Point Soulularity
07-31-07, 06:33 AM
I decided to get back into things with a new character. I hope you like him.
It was heavy, this darkness, this enveloping shroud. It blanketed the mind, suppressed thoughts as thick wool mutes sound, and numbed even his ability to recognize his own plight. But at the same time, it seemed to crush his will. It was like a great stone lying on one’s chest. When one is stationary only the pressure and discomfort ails you. But when you try to breathe, try to lift this weight from yourself, it stabs into your flesh, punishing you for your impudent will to survive. Such was the pain he felt from this blanket, which smothered his thoughts. But he knew, instinctually, that if he did not fight, only a darker darkness lay before him, for this blanket would kill him just as surely as that proverbial stone.
He fought, blindly lashing out against the oppressive force on his mind. But instead of mindlessly remaining a constant but static threat, it grew heavier, pressed harder. However the numbness, which stifled his effectively combating this gag, was fading as it does in the extremities when you force stimulation into them. And this stimulation burned; an arc of lightening and fire in his brain, enflaming his will to fight harder and harder. The antagonistic pressure, which seemed more and more to be a sentient thing rather than a mindless obstacle, writhed in a fury against him. It lashed into his mind, clawing at anything it could get its talons into. First it met only mushy half formed resolve, but with each successive attack, his mind became harder and stronger, until the shadow did nothing but scratch the surface impotently. Knowing now the battle was lost it fled, fearing its former victim.
Besides it had accomplished its task.
His lids slid back, chasing the shadows of uncertain and uneasy sleep away in a liquid flurry. A world of stark contrasts met his bleary gaze. Light from a gibbous moon on a clear night shone through a small barred window set high in the ceiling and cut a sharp swathe of clarity into the small room. The uniform stone, laid so tight that even mice found no refuge between, shone wetly in the pearlescent silvery light. But where the light did not shine, there was only solid shadow, blocking all hopes of sight. On the far side of the room, opposite from where the room’s sole occupant lay quivering in the cold of night, a solid metal door—iron by its texture and shade—stood just in sight at the edge of the moonlight.
He lay where hard floor met hard wall, shivering in the cool air, but it was not the cold at which he trembled, but the haunting echoes of his dreams. That sensation of drowning, his mind fogged and unable to fight; completely paral—
No, mustn’t think about it.
He stopped his mind from wandering into the darker regions of his own mind and concentrated on stopping the quaking of his body. He started by tensing every muscle he had control of. Surprise flooded him as even that left him gasping and shaking with the effort it required. But slowly, and not giving in to the desire of his body to relax all at once, he started releasing the tension in his body, beginning at his toes and working his way up. After a few minutes, he finished by unclenching the muscles in his forehead, and let the sanguine peace the exercise induced remain for a few moments. But there was something wrong, and lying there, however arguably comfortable it may be for the moment, would not solve anything.
With halting movements the man got to his feet then immediately half slumped against the wall as a wave of nausea swept over him. He heaved forward, nearly toppling over and landing on his face, but caught himself, only to vomit the sparse contents of his stomach. Yet he continued to heave, dry retching for minutes on end. Though he could not say how long it took while it was happening. Finally as the nausea faded, along with the sickly veil it cast over his senses, he carefully straightened, wary of setting off another bout of sickness. With a half delirious flickering of his eyes, he took stock of his surroundings and immediately identified what it had been that he had sensed wrong.
He neither knew where he was, nor how he had gotten there. For that matter, despite any frantic tugs at his memory, the tatters of his consciousness could not dredge forth the knowledge of his identity.
He didn’t even know who he was.
A torrent of emotion ripped itself from his chest, clawed its way through the raw flesh of his throat and howled its way out of his mouth in a burst of pure sound that sounded odd even in his own ears. It stopped immediate, the sound, but the emotion continued to rage within his body like a wounded bull, buffeting his torso. Something inside of him bade him to remain silent despite his emotional unsoundness, and he listened to that part even as grasped desperately at it, but it faded away before the why of it became evident. Even so, harsh sobs escaped his spare frame. Anger, anguish and despair threatened to kill him outright, shattering his mind with the blunt force of their immensity. It is impossible to describe the pain of losing one’s identity, except to say that it is less painful than having to continue living without one. The man knew this, just as he knew he could not survive that pain. But he would survive. He would pick up the few pieces he had of himself and forge with them a new identity, a new self. He would not die, he would not!
