mess after." Mathias said with a smile, then urged him forward towards young girl nearby. Mathias wold then give him his first feeding experience, he would show the boy (to the best of his abilities) how to deliver true death, and began molding the child. "Me d-drink." Milo said with his thick french accent. This caused Mathias to smile and as Milo got his first taste, and it was a sight to behold. The child feeding was something only second to Jack's killings, the single drop of blood falling from his lips and another cascading down the side of his mouth onto his white skin. Mathias was entranced for the second time in his life and simply watched as his new "son" took the first steps to becoming a vampire.
Milo on the other hand was lost on cloud nine, the warm blood cascading down his throat filling him with warmth took away the pain he felt and momentary changed his perception on life. Milo would drain the young helpless girl dry and then proceed to ask for "More" Milo half moaned in pleasure and he got more, the whole camp to be exact. He proceeded to kill all 250 in a blood daze, snapping necks, drain men women and children alike until there were only corpses left. Milo would enter into his blood drunk haze for the next years with Mathias, the aging elder would watch with fascination as hi new pet would give him the show of a life time and kill to his hearts content.
From then on, Milo was now the adopted son of Elder Mathias Burradock, the man was not cruel just firm, he was not nice just warm, he did not snip, bite, or cut off Milo, he just explained why the boy was doing it wrong. They developed a twisted master servant relationship that had a mixture of father and son components. Milo would learn everything his new master had to teach him, while fetching blood for the fangless elder. The years that followed reminded him of the time with his grandfather, a happy time, they visited most war scenes form present and past, went to places no man could and that only one as old as Mathias would know about. Mathias and Milo would become kindred beings and liked how they lived.
In the year 2000, Milo and his master (whose name he never learned after all these years, Mathias simply told him to call him "master" or "M") went to the US for the first time and found his brother. His brother was a old man now with kids of his own, and his children had children, they all lived in California happily. It was on Thanksgiving of that year, as he watch his brothers "village" laugh and share good times over a table full of food that he swore to make sure none of them became vampires, and if they did he could kill them himself. This scene snapped out of the blood furry he was stuck in, and caused him to cry in horror at what he had done for all those years at the behest of yet another "father"in his life. Milo's light could be seen in his eyes again, and it shinned with sadness at the lives he had taken and the pain he caused.
After seeing his family, Milo struck out on his own and left Mathias in Los Angeles, leaving the elder for a different life. He travel all throughout the US looking for something but he could pinpoint what exactly. It was during these years of wander that he would compel his way into people's families and complete high school over and over again, getting hooked on the life of youth and the present, instead of living in the past. Milo was living in New York City 2 year ago from the present time, when he received a letter form his master telling him to come to Salem, Massachusetts for an important matter and left him an address. Milo had not heard form him for 15 years so he quickly left in the night and arrived a day later in the town, the first thing that hit his senses was the presence of "others." Milo had met his fair share of wolves, witches, and hunters, he learned to deal with each of them in his own way. This city as filled with them, and it felt as if their presence lived in the land. When he went to house that was on the letter, Milo found nothing inside but coffin a st of keys and a letter baring the seal of his second father. Mathias had left specific directions for Milo to follow and given him his freedom upon completing his last order. At the end of the directions he signed with his name and told Milo he was honored to be his father. Milo buried a father for the third time in his life that day and decided to not leave Salem, instead he stayed and joined the local coven, living in his old masters house.
| {Extra} |
TBA
Dutchess Sarah AKA Lavender James
Member
Seen
3 yrs ago
working on it... been swamped at work... being a teacher sucks this close to the holidays.... lol
coGM
Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
Member
Seen
15 hrs ago
@Syn Without reading the background(holyshit that background section though) I can only really comment on the part about Desmond and the Compel. I think we discussed a bit about that in the GM PM regarding genetic immunity and how we felt it more down to mental willpower, though unsure if that was communicated back to you. Overall it's a pretty hefty CS and I like what I was able to read through. It's nice to see a vampire who's not all refinement and posh, one who skirts the line that separates man from monster. Interested to see him in action personally.
Other than that, I saw a part in there where you mention Ambrosia under the limitations that should probably say Desmond :v
@Queentze Looks good to me, so unless Lion has something to say about it I think you're in the clear to add him to the characters tab.
