Post by đť•şđť–’đť–Šđť–“ on Nov 22, 2019 5:41:11 GMT
✡ Name:
✡ Age: Thirty One
✡ Race: Vyre
✡ Gender: Male
✡ Height: Six foot, Three Inches.
✡ Occupation: Professional
✡ Affiliation:
✡ Blood Code: Caster
✡ Favourite Food: Rump Steak
✡ Favourite Drink: If it's alcoholic I'll drink it.
✡ Likes: Violence, Sex, Blood, rock music, BDSM and black magic.
✡ Dislikes: The Sun, Stage 5 clingers, Priests.
✡ Friends: Ha! What a joke!
✡ Enemies: How long ya got?
✡ Allies:
✡ Common Quotes
↪ "Well ya fucked that one."
↪ "Smoke and mirrors my friend, Smoke and mirrors."
↪ "Heres to hoping I die tonight."
↪ "You want to get bloody?"
↪ "You ain't gonna die a virgin love."
↪ "Pass me my cigarettes."
↪ "Oi, Wanker."
Johnathon’s psyche is broken – He is a vire of course. With a disposition to a cold temperament with an abrasive tongue and malicious words Johnathon isn’t what you’d consider a pleasant soul. With misanthropic tendencies Johnathon keeps his conversations with humanity at the minimum. Instead he focused instead on accelerating their one-way ride to depravity. Johnathon is less likely to let you cry on his shoulder and be your support. Instead he’s more than likely to give you a revolver with a single round in it or he’d just turn you into his meal. By all means Johnathon is a sex addict, his preferences are quite lax. If it has a vagina, he’ll fuck it if she piques his curiosity. Avid BDSM practitioner it’s always a highly likely you will find him listening to some form of loud obnoxious music with one maybe even two women strung up like puppets begging him for more. Johnathon does have a serious side though, if tasked with a job his mindset shifts entirely from his carefree and aloof self to motivated and intense. Driven to complete the hunt, Johnathon has not missed a mark yet. With a high intellect and a tactical mindset mixed with his dark arts, Johnathon finds it all to enticing to hunt his marks. Entirely sadistic.
Johnathon is always dressed business casual. Dressed in a pressed white button-down silk business shirt tailored to his mesomorph physique matched with an array of ties varying between two colours. Black and red – sometimes both at the same time. Covering his lower legs Johnathon is always wearing black business slacks that rest above some pointed leather business boots in black. A black belt with a black buckle shaped in a square with a pentagram etched into the surface and lined with rubies sticking out over his midsection. Over his attire he wears a tan coloured trench coat. About his neck he wears an Ankh made of onyx chipped from its age on a white gold chain. His hair is always short at the sides with his top being slicked backwards messily with thick stubble covering his lower jaw and upper lip.
“I was a piece of shit and even death didn’t want me.” These words are what you’ll hear repeatedly when asked about Johnathon’s previous life. That’s all you will hear, nothing more or less unless he’s there to kill you then you’ll hear the ugly truth. “I was sat atop the fifty third story building with a gun in my mouth.” Is the sentence of clarification to what he was about to do. “Was about to paint the stars with my fucking brain matter.” He would continue of course before your life is ended. The reality was that Johnathon Arklight was a dirty cop with an even dirtier closet. There wasn’t a drug dealer in town paying him a cut, a whore house in the city feeding him women and other despicable things but the biggest secret of them all was he had killed his work partner because he knew and was going to rat Johnathon out. He had to die. But then his partner’s widow came along and oh was she so delectable and knew how to suck… In the end it began to wear on his psyche. He was a shell of himself. Spiralling the depression, the anxiety and the paranoia crept in. Delusions and visons of his partner tore at his dreams, sounds of his friend gasping for life would ring in his ears as he fucked his partners widow.
Johnathon was not a good man and he begun to hate himself and the society that made him this way. It built up over months and months as he became more violent and hostile. Excessively beating those he was to bring in or those he simply didn’t like. Until it cost him his job. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, Johnathon hit rock bottom and saw no way out but to end it. Taking his pistol, a bottle of Xanax and himself to the tallest building and sat on the ledge. The night was coming, and it would change his life completely. Having swallowed the whole bottle of Xanax in one mouthful before he placed the cold barrel of his smith and Wesson revolver between his pearly white. A single hollow point in the barrel with his name signed on it. The intention. If he couldn’t do it with the gun, he’d fall from the fifty-third floor due to the Xanax.
The world had other intentions for him though for the Vy came upon him. Ravaging his psyche and physique he fell backwards, gun skittling across the rooftop. The pain was unbearable as everything within him tore, broke and popped. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t talk. This was worse than death, he’d rather free-fall from fourteen thousand feet without a parachute than relive that moment in time. When he awoke, he felt the pains in his stomach, the desire to eat. To devour everything and anything. No matter whatever food he ate it didn’t satisfy him. Days blended into weeks as he tried to bury this hunger. Then came the sunlight and how it hurt him. It made him so tired.
One night, he doesn’t remember it well, but he was told he left quite the mess. He couldn’t take it anymore – the hunger was too much. He walked until he found himself before a brothel. It smelt like cigarette smoke and sex and it made his mouth water. Stepping into the brothel, Johnathon’s memory is hazy of the events. But from the pictures he left no one alive. No male, no female, no cleaner. No one was alive but him. He drank them dry. He was feral. When they found him, he was laid on his back in the grand suite surrounded by seven dead women. Their insides strewn about and a heart between his lips. For the first time since the Vy. He felt full and sated.
They were there first, He was there first. Dracula and House Fang had come. They had been watching and waiting to see if Johnathon would survive the change and what his first actions were. With a boot to the ribs they awoke Johnathon and carried him out of the brothel. Leaving behind only a roaring uncontrollable blaze that would hide his crimes. From then he became what he understood is a VIRE and he swore loyalty to House Fang.