The sobbing faded as new steel of resolve reinforced his will. During his emotion torment, the man’s body had instinctually assumed a fetal position, hands mashing painfully into his own scalp, almost in an attempt to rip the dangerous emotions from his mind. But now those hands fell lax at his side as he stood once again. But still, personal problems aside, there was still the issue of getting out of here. Even if there was a proper reason he his being placed in this cell, for he recognized it as such, the reason was hardly valid any more in his own mind.
Inquisitive as to the nature of his imprisonment he approached the door, which by this time was half lit in the moon’s light, which told the man that his cell was on the west side of the whatever facility was in charge of his incarceration. But he set aside rumination on that information as he could not think of how it could benefit him now. The door itself was plain an unadorned except for a slight depression at roughly eye level, which housed what he assumed was a thinner metal slate that could be pulled aside by an observer on the outside in order to look in on the inmate. If there was a hall on the other side, the man did not know as there was no way to look into it even it there might have been passable illumination. Even as he thought this he noticed that he could see the entirety of his cell now, as though it were day and it was sunlight not moonlight that illuminated the room. Filth of all sorts covered the two side walls. He shook he head to physically represent his mentally dispelling of that wonderment. The moon was just filling the room more, yes, that was it. Nevertheless, he also noted that the door would open into the theoretical hall, as the hinges were on the other side.
He tilted his head in a manner the smacked of habit as he contemplated his next move. His lips pursed, then thinned as they drew back, revealing straight white teeth. A faint long hiss of annoyance drifted from behind his teeth, as the man came to only one conclusion for the moment. His eyes dulled as he lifted his left hand to push at the middle of the door in some foolish hope that it might be unlocked.
But still, he thought to himself, I’d be a bigger fool for not trying.
His breathe caught and withdrew into his lungs sharply as the stereotypical sound of un-oiled metal grating on itself struck his ears. The door had moved, and not some scant half a millimeter before stopping at a closed latch, but a full three inches, allowing a slash of shaded view into the no longer theoretical hall. Alarm bells went off in his head at this discovery, it was far too unusual, but he ignored them, they would just get in his way. Tensing unconsciously, the man push the door open swiftly just enough for him to fit through, which produced a high pitched whine from the hinges. Pushing through doubt he passed soundlessly through the small space and into the hall.
It stretched for a good sixty meters in either direction before shadow engulfed it and obscure his sight. Uniform metal doors broke the flat wall at even intervals of three meters. Assuming the rooms mirrored the doors’ uniformity, the walls between the rooms were a quarter meter thick. The observations were made in lightening fast succession, but the speed and the trust he put naturally into these deduction did not give him pause. He had, by now, accepted that things from his former life, like this, would crop up. So, seeing no indicative difference in the paths that would provide a clue as to which course he should take, he turned left and began to quietly walk down the hall.
After some time had passed, and no discernable difference showed, he noticed that, despite the utter lack of light, he could still see faintly and still make out the contours of the walls and doors. But further consideration of this discovery was halted when a hint of light showed farther ahead. The man slowed, and became a shadow, silent and intent. The light, which had started out faint and insubstantial, narrowed to outline the frame of a door; the end of the hall. As the man neared, a faint humming came from the other side. He paused, listening, and was surprised to note that the sound, which he should have been faint, was loud and clear, as though he were facing the one from whom the sound came. The sound itself had a rich, resonant quality; definitely a man’s voice and it gave the impression of a deep solid chest and of a hearty laugh that would calm even the most infuriated drunk. It tickled the back of the man’s mind, and though no memory came, the man knew that this person on the other side knew him. He became very wary.
The man soundlessly crept up to the door and took note of every detail. This door, unlike the others, was wood but strapped in iron for reinforcement. The hinges were on his side and after he ran a finger over them discovered them slick from recent oiling. He silently thanked whatever god or gods that had sponsored his run of luck. He put a hand to the simple latch, lifting it with only a few murmurs of the mechanical workings. Then he eased the door open so that no more than a crack of light bled into the hall. His eye went to the small opening immediately, taking in every detail of the room, and though the light of an oil lantern shined directly into his unadjusted eyes, he did not flinch away or even note any discomfort.