Other than that, I saw a part in there where you mention Ambrosia under the limitations that should probably say Desmond :v
@Queentze Looks good to me, so unless Lion has something to say about it I think you're in the clear to add him to the characters tab.
GM
Lionhearted ♡
Member
Seen
10 days ago
@Queentze @Syn
For Desmond, just fix the bit where it states he's immune to compelling. I'm all for him having a high resistance to it judging from his experience with being compelled, though! As for the equivalent exchange that you mention, you don't HAVE to do that to try to even it out, but if you want to keep it for fairness then that's cool. Compelling and resistance to being compelled kind of go hand-in-hand, I believe. But other than that, he's accepted!
For Milo, he is accepted!
For Desmond, just fix the bit where it states he's immune to compelling. I'm all for him having a high resistance to it judging from his experience with being compelled, though! As for the equivalent exchange that you mention, you don't HAVE to do that to try to even it out, but if you want to keep it for fairness then that's cool. Compelling and resistance to being compelled kind of go hand-in-hand, I believe. But other than that, he's accepted!
For Milo, he is accepted!
CaliforniaState Biologist
Member
Seen
1 day ago
@Alfhedil
Yeah I went a little hard on that history, it's a good read if anyone spares themselves some time to read it. Thank you, I hope you see him in action soon too. As for the compelling and the limitations bit I'll edit those.
@Lionhearted
Yeah my main goal with immunity to being compelled was for the sake of why his maker chose him instead of killing him outright, some resistance to compel.
Yeah I went a little hard on that history, it's a good read if anyone spares themselves some time to read it. Thank you, I hope you see him in action soon too. As for the compelling and the limitations bit I'll edit those.
@Lionhearted
Yeah my main goal with immunity to being compelled was for the sake of why his maker chose him instead of killing him outright, some resistance to compel.
Hero Sincerest of Knights
Member
Seen
2 mos ago
Tore myself away from wrapping to post, but it is done at least lol
GM
Lionhearted ♡
Member
Seen
10 days ago
Tore myself away from wrapping to post, but it is done at least lol
And a glorious post, it is! I think I may have time to post tonight~! We're all snowed in here, so there's nothing for me to do really.
GM
Lionhearted ♡
Member
Seen
10 days ago
I got a post in to respond to those that are interacting with Ambrosia! :)
Still waiting on posts from a few of you, but I understand that this is a very busy time of year, so don't stress! At this point in the roleplay, it's free posting for interactions before I alter the setting again!
Still waiting on posts from a few of you, but I understand that this is a very busy time of year, so don't stress! At this point in the roleplay, it's free posting for interactions before I alter the setting again!
Abigail Harlow
{ "Every now and again you run into a brick fucking wall." }
| {Full Name} |
Abigail Lockwood-Harlow
| {Nickname} |
Abi
| {Date of Birth} |
June 26th
| {Age} |
18
| {Gender} |
Female
| {Sexuality} |
Bisexual
| {Relationship Status} |
Single and disinterested
| {Role} |
Werewolf
| {Occupation} |
Abigail works flexible/part time with a nearby convenience store.
| {Face Claim} |
Dakota Fanning
| {Dialogue Color} |
None? (I’m really not a fan of colouring dialogue.)
| {Appearance} |
Standing tall at five-foot nothing with a shit-eating grin, a mane of messy blonde hair and inquisitive periwinkle eyes is Abigail Harlow. She is scattered with little scars, nicks, scrapes and bruises that seem to shift about on a daily basis. Spends most of her time outdoors but suntans seem to fade away the moment she steps inside - not even a freckle she could boast about, making her look a bit like a shut-in when it couldn’t be further from the truth. Her physique is best described as ‘gangly’ - packs of muscle here and there but skinny as a twig regardless of whatever she eats. No piercings, no tattoos; she knows she’ll mess them up eventually. A few of her toes are bent at a funny angle after she broke them and didn’t get them set properly. She typically wears bright and obscure brands that she managed to dig out of a second hand store somewhere and invests most of her money into very practical pairs of trainers. She owns enough hoodies, coats and jackets to provide for a small independent town. Hats aren’t her thing.
