Post by Sirideán Weiß-Kappel on Feb 24, 2014 5:15:21 GMT
He's been running.
But stop, rewind, there's a story before the tale proper that needs to be told.
Germany c. 1890
Sirideán was born to a well-to-do family, his father a mogul of the lumber business. An only child, one might expect him to be doted upon and spoiled, but such was not the case. His father was often away dealing with this or that deal and his mother...She was kept in a separate wing of the house. She never really recovered after delivering her son and likely suffered from postpartum depression along with a myriad of other issues that were never delved in to. His father had an 'out of sight, out of mind' mentality when it came to problems and so, Sirideán was raised mostly detached from his family. Beyond this, his childhood wasn't particularly unhappy or extraordinary. He studied with tutors and generally was a well-behaved heir.
From an early age, Sirideán had a fascination with the past. It was only natural then, when he reached the age to attend university, he enrolled in a course for archaeology and anthropology. By the time he graduated, Egyptomania was having a resurgence with the discovery of Prince Tutankhamun's tomb. Sirideán however, was less interested in the history and people of far off locales. Rather, he set his sights on places closer to home. With eager determination and multiple applications he managed to get assigned to a dig team that was to set out to a village near the base of the Carpathian Mountains. Like a giddy schoolboy, he couldn't leave fast enough.
Romania c. 1923
It was a long trip, but when they finally arrived, Sirideán wanted to embark to the excavation area immediately. They had to layover at the little village though, to rest and recuperate as well as get extra supplies. The residents seemed completely bewildered about their presence and every time his group passed there was furtive whispers. But old superstition was bound to be common in a place like that, and so he disregarded it completely.
Four days after their arrival, they finally set out to their true destination. From a distance, it was almost completely miss-able. There was a small entrance bored directly into the rockface, with but a few decrepit stumps of old pillars flanking it. The crew decided to set up camp nearby and start exploration proper the following morn. Little did Sirideán know that that was to be his last sunrise.
In the middle of the night, from the depths of sleep, Sirideán was pulled into consciousness by a soft melody. He sat up and surveyed his slumbering companions, all whom seemed unperturbed. Shaking his head and brushing some curled locks from his features, he decided to investigate. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter, truly, in a way he felt deeply compelled to follow that urge. Dressing himself simply, he grabbed a lantern and proceeded to the cave mouth.
The darkness seemed thick, as if the light couldn't pierce it, and so his progress was slow. His free hand trailed over the ancient carvings in the walls as he walked, brow furrowed, trying to sort the information through grogginess. The melody seemed to get louder the deeper he got into the corridor. Eventually the space widened and the warm glow of the lantern caught on silhouettes of caskets. Sirideán realized the site was a tomb.
The light went out. The music stopped.
A primal fear settled into his gut and his blood ran cold. He turned and ran and ran and ran. The corridor seemed longer than it had been originally. There was nowhere to go. A weight collided against his back and he was falling. He barely registered the feel of claws and fangs sinking into his flesh shortly before he blacked out.
When he awoke, it was in a blind panic. Blackness shrouded him and the wet scent of earth filled his nose. Dirt was on his tongue, in his mouth, in his lungs. He clawed his way out of his prison and finally breached the surface. Cold rain splattered against his pale hand, and he cared not, only feeling relief at being able to get himself out of the suffocating embrace of an early grave. Shaking himself off, he fell to his knees and retched. It was only when he cleared his lungs that he certainly should've been dead.
His mind didn't know how to deal with that information. For some time he just sat, head tilted back, the rain pouring down on him, washing away the dirt and filth, slicking curled locks to his high cheekbones. Then the hunger hit. It was horrible. A wretched pain in the core of his being that consumed him completely. He pushed himself into a stand and stood, ambling off in a daze.
Sirideán didn't know how he did it, but one thing lead to another and following his nose he ended up at his old camp. Seemed they bunkered down for the night, whatever their logic was for staying after he had disappeared, he never got to ask. As soon as he got in close proximity, the beast kicked in, and he went on auto-pilot. To say he killed the excavation team would be an understatement. He devoured them, draining the handful of men dry.