The room was circular but was relatively unadorned. There was a small table, on which the lantern, the room’s sole light source, as there were no windows, sat and was accompanied by a murky glass bottle of some type of wine or juice—the man could not tell as the label was turned away from him, but the smell indicated wine—and a mug. A small wooden plate was also present, but it was empty except for five small crumbs of bread. Again the accuracy of his own senses astounded him, and the very fact that they did so made him think that this was not normal. But in any case, the source of the humming was also present. Though the man could only see the other’s legs, the guard, if he could be called that, as he wore no armor that the man could see, was well built. The man edged the door open further and was relieved to note that the man’s eyes were closed, lackadaisical in the execution of his duty. Though, the man dryly noted his own wonder at what that duty was, since this “guard” was armed with only a club. But still, even as the scent coming from him revealed his inebriation, the man approached quietly, ready to pounce should the man open his eyes.
Blood pulsed in his ears, racing faster and faster as he approached. It seemed minutes had passed since the man had last breathed, but it was surely not, for the need to breath had not yet arose and such moments stretched oddly through one’s perception. Then he was before the guard, looking down on him. He was plain, well muscled, but also fat. Wrinkles lined his face, showing that expressions of happiness and worry were both common to the guard, though he was not old. He looked to be in his early forties maybe late thirties. As the man’s gaze wandered downward, he noticed something very disquieting. The club, made of simple design and fire hardened wood, was not secured at the guard’s belt by a strap but a clenched fist. The man’s eyes darted up and met the guard’s, which were filled with grim determination but also an alluring, even exciting splash of fear.
A flicker of motion in the man’s lower right peripheral vision brought his right hand to instinctually snap around the rough wood of the club, stopping it well short of impacting his lower jaw. Instantly the man hunched his shoulders and let loose a feral snarl. At this, fear overwhelmed the guard’s eyes, and those liquid brown orbs, which a tavern wench may have called pretty at one time, trembled.
Something inside of the man snapped at seeing that fear, like a shark smelling blood. His left hand shot forward latching onto the man’s throat. Strength unnatural poured into his movements as he crushed the larger man to the ground, the spindly chair splintering under the horrible force. The guard sputtered through the strangling force of the man’s left hand, but whatever he was trying to say was incomprehensible but it told the man he was not clenching hard enough. His left hand tightened and even as he did the guard’s large face began to turn red. The guard’s weight shifted and a blunt object slammed into the man’s face from his left side. He tasted blood and when he spat a mixture of blood and saliva splatter the stone floor, dirtying its clean-swept surface. He turned back to his victim to see him rearing back for another mighty punch, but the man struck like a viper. Never releasing the club or his vice-like grip on the guard’s windpipe he crushed the triceps of the offending arm with his knee and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as bone shattered under his assault. His thin lips curved up in a feral smirk that showed his teeth. Blood pounded in his ears but now he realized it was not his, but the guard’s. In fact, the entire time, since he had awakened in that cell, he had never once heard or felt his own heart beat. He did not know what that meant, but he also did not care. The guard’s blood called to him.
The man shifted his grip on his victim’s throat so that he was instead grasping the back lower jaw. The guard coughed uproariously, but the man ignored him, listening instead in wonder at the sound of blood flowing through the guard’s jugular. Every beat of the guard’s heart sent a jolt of visceral desire through the man. His mouth began to water. Finally the coughing subsided enough for the guard to get out a word.
“Mi—Mikhail,” he rasped.
Ecstasy rolled through the man’s mind at something new, something that had been hoped for, recognition. That name, he knew it; knew it to be his own. But quickly the blood recaptured his attention and filled his mind entirely. Until a stay thought drifted into his mind and made him realize, he was hungry. As he pondered this an assertion made itself evident. This blood, which had captivated him so, would appease his hunger, his thirst. Thin lips parted for a second time to reveal two sharp fangs in the upper jaw, taking the place of normal incisors. A tongue, pale flesh but draped in the dark crimson of the man’s own blood slid over the new dental additions. The guard’s pupils contracted as he stared transfixed at the fangs, for he knew his fate, but still he screamed.
Mikhail’s vision misted over red as his fangs bit into the jugular of the poor, hapless guard. And then the sweet elixir flooded in and around his tongue flowing past but leaving the sweet quenching taste. The flood seemed to go on and on in an unending flow, just as Mikhail wished. The flow of blood was all, there was nothing else in this world, nothing. Then, after an eternity, the impossible happened. Mikhail felt sated and the flow tapered, to a drizzle then a trickle, then nothing. The man relaxed his grip on the corpse of his victim, noting the flesh under his touch to be cool and lifeless. The knowledge forced a contented smile, flashing his fangs to the air.