When she has the misfortune of transforming, she takes on an odd appearance compared to her european and north american counterparts. The African Golden Wolf is a bit of an odd breed to turn into but it best represented her personality and human appearance; small, scrawny, with a tanned coat of wiry hair and large inquisitive ears. She is also just as scarred as her human counterpart but most of it is hidden underneath the fur. She appears to be in good physical health, despite being a bit of a runty werewolf to begin with.
When she has the misfortune of transforming, she takes on an odd appearance compared to her european and north american counterparts. The African Golden Wolf is a bit of an odd breed to turn into but it best represented her personality and human appearance; small, scrawny, with a tanned coat of wiry hair and large inquisitive ears. She is also just as scarred as her human counterpart but most of it is hidden underneath the fur. She appears to be in good physical health, despite being a bit of a runty werewolf to begin with.
| {Habits & Quirks} |
Fidgeting, playing with her hair and moving about a lot when she’s stressed.
| {Hobbies} |
Jogging, Gymnastics, Roller Skating
| {Likes} |
Running around.
Climbing things (it makes her feel tall).
Wry, sarcastic humour.
Trying to do new, exciting and probably dangerous things.
Plasters, but particularly the colourful ones.
Fresh air.
Cheap and plentiful amounts of food.
Dry cereal.
Neon lights.
Climbing things (it makes her feel tall).
Wry, sarcastic humour.
Trying to do new, exciting and probably dangerous things.
Plasters, but particularly the colourful ones.
Fresh air.
Cheap and plentiful amounts of food.
Dry cereal.
Neon lights.
| {Dislikes} |
The A&E.
Being bored, staying still, or anything to do with idleness.
Assholes that aren’t charismatic.
Alcohol and drugs.
The cold.
Strangers.
Solemnity.
Being bored, staying still, or anything to do with idleness.
Assholes that aren’t charismatic.
Alcohol and drugs.
The cold.
Strangers.
Solemnity.
| {Fears} |
Drowning.
Being alone/abandoned.
Being a werewolf.
Being alone/abandoned.
Being a werewolf.
| {Secrets} |
If it wasn’t for Abigail’s involvement, her mother wouldn’t be in jail. Lisa Harlow was an abusive alcoholic who scared off Jean, Abigail’s father, and tormented Abigail for most of her childhood.
She was given away to her uncle in a last-bid attempt to save Abigail from a life of crime after she was put in a juvenile institute with criminal battery charges. It’s likely her mother wasn’t aware of Brooks’ occupation at the time.
She was given away to her uncle in a last-bid attempt to save Abigail from a life of crime after she was put in a juvenile institute with criminal battery charges. It’s likely her mother wasn’t aware of Brooks’ occupation at the time.
| {Abilities} |
Sniffer Dog: Abigail’s senses are extremely heightened, most likely due to the fact she is by far one of the weakest werewolves around. She can pick up on things that even alpha werewolves might miss; whether or not she chooses to follow them is another thing entirely.
Slippery Bugger: A combination of her small size, aerodynamic frame and high stamina mean she’s very difficult to catch. She runs faster and turns quicker than your typical werewolf.
Slippery Bugger: A combination of her small size, aerodynamic frame and high stamina mean she’s very difficult to catch. She runs faster and turns quicker than your typical werewolf.
| {Limitations} |
Overwhelmed: In wolf form, Abigail’s senses are so overpoweringly sensitive that she is easily confused and disorientated by them.
Tough Transformations: Transforming is a physically harrowing and difficult process for Abigail. It doesn’t take long but it saps the energy right out of her, leaving her at a disadvantage already in fights.
Mood Swings: Abigail’s transformations are controlled but entirely dependent on mood. It’s typically high stress situations that cause her to start feeling symptoms. She can quell them but will eventually have to shift, regardless of situation, for at least a couple of minutes.
Short Attention Span: In wolf form, Abigail has to make a concerted effort to remain fully aware of her actions. She isn’t an inherently aggressive wolf if she does lose focus though; she acts more like a skittish yet inquisitive animal than the snarling, aggressive beasts Salem is accustomed to.
Tough Transformations: Transforming is a physically harrowing and difficult process for Abigail. It doesn’t take long but it saps the energy right out of her, leaving her at a disadvantage already in fights.
