Post by azlirn on Nov 19, 2010 17:37:19 GMT -5
Name: Francis Mortensen
Gender: Male
Race: Vampire ( Vampire Born )
Occupation: Unemployed, Slayer
Age: 206
Height: 6' 0"
Weight: 210lbs
Build: Athletic, cut
Eyes: Light Blue
Hair: Long White, messy and unkempt
Skin Tone: Pale
Deformities ~ A sad obsession with a girl he met over 100 years ago. It effects his logic and heart. It has also changed his though process to differ from the way he was raised.
Attire:
When out with the general public,
Usually Jeans, button down collared shirt or T and tan trench.
When headed out for his "work",
Victorian style dress, he enjoys allowing his true self to reign through. Very large black tench allowing his wings to show through. Leather boots with light shoulder armor.
Weapons:
Hand to hand, daggers, Smith and Wesson .45
Fighting Style: Street
Biography:
Francis, a rather simple vampire of the "modern age", tries to keep to himself unless it is completely necessary. Quite unlike his brothers and sisters of his natural born family, he does not embrace all of the rules and regulations of the pure bred culture. He trys to embrace what humans would consider “normal”.
Born on the edge of a very small town in Ireland about 200 years ago, he was raised to despise the very existence of man. Raised on the standard principles of a pure breed vampire, he was trained by some of the greatest in the world to devour the souls of the innocent without any regard to life. He hated every step of his training, seeing it as unnecessary and wrong. His parents forced him to continue the so called training, disregarding his persistent pleas to stop. They believed that any natural born, was simply better than the rest. No other deserved more honor than they. Any who would rise up against them or was not one of them needed to no longer exist, the only answer was death.
Still, the years pressed on until he was old enough to tend to his own. At 16 he left home and has been on his own ever since. He despised the foundations of which his family lived by and disowned them.
Nearly a year later, still stuck in Ireland, fighting with the anger that was bred into him, resisting the urge to chop off the head of any person or being that opposed him, he encountered a person that changed his life forever.
Her name was Isabella Creighton. More beautiful than any girl he had seen in his life. No creature was as beautiful as she in his eyes. A natural human, it went totally against everything he had been taught. That seemed simply a formality, an issue that he would overcome by whatever means necessary. She had dark silky hair that ventured just passed the small of her back, emerald green eyes that made him swear that they were formed by the hands of God himself. Her smooth pale body would make any man fall to his knees. She wore only the finest attire and always smelled of fresh roses. She worked at the local village market selling hand knit goods to locals and passerby's. He stalked her as she worked in the market, and for the next several years he lived like this.
For Francis this was all unnatural, he was raised to hate the very existence of humans and anything that was different than he. "Why is she so different?" he would ask himself. She was an outstanding choice for any man, in her early 20's, stable and remarkably beautiful. Anyone would be a fool to not take her hand.
But, as time went by, she aged as any human would and Francis stayed his normal self. Typical, he had always ran into this issue with humans. He stayed young, as they grew older.
Isabella died on a Sunday morning from what he could tell, of old age he assumed. He was never close to her or the family so he was not sure.
He hated himself for not even introducing himself, even offering a coffee at the local pub. For what, a fear of being judged? For fear of not being accepted? As the worst, she never bore children or became wed. He felt responsible for something he had no control over. Why anyone would not have taken her hand he did not understand. Oh well, water under the bridge they say. He had bigger issues at hand now. No time to worry about pesky heartbreaks, or at least this was the excuse he made for himself.
Almost 160 years later, Francis lives in a small town just outside of NYC. He lives the best he can as a normal human trying to "blend with the crowd" wherever possible. He finds it hard being a young vampire around NYC. He hates the civilization by nature but does his best to deal with it. He after all, wants to become human, so why not act human...
Working as a "Slayer" as they call it, he works odd jobs for people all over the world, protecting, assassinating, whatever. If it involves guns and blood, he is in.
RP Sample (2-3 good paragraphs, preeze):
He stepped outside for the morning smoke, "filthy habit" he muttered as he slapped his Zippo closed and took a long drag. He had been trying to stop smoking for a few years after Isabella died but finally gave up, convincing himself that it was ok, it helped him blend in.
It was chilly morning, a light breeze made him shiver, he wished he had brought his cloak out. He took a look around the sleepy town he lived in. Hard to believe that it had stayed the same for so many years while being so close to the city. There had been no construction in about 50 years. The town had a very rustic/Victorian feel to it. The houses resembled mini castles, they were poorly maintained and most of them vacant. A horribly quite city was just what he needed. Less people, less risk of being discovered.
It was a very depressing overcast day. The gray skies did not help the view of the city anymore than any other day. No one was on the streets, normal for where he lived. He often compared it to what some humans would call a ghetto.