He knew not how or what gave him this power, this strength. But he liked it. It allowed him impunity to punish those who had imprisoned him; allowed him to dominated and make them prey. For that is all they were now, prey. He giggled at the thought and languished on the corpse as though it were a throne and he the King of Death. But after a few moments of allowing delusions of grandeur to rule him, Mikhail quieted his mind and contemplated.
In the world there are hunters and prey. Oh the world called civilization may profess equality, but even in that world the prey and hunters were just of a different sort. Some preyed upon innocence other guilty or love, or whatever foolish emotions one might allow another to hold. But this threw into relief his place in that world. Indeed he was a hunter, a hunter among much prey. But there were still others who were stronger than himself who could make him their prey if the fancy took them. His mouth distended at the thought of being made prey.
Well, I’ll just have to get stronger.
He smiled again, the thought of the challenge making his fingers twitch in anticipation.
Much stronger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Name: Mikhail
Age: He assumes and looks to be early twenties.
Race: Low Daylight-walker (Vampire Subspecies)
Hair Color: Golden Blonde
Eye Color: Steel Gray (Red when feeding or hunting)
Height: 6’3”
Weight: 145lbs
Occupation: Hunter
Personality: He is generally polite to others though there is an air “I’m better than you” in every action he takes, whether he actually thinks so or not. He’s quite charming, especially when he is either attracted or interested in someone, or if he’s trying to get someone alone, for platonic (albeit violent) reasons of course. All he really wants in life is to get stronger so he rarely has any kind of agenda where people are concerned, except for feeding, and that’s never been long term. All he generally wants from people is entertainment. He will travel with someone, and even honestly want to help them out if he thinks they are interesting and can help him get stronger. As far as honesty goes, it really depends on his mood, which can fluctuate quite rapidly. In general though, he would prefer to limit his emotional attachment to anyone as much as possible.
Appearance: If one could describe Mikhail in a word they would say, “beautiful”. For indeed he was; not handsome for his features are far too fine, too perfect and graceful to be sullied by the word handsome. But it is an unnatural beauty. His appearance is too perfect. It is as though his entire body were design as a lure to mortal kind, for one fatal vice they possess in general is a penchance for the attractive. Straight golden locks, which on a sunny day might be mistaken for sunbeams, frame an elegant ivory carved face which may have belonged to Adonis or Apollo. Like set gems, Mikhail’s eyes shimmer, reflecting light like polished steel, and seem to weigh and calculate everything they behold, altough in a somewhat bored, detached manner. His body is thin and pale but not at all sickly as they are roped in hard appealing muscle.
When he escaped the facility, Mikhail first produced clothing, stealing them from an empty clothier’s shop. His ensemble includes a simple buttton down gray cotton shirt with long sleeves and a semi-stiff collar. He wears the shirt untucked. It is slightly to big for him at the waist and chest and hangs loosely, but it fits perfectly at the shoulder and cuff. For pants he wears black slacks which are secured with a simple black leather belt that has a silver colored buckle. The pants fit snuggly enough at his thin waist put are a little loose around the leg. Over everything, he wears a non-descript black trench coat which buttons down to the waist, though Mikhail leaves it loose. The coat goes down to mid shin level. On his feet the vampire wears black combat boots made of thick leather that are good both in a fight and on the road.
History: See first part above.
Skills:
Vampirism: This is a very broad condition and equates to many unusual qualities in Mikhail. Some you may have realized from his history, others may not have been mentioned but shall be so now.
Strength—due to his inhuman nature, Mikhail has 1.5 times normal human strength.
Agility—he is 1.5 times as agile as the average human.
Senses—his senses are also 1.5 times as acute.
Lowlight vision—above average.
Darkvision—average.
Weapon Skill (Chain Sickle): Above average skill in the use of a chain sickle.
Martial Arts: Because the chain sickle is a medium range weapon almost exclusively this natural ability to use his own body as a weapon comes in handy. He is average in this skill.
Equipment:
Chain Sickle—this is a simple sickle, a slightly curved blade with the blade on the inside curve, with a short, leather-strapped handle. Attached to the pommel is a fifteen foot chain of small but hardy links. At the end of the chain is a three pound iron weight. Except for the weight, the entire thing is made of steel, and weighs ten pounds in total (weight , 3lbs; chain, 5lbs; sickle, 2lbs).
