I did a thing [@Blackstripe]

[hider=The Pale Count]
[b]Supervillain Name:[/b] The Pale Count of Nothing, Knight of the Bloody Rose, Eminence of Blades and Slayer of the Nightmaster (Nightslayer, if you will). Take your pick.
[b]Civilian Name:[/b] Dorian Cornelius Timar-von Jelek. Or just Dorian von Jelek.
[b]Origin city/Planet:[/b] Doomed and dead Vlatava bordering Hungary, family fled to Germany first then England
[b]Hometown:[/b] Nomadic, has a few safe-houses and other properties spread about, family manor in St Albans, Hertfordshire, north of London
[b]Sex:[/b] Male
[b]Race:[/b] Human?
[b]Height:[/b] Six feet one
[b]Weight:[/b] 195 pounds or so
[b]Age:[/b] 66

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[center][b]Appearance:[/b][/center]
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/wCnasaH.jpg [/img][/center]
[center]Why yes, he does bear [url=https://imgur.com/a/SAN6J]something of a resemblance[/url] to a certain [url=https://imgur.com/a/tpxSu]british musician[/url].[/center]

The Pale Count makes no attempt to hide his identity. A reasonably tall and athletically thin man with sharp, attractive features and impossibly well groomed milky white hair, he typically dresses in a simple but impeccable white dress shirt and black trousers with matching waistcoat, dress shoes and tie. Completing the outfit is a black trenchcoat and pitch black teashades to hide his red and deadened eyes, along with the occasional pair of black gloves, wide-brimmed hat and a small, preserved red rose for a lapel pin. And speaking of roses, when he is without clothing it’s impossible to miss the distinctive marking of a rose in red on his left breast, seemingly carved on the flesh first and inked after.

[b]Icon:[/b]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/1Oi4Zvr.jpg[/img]

[b]Civilian Occupation:[/b] Rich person, vice enabler
[b]Personality:[/b]
The Count is an educated, smooth talking rogue, an always calm and self assured daredevil with an oftentimes melancholic and world-weary air, though also given to an occasional penchant for dramatization and grandstanding as well as bouts of great passion. Known to enthusiastically partake in the many pleasures life has to offer, he can come across as a pompous hedonist at his worst but holds himself to extremely high standards. Noblesse oblige, as it were. A very active, adventurous man who would much rather do things himself than delegate, he is dedicated in his pursuits and even has something of a personal code, finding deceit and treachery rather beneath him and holding his word and honor to a very high value.

Having said all of this, the man is still an unrepentant villain, a cold blooded blackguard who sees no problem with wronging others and puts himself above all else. The Nightslayer opposes the forces of order simply because it is an adventure and a personal test, somewhere he can get his thrills in a life that grows increasingly dull, and his ultimate thrill is to risk his life against someone else’s. Particularly with blades, of course. Seeing bloodshed as a deeply personal, elegant art and especially when faced with worthy adversaries, for this reason Dorian is against wanton carnage or systematic extermination, seeing them as dull and impersonal corruptions of his craft.

[u][b]Super abilities:[/b][/u]
[u]Powers:[/u]
[b]-Mark of the Rose:[/b] Many years ago The Pale Count was marked by the Spirit of Murder, an independent aspect of the cosmic force of Death known as The Black or The Rot, and granted her boon in the shape of her rose sigil at the cost of dead eyes and skin cold and white as snow. The source of his exceptional prowess, or rather what allowed him to transcend all human reason and limits to achieve this prowess for himself, the Mark also gives Dorian a supernatural gift when it comes to inflicting harm to and ending the lives of all manner of beings, allowing him to seriously threaten adversaries that might otherwise be well above a man with a sharp piece of metal. And while blades are his preference and where his talents most shine, other means will also do should push come to shove.

[b]-Eldritch vitality:[/b] It bears saying right now, The Pale Count is literally, legitimately blind and has been for a long time. However, one does not come to be known as The Eminence of Blades if one is truly handicapped, and his lack of eyesight does little to hinder him. Free of the limitations imposed upon humanity thanks to the Mark of the Rose, Dorian is a finely honed killing machine as of yet unburdened by age, ahead of even the most skilled “street powerhouses” in ways should not be possible for a mere man.

Though he isn’t as physically strong as those (in his powerscale) who dedicate themselves to muscle, there is a surprising unnatural power to his wiry frame, and as a fencer his other attributes come to the fore. While not quite a speedster, The Nightslayer’s speed, agility, flexibility, reflexes, precision and coordination are staggering, allowing him to perform feats such as deflecting barrages from lethal marksmen, throwing a knife faster than a room of people can follow, moving in bursts of clear superspeed, leaping through the air in defiance of gravity and easily outmaneuvering world class fighters lacking his gifts.

