Post by Thomas Powell on Mar 8, 2016 5:05:04 GMT
Name: Thomas Edmund Powell
Nickname(s): Lurch, Greenskin, Sewer Rat, Shade, Mr. Powell
Character Sheet: Clicky
Species / Clan: Vampire - Nosferatu
Status: Outsider
Age: 516
Age Appearance: 25 (if one could tell anymore)
Gender: Male
Nationality: British
Ethnicity: Caucasian, not that one can tell anymore
Height: 7'1
Weight: 170lbs
Religious beliefs: God is dead, and should they still live they deserve no respect or worship.
Sexual Orientation: Asexual
Appearance:
The embrace has twisted Thomas' body, his bones and muscles stretched as nearly all fat and all hair melted off his body leaving him a tall and gaunt vessel to inhabit. His skin faded into a dull green tinted veiny gray. Every tooth in his mouth is razor sharp, with his front two most teeth extending long past the thin divide that makes up the remains of his lips. His nose has split into an almost bat-like snout as his eyes sunk deep into his skull along with his cheeks, leaving his face long and hollow. Monstrous as he is he knows that no amount of primping and care will hide what he is. So he ignores the trappings of culture and fashion, opting for simple clothing that is functional and little else. Robes, hoodies, and always dark colors. All the better to help him meld into the shadows that have become his home.
Personality: Quiet, patient, soft spoken, deferential. All of these traits would seem to describe Thomas Powell on the surface. A hideous monster that knows his place is beneath his betters. Figuratively and literally. He would appear to have little issue accepting his lot in life along with whatever abuse is thrown his way. After all he has had centuries of practice. So he bows his head meekly and accepts the insults and slurs, complies with the demands of those more powerful than him lest he incur their wrath, and cultivates the image of one whom is no threat. Someone whom is beneath notice.
And indeed he strives to be beneath notice. For one people do not fear you they do not think of you. They dare not imagine that you are lurking in the shadows waiting, listening in to their dirty little secrets. Collecting items and favors and influence to one day use. For when you are beneath notice most do not put together scraps gained and gleaned here and there, they do not see the bigger picture beyond your use to them. It is not until it is too late that they see what truly matters is what use they are to you.
Interests: His driving goal is to reach Golconda, a state that surpasses the curse he has been bestowed. A state where he can feel the sun upon his skin, to experience and transcend to a new state of being. His curse has been accompanied with a gift, the gift of immortality and thus he has made it his purpose to harness that gift to overcome his curse. In a more mundane sense he loves to learn, languages and occult lore especially. Though any tidbit of information that he does not know is normally welcome. It matters little if it is someones dark secrets, or the history of coffee, or the name of the demon that runs the pawn shop four blocks down. Information is what drives the world, and information and knowledge is something he hoards.
Skills: Being the observer that he is he has grown quite accustomed to reading people and situations. Knowing when it is time to back off or disappear for a while. He has also grown very skilled at redirecting wrath away from him, whether by deflecting it to someone more obviously threatening, or by sheer unashamed groveling. Like many Nosferatu he also has an uncanny knack for escaping notice unless he wishes to be noticed, or getting in to places and things that others would much rather no one ever reached.
History: Thomas Powell was a child of privilege long ago. One who was granted the honor and duty of higher education, slotted to become a scholar and a man of great learning. It was his passion and his life, and it was ripped away from him one night while studying old tomes on catholic mythology. He didn't see his assailant among the shadows and his world went dark. It became pain. For nights his body was hidden away underground. His screams of agony echoing far away from the ears of the living as his bones creaked and stretched, his muscles twisted, and fat melted. When the world finally returned to normal he was greeted with the hideous face of a monster, something made of nightmares and terror. He cried out in terror and lashed out at the monster who easily restrained him with a grip like iron.
That night was easily the worst in his eternity as his Sire laid bare what had become of him. What a monster he had been turned into. He refused to believe it, he refused to accept it. Declaring time and time again that he would kill himself. That he would greet the sun and die a man rather than live a monster. But night after night as dawn approached his resolve waned. And night after night when the sun set the thirst would demand to be sated. Whether or not he desired it, the thirst would not be denied.