It was heavy, this darkness, this enveloping shroud. It blanketed the mind, suppressed thoughts as thick wool mutes sound, and numbed even his ability to recognize his own plight. But at the same time, it seemed to crush his will. It was like a great stone lying on one’s chest. When one is stationary only the pressure and discomfort ails you. But when you try to breathe, try to lift this weight from yourself, it stabs into your flesh, punishing you for your impudent will to survive. Such was the pain he felt from this blanket, which smothered his thoughts. But he knew, instinctually, that if he did not fight, only a darker darkness lay before him, for this blanket would kill him just as surely as that proverbial stone.
He fought, blindly lashing out against the oppressive force on his mind. But instead of mindlessly remaining a constant but static threat, it grew heavier, pressed harder. However the numbness, which stifled his effectively combating this gag, was fading as it does in the extremities when you force stimulation into them. And this stimulation burned; an arc of lightening and fire in his brain, enflaming his will to fight harder and harder. The antagonistic pressure, which seemed more and more to be a sentient thing rather than a mindless obstacle, writhed in a fury against him. It lashed into his mind, clawing at anything it could get its talons into. First it met only mushy half formed resolve, but with each successive attack, his mind became harder and stronger, until the shadow did nothing but scratch the surface impotently. Knowing now the battle was lost it fled, fearing its former victim.
Besides it had accomplished its task.
His lids slid back, chasing the shadows of uncertain and uneasy sleep away in a liquid flurry. A world of stark contrasts met his bleary gaze. Light from a gibbous moon on a clear night shone through a small barred window set high in the ceiling and cut a sharp swathe of clarity into the small room. The uniform stone, laid so tight that even mice found no refuge between, shone wetly in the pearlescent silvery light. But where the light did not shine, there was only solid shadow, blocking all hopes of sight. On the far side of the room, opposite from where the room’s sole occupant lay quivering in the cold of night, a solid metal door—iron by its texture and shade—stood just in sight at the edge of the moonlight.
He lay where hard floor met hard wall, shivering in the cool air, but it was not the cold at which he trembled, but the haunting echoes of his dreams. That sensation of drowning, his mind fogged and unable to fight; completely paral—
No, mustn’t think about it.
He stopped his mind from wandering into the darker regions of his own mind and concentrated on stopping the quaking of his body. He started by tensing every muscle he had control of. Surprise flooded him as even that left him gasping and shaking with the effort it required. But slowly, and not giving in to the desire of his body to relax all at once, he started releasing the tension in his body, beginning at his toes and working his way up. After a few minutes, he finished by unclenching the muscles in his forehead, and let the sanguine peace the exercise induced remain for a few moments. But there was something wrong, and lying there, however arguably comfortable it may be for the moment, would not solve anything.
With halting movements the man got to his feet then immediately half slumped against the wall as a wave of nausea swept over him. He heaved forward, nearly toppling over and landing on his face, but caught himself, only to vomit the sparse contents of his stomach. Yet he continued to heave, dry retching for minutes on end. Though he could not say how long it took while it was happening. Finally as the nausea faded, along with the sickly veil it cast over his senses, he carefully straightened, wary of setting off another bout of sickness. With a half delirious flickering of his eyes, he took stock of his surroundings and immediately identified what it had been that he had sensed wrong.
He neither knew where he was, nor how he had gotten there. For that matter, despite any frantic tugs at his memory, the tatters of his consciousness could not dredge forth the knowledge of his identity.
He didn’t even know who he was.
A torrent of emotion ripped itself from his chest, clawed its way through the raw flesh of his throat and howled its way out of his mouth in a burst of pure sound that sounded odd even in his own ears. It stopped immediate, the sound, but the emotion continued to rage within his body like a wounded bull, buffeting his torso. Something inside of him bade him to remain silent despite his emotional unsoundness, and he listened to that part even as grasped desperately at it, but it faded away before the why of it became evident. Even so, harsh sobs escaped his spare frame. Anger, anguish and despair threatened to kill him outright, shattering his mind with the blunt force of their immensity. It is impossible to describe the pain of losing one’s identity, except to say that it is less painful than having to continue living without one. The man knew this, just as he knew he could not survive that pain. But he would survive. He would pick up the few pieces he had of himself and forge with them a new identity, a new self. He would not die, he would not!
