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Vasil Gavril Vukašin.
Dantès.
Dhampir (Parasitic Origin).
Half-changeling | Half-faery (formerly).
Male.
One can guess.
None | N/A.
Silver | Pupilless red w/ black schlera.
6'2" (188 cm) | 170 lbs (77 kg).
Ambidexterous.
Mesomorph.
Mercenary.
Professional Killer.
Perhaps, a long time ago, a cursed tryst between royalty and concubine ended with an illegitimate child. One that was sold to slavers and done away with in an act of ironic cruelty. The child grew to be a slave and fighter, either to as cannon fodder or entertainment. The child, now man, had no name. Never given one and one would not be needed for his pitiful existence.
Until the cursed beasts of the night arrived. Slaughtering left and right. The slave thought perhaps he would be safe inside of his cage. If he held his breathe still long enough. But no such blessing of mercy had been granted to him. Such is the cruelty of nature as its tongue pierced into his neck.
It had bled him until he managed the last vestige of strength to remove parasitic tongue from hook. Clutching at his neck, the slave could only clutch at his throat. He couldn't remove the hook.
The break of daytime should have brought solace to him. It drove the beasts away. But the pains grew inside of him. The bones in his wings squeezed and seized up until they fell off his back in bloodied lumps. Hair fell out and teeth became dried up inside his mouth to be pierced and replaced by more predatory fangs. The hook dug itself deeper into his neck, almost alive as it began crawling towards his heart.
That cancerous hook eventually dissipated, although he never noticed amongst the pain and changes. The hook had spread all throughout his bloodstream, infecting every part of him. Claws, fangs, tongue, muscle and sinew, even new eyes.
Days passed. He had not eaten or drank in days. In his stupor he watched as another small group came upon the campsite. They thought him a dead body until he began to seize in front of them. They opened his cage. They should not have. He was playing possum. He'd see them play dead until moving before playing dead again.
It helped he did not need to breath much either. His heart nearing to a still. And when they turned their backs, thinking him finally dead, every ichor of theirs was his.
He was a killer. A fighter. One who sought his own survival above all else. No pack to call his own. Always a half-breed. Even in this new and parasitic unlife. His mind and memories not entirely his own, but not belonging to an eldritch parasitic flesh, no collective. They, no,
he was something new. Maybe it was his halfblood nature, but he never became the mindless beasts that attacked and stalked the jungles nor did he need to fear the light like they did.
No, he was a different kind of predator. Not just some
parasite. He was different than the others.
Always different, always alone.
And there would be more that wished to enslave or kill him. It helped he was harder to kill now too, but he still had to better at killing others. So much better as he lacked much. Money. He needed money too. And he needed to learn how to hide. Not in only the shadows but also among people. He needed to adopt their mannerisms, adapt to the large society and social ecosystem. He needed to blend in as well. Embrace shadow and darkness like so many other killers have to receive their coin, their lifeblood. In time, he would take the lifeblood of others, both in coin and more, while sharpening his claws.
Clients, yes, clients refusing payment was never an issue when he could suck the marrow of their bones and chew on their skull. Payment was never an issue. More than simple blood fed him, and consuming a person gave him a little more insight into how to blend in. He would take the clothes and names and manners of those he respected or pitied most. Yes that would do. He would do so much better with what they had than they ever did. Crafting an identity was no easy task, tsk tsk.
He even found someone with silver eyes. He liked those. He would take them too. An accent that sounded particular pleasing. He took that as well. A soul filled with bluster and bravado and raucous laughter. He took that and made it his own. Made his life his own with what everyone else had that he didn't. He could never change his true nature on the outside, but those little things made life a little sweeter. All those changes to him on the inside, watching, learning, growing.
Taking.
With time, it was worth it to finally be his own. He shall never give his real new name. Oh, no,
no. Faeries and monsters and little tricksters could use those names. So he took one last name he liked. A name most fake. One to shield him to never be enslaved again. That magic had kept him shackled for years, forced him into that cage, and dug scars into his flesh that no amount of feasting would heal.
He needed a pack. Without a pack, he was exposed. Open. Alone. If he was not taken by tricks, than by brute force or overwhelming numbers. A pack would protect him until he could find new hunting grounds or until his presence was forgotten in the minds and hearts of people.
Together with a pack.
He would be hidden among shadow and blood, forevermore.
It was only a matter of time and patience to find the right one.
Once you have tasted courage, you have tasted poison.