Mood Swings: Abigail’s transformations are controlled but entirely dependent on mood. It’s typically high stress situations that cause her to start feeling symptoms. She can quell them but will eventually have to shift, regardless of situation, for at least a couple of minutes.
Short Attention Span: In wolf form, Abigail has to make a concerted effort to remain fully aware of her actions. She isn’t an inherently aggressive wolf if she does lose focus though; she acts more like a skittish yet inquisitive animal than the snarling, aggressive beasts Salem is accustomed to.
| {Personality} |
♦ Friendly/Welcoming ♦ Impulsive ♦ Charismatic ♦ Callous ♦
Abigail bears the tell-tale signs of a woman forced to mature too quickly. She fluctuates between being self-sufficient and sensible to acting like any other cheeky teenage girl would. Her sharp tongue and witty comments are more than enough to get her in trouble. Often restless and always fidgety, Abigail has a boundless amount of energy that spills into her everyday life and fuels her moments of irrationality, those famous “fuck-it-let’s-give-this-a-shot” ideas that every young adult has been guilty of before.
She enjoys debates and isn’t afraid to speak her mind, even if they devolve into shouting matches and sulking. Her sharp mind means that even if she couldn’t exactly avoid trouble, she was well equipped for getting herself out of whatever screw-up she inevitably lands herself in. Even if she acts like a smart-ass from time to time, no-one is more aware of their own frailty than Abigail. Almost everything she does is humbled by the constant reminder that she is younger, weaker and less experienced than most of the people around her. Yes, she is passionate and stubborn and will fight for her voice to be heard but there are some situations where Abigail can clearly see she is physically weaker than most.
You'd think that someone as sociable and friendly as Abigail would be a model student, but it's far from the truth. The best way to describe it is that she's inadvertently bad; she tries so, so hard to be the loveable rascal of the town and most of the time she pulls it off, but there's just this indiscernible something that's been ingrained into her psyche and she constantly fights it. It's the reason she won't touch drugs, the reason why she becomes so ruthless when she's drunk. It's why her temper is so short and it's why she'll cross the line every so often with her insults. It makes her big smile seem fake sometimes and it gives her the unnerving, almost predatory gaze of a hardened criminal even though she claims she's never done anything worse than shoplifting.
With this hindrance, it's no wonder that Abigail shies away from trusting others and keeps closer to her uncle instead. It's why everyone is just friends with Abigail and nothing more. It's almost ironic; most kids her age are busy trying to rebel against the system and live a free, uninhibited life; Abigail's doing her damnedest to be a good neighbor. She just doesn't have the part in her brain that should mention when something's a bad idea before it becomes a retrospective thought.
Her attitude towards the supernatural is very blasé. On the one hand, she doesn’t care what you are - vampire, werewolf, witch or eldritch horror - so long as you aren’t putting everyone else at risk, you’re not a threat in Abigail’s eyes. That being said, she’s in the belief that if nobody ‘thins the herd’ of all the supernaturals with ill intentions, humanity will be overrun and inbreeding/cross-species children will inevitably occur. That, in her opinion, would cause a whole host of problems. She rarely objects to her uncle’s killing of supernaturals unless they’re someone she knows that doesn’t deserve it.
She enjoys debates and isn’t afraid to speak her mind, even if they devolve into shouting matches and sulking. Her sharp mind means that even if she couldn’t exactly avoid trouble, she was well equipped for getting herself out of whatever screw-up she inevitably lands herself in. Even if she acts like a smart-ass from time to time, no-one is more aware of their own frailty than Abigail. Almost everything she does is humbled by the constant reminder that she is younger, weaker and less experienced than most of the people around her. Yes, she is passionate and stubborn and will fight for her voice to be heard but there are some situations where Abigail can clearly see she is physically weaker than most.
You'd think that someone as sociable and friendly as Abigail would be a model student, but it's far from the truth. The best way to describe it is that she's inadvertently bad; she tries so, so hard to be the loveable rascal of the town and most of the time she pulls it off, but there's just this indiscernible something that's been ingrained into her psyche and she constantly fights it. It's the reason she won't touch drugs, the reason why she becomes so ruthless when she's drunk. It's why her temper is so short and it's why she'll cross the line every so often with her insults. It makes her big smile seem fake sometimes and it gives her the unnerving, almost predatory gaze of a hardened criminal even though she claims she's never done anything worse than shoplifting.