The sobbing faded as new steel of resolve reinforced his will. During his emotion torment, the man’s body had instinctually assumed a fetal position, hands mashing painfully into his own scalp, almost in an attempt to rip the dangerous emotions from his mind. But now those hands fell lax at his side as he stood once again. But still, personal problems aside, there was still the issue of getting out of here. Even if there was a proper reason he his being placed in this cell, for he recognized it as such, the reason was hardly valid any more in his own mind.
Inquisitive as to the nature of his imprisonment he approached the door, which by this time was half lit in the moon’s light, which told the man that his cell was on the west side of the whatever facility was in charge of his incarceration. But he set aside rumination on that information as he could not think of how it could benefit him now. The door itself was plain an unadorned except for a slight depression at roughly eye level, which housed what he assumed was a thinner metal slate that could be pulled aside by an observer on the outside in order to look in on the inmate. If there was a hall on the other side, the man did not know as there was no way to look into it even it there might have been passable illumination. Even as he thought this he noticed that he could see the entirety of his cell now, as though it were day and it was sunlight not moonlight that illuminated the room. Filth of all sorts covered the two side walls. He shook he head to physically represent his mentally dispelling of that wonderment. The moon was just filling the room more, yes, that was it. Nevertheless, he also noted that the door would open into the theoretical hall, as the hinges were on the other side.
He tilted his head in a manner the smacked of habit as he contemplated his next move. His lips pursed, then thinned as they drew back, revealing straight white teeth. A faint long hiss of annoyance drifted from behind his teeth, as the man came to only one conclusion for the moment. His eyes dulled as he lifted his left hand to push at the middle of the door in some foolish hope that it might be unlocked.
But still, he thought to himself, I’d be a bigger fool for not trying.
His breathe caught and withdrew into his lungs sharply as the stereotypical sound of un-oiled metal grating on itself struck his ears. The door had moved, and not some scant half a millimeter before stopping at a closed latch, but a full three inches, allowing a slash of shaded view into the no longer theoretical hall. Alarm bells went off in his head at this discovery, it was far too unusual, but he ignored them, they would just get in his way. Tensing unconsciously, the man push the door open swiftly just enough for him to fit through, which produced a high pitched whine from the hinges. Pushing through doubt he passed soundlessly through the small space and into the hall.
It stretched for a good sixty meters in either direction before shadow engulfed it and obscure his sight. Uniform metal doors broke the flat wall at even intervals of three meters. Assuming the rooms mirrored the doors’ uniformity, the walls between the rooms were a quarter meter thick. The observations were made in lightening fast succession, but the speed and the trust he put naturally into these deduction did not give him pause. He had, by now, accepted that things from his former life, like this, would crop up. So, seeing no indicative difference in the paths that would provide a clue as to which course he should take, he turned left and began to quietly walk down the hall.
After some time had passed, and no discernable difference showed, he noticed that, despite the utter lack of light, he could still see faintly and still make out the contours of the walls and doors. But further consideration of this discovery was halted when a hint of light showed farther ahead. The man slowed, and became a shadow, silent and intent. The light, which had started out faint and insubstantial, narrowed to outline the frame of a door; the end of the hall. As the man neared, a faint humming came from the other side. He paused, listening, and was surprised to note that the sound, which he should have been faint, was loud and clear, as though he were facing the one from whom the sound came. The sound itself had a rich, resonant quality; definitely a man’s voice and it gave the impression of a deep solid chest and of a hearty laugh that would calm even the most infuriated drunk. It tickled the back of the man’s mind, and though no memory came, the man knew that this person on the other side knew him. He became very wary.
The man soundlessly crept up to the door and took note of every detail. This door, unlike the others, was wood but strapped in iron for reinforcement. The hinges were on his side and after he ran a finger over them discovered them slick from recent oiling. He silently thanked whatever god or gods that had sponsored his run of luck. He put a hand to the simple latch, lifting it with only a few murmurs of the mechanical workings. Then he eased the door open so that no more than a crack of light bled into the hall. His eye went to the small opening immediately, taking in every detail of the room, and though the light of an oil lantern shined directly into his unadjusted eyes, he did not flinch away or even note any discomfort.