A large black cat ran across the old road in front of his two story house. The road, badly needing repaving but the city never had the money for "useless" things such as that.
He shook his head, never one for superstition but in these days, he was always cautious. He had been having bad dreams as of late and was constantly on his toes. He was taking no chances. Turning to go back inside he crushed out his menthol. He noticed a flimsy gray shutter on the top floor of his house, hanging off of a window by nothing but faith alone. "Another damn dollar to spend", he cursed under his breath and walked back inside the musty house. He would try to fix it this weekend.
His house was filled with odds and ends from various places he had visited over the years. He never kept anything to mysterious out in the open as to not scare away any people that may just pass through. Through the hallway he kept his cloaks and such on an ancient Victorian coat rack. It stood very proudly along with the rest of the architecture in the house. Further down the hallway to the right was a small but sufficient kitchen and the door to the backyard.
Turning left into the living room, he kicked the clutter littering the floor out of the way as he made his way to sit in his old recliner. Easily aged into the 60's, this was his chair and he would be damned if it was to be messed with by anyone other than himself. A typical trait of any man of his stature he would tell people. He never was much for cleaning up after himself either, he always felt that it was a woman's task. As a result, he never had many people to his house either. Turning on his 42” TV across the room, which was oddly out of place from the rest of his collected items, he rested his head on the back of his chair and let his mind wander back to Isabella. She would have kept his house clean. He would have been treated like a king...
The phone rang, Francis was woke out of a dead sleep. He had drifted off in his own thoughts. An odd one as he really had done nothing the day prior. Looking up he searched for the source of the annoying ringing sound. Across the room he saw his phone buzzing across the counter that divided the kitchen and the living area. He immediately stumbled out of his chair and tripped over two or three of the GUNS Weekly magazines that littered the floor. Cursing he picked up the phone,
"What is it?!" he half yelled into the phone.
"Excuse me?!" a voice came back, he then chuckled. It was a familiar voice, an old friend of his, Cassandra.
"Eh, Sorry about that love. Long time to see, how are you? And why are you calling so late, don‘t you realize what time it is?"
"Francis, you of all people should know that I an never punctual about things like this, and since when am I your love?"
Not waiting for his response she started whispering into the phone, "I need your help Francis there is an issue back in Ireland that I need you to tend to"
Francis didn't let her finish, he slammed down the phone. “How dare her!” he thought. He knew instantly what she was going to ask of him. There was no way he would ever go back to that wretched place again.
The two went very far back, a half breed herself, Francis had found her barely surviving in a camp in Ireland. This camp, set up and controlled by his family, they dined on half breeds. Tortured day and night, she was one of the only surviving. He had brought her back to the states and helped her get a new start. Poured out thousands of dollars to send her to college and helped her buy a house and such. He took care of her like she was his daughter.
He knew what this call was about, he was not about to go back to that place again. She had always wanted him to, he always denied her. He always wondered why she wouldn't let it go, just move on. Why would anyone hold on to something like that? Especially a human.
Cassandra had always begged him to go back and free more of the half breeds, they both knew that the camp was still operational and more and more half breeds were being murdered everyday. A shame, the half breeds are the only ones keeping the generation alive.
He knew how human emotions worked but still did not understand some of the concepts. He wished that Cassandra would just let it go. Who knows, probably exactly that, the stupidity of the human race that she was bred with.
Stumbling back into his chair, this time taking care to avoid the magazines on the floor, he tried to push Cassandra’s call out of his mind. Next to his chair an old Victorian nightstand stood. He grabbed a chain from around his neck which held a key. He unlocked the nightstand chest with a very rusty click and stared inside. It had been a few months since he had needed it but after a call like that he would certainly be prepared. He grabbed his Smith and Wesson .45, checked to ensure that it was loaded and slipped it under his armrest. He knew that something was up but tried to deny the thought.
He took a deep sigh, and fell into a night of horrible sleep. After tonight, his life would never be the same again.
Francis woke around 3PM the next day to someone banging on his door, demanding that he answer. They called for him by name, odd but it didn’t bother him. The town was so small it was no surprise that someone would no him by name.
Frustrated for being woke unexpectedly again he slowly came to his senses. He smelled the air, the stench of something unnatural filled the air, not human. One of the perks of being pure bred, a keen sense of smell.
Francis knew that after the call from Cassandra last night he needed to be on his toes. Pulling himself out of his chair he walked to the hallway door making no sound. Not even today’s smartest and brightest military would have known he was there. He grabbed his tan cloak of the ancient rack and slipped into it without making to much racket. He wanted to be sure that if this was a human his wings would be properly concealed.