With this hindrance, it's no wonder that Abigail shies away from trusting others and keeps closer to her uncle instead. It's why everyone is just friends with Abigail and nothing more. It's almost ironic; most kids her age are busy trying to rebel against the system and live a free, uninhibited life; Abigail's doing her damnedest to be a good neighbor. She just doesn't have the part in her brain that should mention when something's a bad idea before it becomes a retrospective thought.
Her attitude towards the supernatural is very blasé. On the one hand, she doesn’t care what you are - vampire, werewolf, witch or eldritch horror - so long as you aren’t putting everyone else at risk, you’re not a threat in Abigail’s eyes. That being said, she’s in the belief that if nobody ‘thins the herd’ of all the supernaturals with ill intentions, humanity will be overrun and inbreeding/cross-species children will inevitably occur. That, in her opinion, would cause a whole host of problems. She rarely objects to her uncle’s killing of supernaturals unless they’re someone she knows that doesn’t deserve it.
| {Place of Origin} |
New Orleans.
| {Background} |
Abigail’s time in New Orleans was kept largely a secret for privacy purposes, but from what the rumour mill has managed to scrounge up she left the city in a hurry. She showed up with Brooks Lockwood from ‘the big city’ when she was around 12 years old and very clearly kept whatever happened between her and Brooks. It took her a while to settle in but when she did, she immediately made a couple friends and met many people. She knew everyone and everyone knew her; but when it came down to it, nobody was really her confidante, her best friend above all else. This was only partially to do with the fact she’s quite a guarded and stubborn brat in the first place; the other important playing factor was the fact her uncle was a hunter. She never really had friends over for sleepovers when she moved to Salem.
School was a difficult transitioning period - she was the asshole that always called our inappropriate things in class but also sucked up to the teachers. Even then, she hardly got a good grade because she couldn’t stand taking the time to actually study. She went out a lot instead and her recklessness was the cause of many an accident as she grew up. The only ‘odd’ part of her school life were the occasional ‘long weekends’ that she and Brooks would take for vacation, always coming back in a solemn and (in Abigail’s case) openly hostile mood.
It was after one of these weekends that Abigail ran into an outcast werewolf; a runty, skinny thing with a huge grudge to bear. He took out his frustrations on the girl only a few months back, only adding to the repertoire of scars and leaving Abigail with a curse that she had previously (and naively) believed she wouldn’t catch due to her fairly neutral stance in the supernatural conflicts in her hometown. After that, Abigail became a bit of a shut-in; she severed almost all ties with the people outside, kept glued to Brooks’ side and only really started leaving the house more for exercise purposes than anything else.
Nevertheless, she kept the same point of view that she had before; in whatever brief contact she kept with the rest of the world she was open about her newfound condition and insistent that it didn’t change her opinion on the supernatural, that she wasn’t about to follow her uncle’s footsteps just because one pissy werewolf changed her life forever. That being said, she relishes in describing just how her uncle dealt with the perpetrator in...graphic detail.
Only recently has Abigail decided to go back to school and get herself a part-time job working retail in a shitty little convenience store not too far from home. She’s regaining her footing again and trying to rebuild her life, unaware that chaos is looming just around the corner.
School was a difficult transitioning period - she was the asshole that always called our inappropriate things in class but also sucked up to the teachers. Even then, she hardly got a good grade because she couldn’t stand taking the time to actually study. She went out a lot instead and her recklessness was the cause of many an accident as she grew up. The only ‘odd’ part of her school life were the occasional ‘long weekends’ that she and Brooks would take for vacation, always coming back in a solemn and (in Abigail’s case) openly hostile mood.
It was after one of these weekends that Abigail ran into an outcast werewolf; a runty, skinny thing with a huge grudge to bear. He took out his frustrations on the girl only a few months back, only adding to the repertoire of scars and leaving Abigail with a curse that she had previously (and naively) believed she wouldn’t catch due to her fairly neutral stance in the supernatural conflicts in her hometown. After that, Abigail became a bit of a shut-in; she severed almost all ties with the people outside, kept glued to Brooks’ side and only really started leaving the house more for exercise purposes than anything else.