The room was circular but was relatively unadorned. There was a small table, on which the lantern, the room’s sole light source, as there were no windows, sat and was accompanied by a murky glass bottle of some type of wine or juice—the man could not tell as the label was turned away from him, but the smell indicated wine—and a mug. A small wooden plate was also present, but it was empty except for five small crumbs of bread. Again the accuracy of his own senses astounded him, and the very fact that they did so made him think that this was not normal. But in any case, the source of the humming was also present. Though the man could only see the other’s legs, the guard, if he could be called that, as he wore no armor that the man could see, was well built. The man edged the door open further and was relieved to note that the man’s eyes were closed, lackadaisical in the execution of his duty. Though, the man dryly noted his own wonder at what that duty was, since this “guard” was armed with only a club. But still, even as the scent coming from him revealed his inebriation, the man approached quietly, ready to pounce should the man open his eyes.
Blood pulsed in his ears, racing faster and faster as he approached. It seemed minutes had passed since the man had last breathed, but it was surely not, for the need to breath had not yet arose and such moments stretched oddly through one’s perception. Then he was before the guard, looking down on him. He was plain, well muscled, but also fat. Wrinkles lined his face, showing that expressions of happiness and worry were both common to the guard, though he was not old. He looked to be in his early forties maybe late thirties. As the man’s gaze wandered downward, he noticed something very disquieting. The club, made of simple design and fire hardened wood, was not secured at the guard’s belt by a strap but a clenched fist. The man’s eyes darted up and met the guard’s, which were filled with grim determination but also an alluring, even exciting splash of fear.
A flicker of motion in the man’s lower right peripheral vision brought his right hand to instinctually snap around the rough wood of the club, stopping it well short of impacting his lower jaw. Instantly the man hunched his shoulders and let loose a feral snarl. At this, fear overwhelmed the guard’s eyes, and those liquid brown orbs, which a tavern wench may have called pretty at one time, trembled.
Something inside of the man snapped at seeing that fear, like a shark smelling blood. His left hand shot forward latching onto the man’s throat. Strength unnatural poured into his movements as he crushed the larger man to the ground, the spindly chair splintering under the horrible force. The guard sputtered through the strangling force of the man’s left hand, but whatever he was trying to say was incomprehensible but it told the man he was not clenching hard enough. His left hand tightened and even as he did the guard’s large face began to turn red. The guard’s weight shifted and a blunt object slammed into the man’s face from his left side. He tasted blood and when he spat a mixture of blood and saliva splatter the stone floor, dirtying its clean-swept surface. He turned back to his victim to see him rearing back for another mighty punch, but the man struck like a viper. Never releasing the club or his vice-like grip on the guard’s windpipe he crushed the triceps of the offending arm with his knee and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as bone shattered under his assault. His thin lips curved up in a feral smirk that showed his teeth. Blood pounded in his ears but now he realized it was not his, but the guard’s. In fact, the entire time, since he had awakened in that cell, he had never once heard or felt his own heart beat. He did not know what that meant, but he also did not care. The guard’s blood called to him.
The man shifted his grip on his victim’s throat so that he was instead grasping the back lower jaw. The guard coughed uproariously, but the man ignored him, listening instead in wonder at the sound of blood flowing through the guard’s jugular. Every beat of the guard’s heart sent a jolt of visceral desire through the man. His mouth began to water. Finally the coughing subsided enough for the guard to get out a word.
“Mi—Mikhail,” he rasped.
Ecstasy rolled through the man’s mind at something new, something that had been hoped for, recognition. That name, he knew it; knew it to be his own. But quickly the blood recaptured his attention and filled his mind entirely. Until a stay thought drifted into his mind and made him realize, he was hungry. As he pondered this an assertion made itself evident. This blood, which had captivated him so, would appease his hunger, his thirst. Thin lips parted for a second time to reveal two sharp fangs in the upper jaw, taking the place of normal incisors. A tongue, pale flesh but draped in the dark crimson of the man’s own blood slid over the new dental additions. The guard’s pupils contracted as he stared transfixed at the fangs, for he knew his fate, but still he screamed.
Mikhail’s vision misted over red as his fangs bit into the jugular of the poor, hapless guard. And then the sweet elixir flooded in and around his tongue flowing past but leaving the sweet quenching taste. The flood seemed to go on and on in an unending flow, just as Mikhail wished. The flow of blood was all, there was nothing else in this world, nothing. Then, after an eternity, the impossible happened. Mikhail felt sated and the flow tapered, to a drizzle then a trickle, then nothing. The man relaxed his grip on the corpse of his victim, noting the flesh under his touch to be cool and lifeless. The knowledge forced a contented smile, flashing his fangs to the air.