He was not coddled, he was forced to hunt during his first nights. His Sire and mentor explaining his place in the world, a predator while humanity it's sheep. The Camarilla, Shepards who would rather put a muzzle on them then allow them their natural rights. Turning a blind eye to the truth and their origins. Fools who play kingmaker while the end of their kind approaches. His first nights also marked his first kill. A homeless man unable to find shelter in the rain. A victim that no one would miss. If the body was ever found he had no knowledge of it.
As time went on things became easier to accept. His life as a monster. His need to feed, even seeing his former peers as little more than cattle to be consumed and disposed of. For all that was taken from him much had been given. He had an eternity to learn, and his eyes had been opened to a part of the world that he had been blind to. Blind because of the false kings of the Camarilla.
Perhaps it is irony or perhaps it was design. But the very trait that his Sire had sought in him. His thirst for knowledge and drive to consume it lead him to stray from the path. He fully believed in Cain's existence. And that the system that the Camarilla has devised will not protect them from Gehenna. In fact, it may very well be a sign of it's approach. Still, despite all of it's failings he found himself curious about his sworn enemy. This Camarilla and their masquerade. Their petty struggles, though in many ways they seemed not unlike the ones he himself saw within the Sabbat. The only conclusion that he could make was that Vampires, much like mortals were flawed creatures. Selfish and unwilling to see the big picture beyond their own petty desires. Squandering immortality on things that they would outlive. Prestige. Status. Such things should be beneath beings such as they.
Neither Sabbat nor Camarilla would be able to give him what he sought. A way to transcend this state into another. A worthy purpose to direct his immortality. And it was here that his curse bestowed upon him it's greatest gift. For among all of the clans and their petty squabbles. Their posturing for power, status, and validation it was the Nosferatu that stood firmly together. Because of this unique brotherhood of The Damned he was able to reach out to his brothers in the Camarilla and arrange introductions. He was able to step away from the Sabbat and find a new home, far from those that knew him. Collecting whatever scraps of lore or artifacts of power that he could get his hands on before leaving once more. His was a pursuit that would not be achieved by remaining in one place forever as his kind were prone to do. His was a purpose that required movement, momentum, energy, and life. Life that he had long since lost, and still clings to. For as long as his tainted blood rests in his veins and a purpose greater than he fills him with determination he will never truly be dead in body or soul. And he would achieve his goals someday, whether it be in London, Nagasaki, or the next city.
There was always another night.
Nickname(s): Lurch, Greenskin, Sewer Rat, Shade, Mr. Powell
Character Sheet: Clicky
Species / Clan: Vampire - Nosferatu
Status: Outsider
Age: 516
Age Appearance: 25 (if one could tell anymore)
Gender: Male
Nationality: British
Ethnicity: Caucasian, not that one can tell anymore
Height: 7'1
Weight: 170lbs
Religious beliefs: God is dead, and should they still live they deserve no respect or worship.
Sexual Orientation: Asexual
Appearance:
The embrace has twisted Thomas' body, his bones and muscles stretched as nearly all fat and all hair melted off his body leaving him a tall and gaunt vessel to inhabit. His skin faded into a dull green tinted veiny gray. Every tooth in his mouth is razor sharp, with his front two most teeth extending long past the thin divide that makes up the remains of his lips. His nose has split into an almost bat-like snout as his eyes sunk deep into his skull along with his cheeks, leaving his face long and hollow. Monstrous as he is he knows that no amount of primping and care will hide what he is. So he ignores the trappings of culture and fashion, opting for simple clothing that is functional and little else. Robes, hoodies, and always dark colors. All the better to help him meld into the shadows that have become his home.
Personality: Quiet, patient, soft spoken, deferential. All of these traits would seem to describe Thomas Powell on the surface. A hideous monster that knows his place is beneath his betters. Figuratively and literally. He would appear to have little issue accepting his lot in life along with whatever abuse is thrown his way. After all he has had centuries of practice. So he bows his head meekly and accepts the insults and slurs, complies with the demands of those more powerful than him lest he incur their wrath, and cultivates the image of one whom is no threat. Someone whom is beneath notice.
And indeed he strives to be beneath notice. For one people do not fear you they do not think of you. They dare not imagine that you are lurking in the shadows waiting, listening in to their dirty little secrets. Collecting items and favors and influence to one day use. For when you are beneath notice most do not put together scraps gained and gleaned here and there, they do not see the bigger picture beyond your use to them. It is not until it is too late that they see what truly matters is what use they are to you.