Creeping up to the door he snuck a peek through the peep hole. “Of course” he muttered, it had been covered by his uninvited visitor.
His mind began to race, should he run and come back later or answer the door as if there was nothing wrong? After what seemed to be a millennium he finally opened the door. He immediately recognized his visitor.
“Brother! What a long time it has been. I thought by now you would have surely starved to death or something of that sort. You look good!” His visitor was his trainer from over 100 years prior. He took no care for his presence in this area. He wore no cover and his true self shown about for all the world to see. He dressed with little clothing, it appeared like he had robbed a homeless man who wore clothes three sizes to small for him.
His wings were a dark bloodstained red. He had a thin complexion and pale skin. He had black beady eyes and his dark oily hair filled his face. He had dark circles under his eyes and smelled of rotting flesh. His lips curled when he saw Francis.
“What are you doing here?” Francis snarled. “You have no business here, I owe you nothing.”
“Oh but you do Francis” His visitor pushed Francis aside and allowed himself in. Francis slammed the door behind him and followed. He threw his coat to the side, there was no need for formalities at this point.
“Francis, I believe you have something of mine, you certainly remember don’t you?”
He knew exactly what he was talking about. This is what Cassandra’s phone call had been about last night. It became very clear why she sounded so nervous last night.
This “Visitor” was no ordinary vampire. He was out for blood, to anyone who opposed him or his family. He knew no name, All knew him simply as Severus. A pathetic name but he did not care. He held no regard for any life other than a pure breed. He despised Francis for being an individual, he hated the fact that none had opposed him for his actions of which insulted all pure breeds.
“Severus, you know you can not be here!” Francis demanded.
“Then you should have thought about that when you stole that filthy half breed!” Francis cringed at the term. He saw all as equal and hated the mentality of the pure breeds. His anger soared as the words flew out of his visitors mouth.
“You know just as well as I do that she deserved none less than she was getting!” Severus snarled, “Now where is she?!”
They were still in the hallway, Francis lost his control. He flew at Severus with as much force as he could manage.
“Is that really how you feel? I will show you a fucking half breed!“ He flew at him with the force of a bullet train.
They flew through the door in the back of the house and out onto the back lawn. Both flew into the air taking no regard for their surroundings or who may be looking. The bright sun did not bother Francis but he could tell it was getting on Severus’s nerves. He had not become as accustomed to it as Francis had.
Francis realized he had no weapons on him and knew it would be a tough fight without any. He flew at Severus again, trying to throw him off focus. He missed him by inches.
“Is that all you have got Francis? I know I trained you better than that. Now please, don’t insult me!”
Severus pulled something from his cloak, Francis knew that whatever it was, he would not match to anything with no armor.
“Severus! You coward! You fight a man without a weapon and choose to shoot him in the back? That is not the teacher I knew, now please, don’t insult me!” Francis spoke with a sarcastic tone. All the while he was filling sicker by the moment on the inside. If he found Cassandra, he would have no reason to live, no reason to fight.
He his mind began racing again. His became aware of his surroundings and looked down, his house, he would have to leave after today from the apparent damage. No one would be able to explain that away.
“Francis! What are you doing?” Severus was becoming irritated, Francis didn’t have much time.
He dove, with such precision and speed he flew into the house. He ran to his chair and grabbed his .45, “only 5 rounds” he thought to himself. Knowing that Severus was not far behind, he jumped for his nightstand. “Forget the key” he thought. He smashed the stand open and grabbed a small case.
Inside were 10 rounds for hand constructed out of pure silver. “Perfect for a moment like this” Francis thought. He quickly lowered his breathing and listened. He heard nothing, that scared him. He knew the enemy was close. As quickly and silently as he could he changed the round out in his .45 .
As soon as he shut the barrel he heard something crash in the kitchen. Carefully moving through his house, he approached the kitchen. There was little cover for him to take and his large wingspan was not helping things. He halfheartedly wished he has his coat on. Before he could make any further moves he was grabbed through the wall and carried through two floors of drywall and rafters and into the sky. Severus had a firm grip on Francis’ throat now. There was simply no escape.
In the distance Francis could here sirens, “Great” he thought, “Another fucking press release, Screw this”
He met eyes with his enemy and smirked. This oddly enough confused the bastard who had him by the throat, why would anyone smirk? Francis still had the revolver in his hand, Severus had not noticed. He pulled the lever back while they were still soaring yet even higher. He reached up with an alarming speed, the barrel met his enemies head and he fired. The round exited the barrel and penetrated deep into the monsters brain, shattering every bone in his skull in the process. Blood gushed from the wound as Severus fell to earth once more. Francis hung in midair for a moment trying to recollect the events that had just occurred.
By this time the Police had already shown up below, there was no turning back now. He was on the run.