He knew not how or what gave him this power, this strength. But he liked it. It allowed him impunity to punish those who had imprisoned him; allowed him to dominated and make them prey. For that is all they were now, prey. He giggled at the thought and languished on the corpse as though it were a throne and he the King of Death. But after a few moments of allowing delusions of grandeur to rule him, Mikhail quieted his mind and contemplated.
In the world there are hunters and prey. Oh the world called civilization may profess equality, but even in that world the prey and hunters were just of a different sort. Some preyed upon innocence other guilty or love, or whatever foolish emotions one might allow another to hold. But this threw into relief his place in that world. Indeed he was a hunter, a hunter among much prey. But there were still others who were stronger than himself who could make him their prey if the fancy took them. His mouth distended at the thought of being made prey.
Well, I’ll just have to get stronger.
He smiled again, the thought of the challenge making his fingers twitch in anticipation.
Much stronger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Name: Mikhail
Age: He assumes and looks to be early twenties.
Race: Low Daylight-walker (Vampire Subspecies)
Hair Color: Golden Blonde
Eye Color: Steel Gray (Red when feeding or hunting)
Height: 6’3”
Weight: 145lbs
Occupation: Hunter
Personality: He is generally polite to others though there is an air “I’m better than you” in every action he takes, whether he actually thinks so or not. He’s quite charming, especially when he is either attracted or interested in someone, or if he’s trying to get someone alone, for platonic (albeit violent) reasons of course. All he really wants in life is to get stronger so he rarely has any kind of agenda where people are concerned, except for feeding, and that’s never been long term. All he generally wants from people is entertainment. He will travel with someone, and even honestly want to help them out if he thinks they are interesting and can help him get stronger. As far as honesty goes, it really depends on his mood, which can fluctuate quite rapidly. In general though, he would prefer to limit his emotional attachment to anyone as much as possible.
Appearance: If one could describe Mikhail in a word they would say, “beautiful”. For indeed he was; not handsome for his features are far too fine, too perfect and graceful to be sullied by the word handsome. But it is an unnatural beauty. His appearance is too perfect. It is as though his entire body were design as a lure to mortal kind, for one fatal vice they possess in general is a penchance for the attractive. Straight golden locks, which on a sunny day might be mistaken for sunbeams, frame an elegant ivory carved face which may have belonged to Adonis or Apollo. Like set gems, Mikhail’s eyes shimmer, reflecting light like polished steel, and seem to weigh and calculate everything they behold, altough in a somewhat bored, detached manner. His body is thin and pale but not at all sickly as they are roped in hard appealing muscle.
When he escaped the facility, Mikhail first produced clothing, stealing them from an empty clothier’s shop. His ensemble includes a simple buttton down gray cotton shirt with long sleeves and a semi-stiff collar. He wears the shirt untucked. It is slightly to big for him at the waist and chest and hangs loosely, but it fits perfectly at the shoulder and cuff. For pants he wears black slacks which are secured with a simple black leather belt that has a silver colored buckle. The pants fit snuggly enough at his thin waist put are a little loose around the leg. Over everything, he wears a non-descript black trench coat which buttons down to the waist, though Mikhail leaves it loose. The coat goes down to mid shin level. On his feet the vampire wears black combat boots made of thick leather that are good both in a fight and on the road.
History: See first part above.
Skills:
Vampirism: This is a very broad condition and equates to many unusual qualities in Mikhail. Some you may have realized from his history, others may not have been mentioned but shall be so now.
Strength—due to his inhuman nature, Mikhail has 1.5 times normal human strength.
Agility—he is 1.5 times as agile as the average human.
Senses—his senses are also 1.5 times as acute.
Lowlight vision—above average.
Darkvision—average.
Weapon Skill (Chain Sickle): Above average skill in the use of a chain sickle.
Martial Arts: Because the chain sickle is a medium range weapon almost exclusively this natural ability to use his own body as a weapon comes in handy. He is average in this skill.
Equipment:
Chain Sickle—this is a simple sickle, a slightly curved blade with the blade on the inside curve, with a short, leather-strapped handle. Attached to the pommel is a fifteen foot chain of small but hardy links. At the end of the chain is a three pound iron weight. Except for the weight, the entire thing is made of steel, and weighs ten pounds in total (weight , 3lbs; chain, 5lbs; sickle, 2lbs).