Nevertheless, she kept the same point of view that she had before; in whatever brief contact she kept with the rest of the world she was open about her newfound condition and insistent that it didn’t change her opinion on the supernatural, that she wasn’t about to follow her uncle’s footsteps just because one pissy werewolf changed her life forever. That being said, she relishes in describing just how her uncle dealt with the perpetrator in...graphic detail.
Only recently has Abigail decided to go back to school and get herself a part-time job working retail in a shitty little convenience store not too far from home. She’s regaining her footing again and trying to rebuild her life, unaware that chaos is looming just around the corner.
| {Extra} |
Since Abigail is super sociable (or at least, she WAS until a few months ago) it’s likely that my character knows yours - at least via proxy. Please feel free to approach me with any pre-established relationships you have in mind, provided they aren’t too close or intimate.
Hey there! I hope you don't mind, but I altered an old character from a previously shut-down RP for this one. My friend DinoNuts should start working on his CS when he comes back from work tonight, but since I'm about to go on holiday I wanted to post mine up to make any alterations before things get busy. I look forward to RPing with you all.
Polaris North How I Socially Interact
Member
Seen
21 days ago
She's probably not in the pack yet, if she decides to join - she got her ass handed to her by a werewolf for Christ's sake, it's taken her several months just to recover from the sounds and control herself just enough to re-enter society! That said, I did mention in my CS that Abigail used to be such a social butterfly beforehand; she used to help people out around town, take part in festivals and fairs...she's the sort of person who would sit down with a homeless man and talk to him as well as giving him money/food. Chances are, she either knows you (and you know her) or she's heard of you. I'm hoping people will specify their preferences on that one before I start rping.
Polaris, I was actually going to approach you after I'm approved - I wanted to know if Abigail could seek you out for help with her new found abilities. I'm under the impression they know each other from school or something, maybe they were in the same sports team or club or whatever, I'll let you decide, and Abigail drops him a text asking to meet up for some help and we can work it out from there. Would you be interested in doing something like that?
Polaris, I was actually going to approach you after I'm approved - I wanted to know if Abigail could seek you out for help with her new found abilities. I'm under the impression they know each other from school or something, maybe they were in the same sports team or club or whatever, I'll let you decide, and Abigail drops him a text asking to meet up for some help and we can work it out from there. Would you be interested in doing something like that?
Polaris North How I Socially Interact
Member
Seen
21 days ago
@Stitches
Oh yeah definitely! I was actually thinking of William and her being friends because of their overly social personalities (at least for her back a few months). Though he didn't show off much in terms of athletic ability so they probably wouldn't have met at a club (since he didn't join one), but they probably met every now and then and eventually became friends who hang. He'd definitely be up to helping her out.
Oh yeah definitely! I was actually thinking of William and her being friends because of their overly social personalities (at least for her back a few months). Though he didn't show off much in terms of athletic ability so they probably wouldn't have met at a club (since he didn't join one), but they probably met every now and then and eventually became friends who hang. He'd definitely be up to helping her out.
1x Thank
@Stitches To be honest, I haven't read through the CS yet since... work >.< But that's what lunch break is for 
So I'll look it over then and then we'll see what we see 
So I'll look it over then and then we'll see what we see I only posted it a couple hours ago, I don't expect anyone to have read it yet...I'm surprised you were both so quick to welcome me in though, that's a good sign! And sure, we'll go with that Polaris. I don't want to plan anything too in-depth just in case I need to change things around for the GM.
Polaris North How I Socially Interact
Member
Seen
21 days ago
@Stitches Ah, such a missed opportunity. She could have been Blaine's long lost secret daughter being from New Orleans 
No matter Feel free if you and Polaris decide to bring her to Blaine for further advice and help. Blaine watches over the behaving Weres in her pack, or living in Salem even if not part of the pack per se, like a mother hen. It's the troublemakers she's ruthless with
No matter
Feel free if you and Polaris decide to bring her to Blaine for further advice and help. Blaine watches over the behaving Weres in her pack, or living in Salem even if not part of the pack per se, like a mother hen. It's the troublemakers she's ruthless with
© 2007-2024