Interests: His driving goal is to reach Golconda, a state that surpasses the curse he has been bestowed. A state where he can feel the sun upon his skin, to experience and transcend to a new state of being. His curse has been accompanied with a gift, the gift of immortality and thus he has made it his purpose to harness that gift to overcome his curse. In a more mundane sense he loves to learn, languages and occult lore especially. Though any tidbit of information that he does not know is normally welcome. It matters little if it is someones dark secrets, or the history of coffee, or the name of the demon that runs the pawn shop four blocks down. Information is what drives the world, and information and knowledge is something he hoards.
Skills: Being the observer that he is he has grown quite accustomed to reading people and situations. Knowing when it is time to back off or disappear for a while. He has also grown very skilled at redirecting wrath away from him, whether by deflecting it to someone more obviously threatening, or by sheer unashamed groveling. Like many Nosferatu he also has an uncanny knack for escaping notice unless he wishes to be noticed, or getting in to places and things that others would much rather no one ever reached.
History: Thomas Powell was a child of privilege long ago. One who was granted the honor and duty of higher education, slotted to become a scholar and a man of great learning. It was his passion and his life, and it was ripped away from him one night while studying old tomes on catholic mythology. He didn't see his assailant among the shadows and his world went dark. It became pain. For nights his body was hidden away underground. His screams of agony echoing far away from the ears of the living as his bones creaked and stretched, his muscles twisted, and fat melted. When the world finally returned to normal he was greeted with the hideous face of a monster, something made of nightmares and terror. He cried out in terror and lashed out at the monster who easily restrained him with a grip like iron.
That night was easily the worst in his eternity as his Sire laid bare what had become of him. What a monster he had been turned into. He refused to believe it, he refused to accept it. Declaring time and time again that he would kill himself. That he would greet the sun and die a man rather than live a monster. But night after night as dawn approached his resolve waned. And night after night when the sun set the thirst would demand to be sated. Whether or not he desired it, the thirst would not be denied.
He was not coddled, he was forced to hunt during his first nights. His Sire and mentor explaining his place in the world, a predator while humanity it's sheep. The Camarilla, Shepards who would rather put a muzzle on them then allow them their natural rights. Turning a blind eye to the truth and their origins. Fools who play kingmaker while the end of their kind approaches. His first nights also marked his first kill. A homeless man unable to find shelter in the rain. A victim that no one would miss. If the body was ever found he had no knowledge of it.
As time went on things became easier to accept. His life as a monster. His need to feed, even seeing his former peers as little more than cattle to be consumed and disposed of. For all that was taken from him much had been given. He had an eternity to learn, and his eyes had been opened to a part of the world that he had been blind to. Blind because of the false kings of the Camarilla.
Perhaps it is irony or perhaps it was design. But the very trait that his Sire had sought in him. His thirst for knowledge and drive to consume it lead him to stray from the path. He fully believed in Cain's existence. And that the system that the Camarilla has devised will not protect them from Gehenna. In fact, it may very well be a sign of it's approach. Still, despite all of it's failings he found himself curious about his sworn enemy. This Camarilla and their masquerade. Their petty struggles, though in many ways they seemed not unlike the ones he himself saw within the Sabbat. The only conclusion that he could make was that Vampires, much like mortals were flawed creatures. Selfish and unwilling to see the big picture beyond their own petty desires. Squandering immortality on things that they would outlive. Prestige. Status. Such things should be beneath beings such as they.
Neither Sabbat nor Camarilla would be able to give him what he sought. A way to transcend this state into another. A worthy purpose to direct his immortality. And it was here that his curse bestowed upon him it's greatest gift. For among all of the clans and their petty squabbles. Their posturing for power, status, and validation it was the Nosferatu that stood firmly together. Because of this unique brotherhood of The Damned he was able to reach out to his brothers in the Camarilla and arrange introductions. He was able to step away from the Sabbat and find a new home, far from those that knew him. Collecting whatever scraps of lore or artifacts of power that he could get his hands on before leaving once more. His was a pursuit that would not be achieved by remaining in one place forever as his kind were prone to do. His was a purpose that required movement, momentum, energy, and life. Life that he had long since lost, and still clings to. For as long as his tainted blood rests in his veins and a purpose greater than he fills him with determination he will never truly be dead in body or soul. And he would achieve his goals someday, whether it be in London, Nagasaki, or the next city.
There was always another night.