When he finally came to, mouth bloody, claws hands drenched, his eyes went wide and he stared. Not wanting to confront what he had just done, he fled into the night.
Europe, c. 2010
Adjusting to the beast within him was an on-going ordeal. It was neither comfortable nor enjoyable, as he no longer felt at ease in human society and the covens of the vampires were distasteful to him. Those afflicted by the same sickness as him suffered from an unfortunate superiority complex that he viewed with disdain. Such attitudes harmed more than they helped, and the Battle of World's End only proved his beliefs true. Refusing to be roped into the ordeal, Sirideán did what came naturally to him over the years since his infection: stick to the shadows. That tactic for survival had served him well thus far.
Old Philadelphia, c. Present Day
Coping with his existence has been hard, but gradually over the years he's settled into a routine. Sirideán handles his affliction in a clinical manner, and has been chasing information regarding vampirism down all over the world since his embrace, eventually leading him to seek out Old Philadelphia. A sort of truce has been struck with his inner beast, his abilities let him get in and out of places that would otherwise be barred to him. In return he indulges his hunger only when he has to for survival, trying to keep a tight grasp on himself and not slip too far.
• • •
Sirideán's figure is masculine in the same form as a gymnast's. He is well-muscled but with slender shoulders and narrow hips, giving him a silhouette that skews more to the thin side of the spectrum rather than bulky. This matches well with his height, topping out at 5'7" prevents him from being too overly lanky. His complexion is fair, with a touch of peach to keep him from being completely paper white. A smattering of freckles dot his face unevenly, which seems to be their predominate residence for they are absent on much of the rest of his body. His features are finely boned, with thin lips, a pointed nose and defined cheekbones. His hair, which is kept evenly trimmed just past shoulder-length is a deep brunette and tightly curled. Sometimes he coaxes his hair up into a ponytail or bun to keep them out of his face. The dark hue of the locks contrast well with the lilac yellow of his almond eyes.
He dresses in the fashion of a gentleman, but an absent-minded one. Sirideán outfits himself in slacks, button downs, jackets, vests, everything expected of a well-to-do man, but often just slightly off. Dust-covered or spotted with mud, his work takes precedence over making sure that his appearance is pristine. There are a few outward signs nodding to the fact that the man is more than a man: the glowing of his eyes (often hidden behind sunglasses), the slight point of his ears, the sharpness of his canines, the length and razor-edge of his nails. His left ear is pierced once on the cuff.
• • •
Once a man, no more, Sirideán is well aware he is a hungry predator. This change has affected him greatly. In a way, he's uncomfortable in his skin, yet despite this he maintains a certain detachment from it all. He's preoccupied with the idea of figuring out what his condition is and find a cure. A skeptic to the core, he treats vampirism more like a disease than a curse. There has been hints towards the existence of dark things in the night since humanity's inception, and he's dedicated his existence to trying to parse such information. In this way he is a rather stubborn individual, unwilling to abandon his convictions or thesises no matter what evidence there is to the contrary. Just because something appears to be untrue doesn't make it so, it just hasn't been discovered yet.
Due to his dedication to his pursuit of information, Sirideán can come off a bit cold to others. He tends to keep a distance from other individuals. Unlike some of his kind, he doesn't harbor inherent distaste towards humans or other species. Rather he gets annoyed at people for their tendency to get in his way. Outside influences have a habit of meddling with his affairs, and he just doesn't take kindly to that. However, if someone can keep their distance from his work, he's more than happy to engage them in intellectual debate.
Sirideán has an uneasy truce with the beast within him. The blood lust that claws at his gut is kept in check by stubborn self-control. He refuses to give in absolutely to it, though there are slips here and there.
• • •
Notes of interest:
- Mist form
- Limited shapeshifting (e.g. extendable/rectractable claws)
- Requires invitation
- Vulnerable to silver, fire, sunlight, etc.