Outstandingly tough, he can be struck and sometimes stunned and be made to bleed, yes, but it seems to take far more effort than it should. The Count can continue performing efficiently even when severely injured, lives with horrendous pains like most can live with mild discomforts and doesn’t appear to tire unless severely pressed and harmed. Though not a regenerator per se, wounds that would fell lesser men fail to do the trick on him, disease and toxins and the like appear to take little to no hold in him, and he can often grit his teeth and survive until he can receive medical aid and return soon and well.

[b]-A sharp mind:[/b] To make up for his blindness, the Nightslayer’s hearing, smell, touch and even taste have developed to superhuman levels, providing him with an enormous amount of information on his surroundings that he interprets as an extremely vivid mental “image”, as well as a supernatural sixth sense for threats to his well being. In order to properly process all of this, avoiding sensory overload and allowing him to function as a lethal fighter, his mind has developed to the point where it operates faster and more efficiently, enhancing his intellect and ability to learn, adapt and think on his feet, and making it so sharp and focused it has become all but impervious to outside interference.

[b]-Amateur magician:[/b] Though not a wizard per se, The Pale’s mystical origins (in a way quite akin to a warlock’s dealings for power) and his involvement in such affairs have given him a solid enough grasp on the arcane. His eldritch powers on the fly are limited to a few simple spells, vastly less dangerous than his other skills, but he is fairly well informed on the supernatural, knows where he might find pertinent information should his knowledge be lacking and he can set about to cast more complex sorceries or concoct potions and other wizardly tasks with the use of spellbooks, scrolls and other aids should he ever feel the need.

[u]-Skills:[/u]
[b]-Eminence of Blades:[/b] The Knight of the Bloody Rose is, first and foremost, a swordsman of truly supernatural caliber and masterful at the use of bladed implements in general. Not representative of any one school, avoiding entrapment in rigid structure, Dorian reduces bladesmanship to its purest form, scientific application of a minimalist art of bloodshed. Measuring the opponent and range, finding weaknesses, controlling angles through footwork and timing, misdirection through feints, appropriate responses in parries, blocks and binds, simple, precise strokes with clarity of purpose, his blade flows beautifully as though he led a dance or worked on a canvas with absolute economy of motion.

Coupled with his physical and mental acumen, not to mention a magic sword, the Count’s skills allow him to mislead even those that might see into the future, defend himself from those stronger or faster and cleave through beings of much higher station, making him an adversary not to be taken lightly. Far from being limited to one method of violence, the Nightslayer is well versed in taking the core concepts behind his swordsmanship in the abstract and adjusting them to a variety of other applications, be it the use of other armament, barehanded combat or even strategy. In this way he does mirror the views expressed by both Miyamoto Musashi and those of the spanish Destreza school of fencing.

[b]-Beware the daggers in the dark:[/b] The Count is a proficient infiltrator and assassin, as one might expect from someone “blessed” by the Spirit of Murder. Aside from his physical skills he is outstanding at operating stealthily, gifted with an uncanny talent for truly disappearing into the dark making not a single sound and disturbing nothing as he moves, finding cracks in defensive systems and navigating situations where less physically capable agents would fail. He is also, of course, quite capable of ensuring someone meets their end silently and inconspicuously, although it’s not a skillset he’s particularly fond of using.

[b]-Renaissance man:[/b] Dorian was already an intelligent, driven and educated individual before his rebirth as the Pale Count. Ever since he has made amazing strides, becoming a resourceful polyglot and polymath simply to test his limitations and expand his horizons, although ultimately he uses his knowledge to further his progress in the way of the warrior.

[b]-Man about town:[/b] Dorian von Jelek has lived a rather long life that could in no way be considered virtuous or normal save for his early years. Though he no longer has the slightest interest in being any sort of criminal lord or indeed commanding any sizeable enterprise, much preferring to live focused on himself, he retains a wide network of contacts, informants, providers, debtors, former employers, former employees, teachers, disciples, rivals and even the odd friend or two. By pulling a few strings and making some calls, or spending some of his admittedly relatively modest fortune, he can acquire a wide variety of goods and services.

[u]-Weapons:[/u]
[b]The Sword of Night:[/b] A powerful magical artifact that was once passed down a line of heroic knights along the title of Nightmaster, at least until Dorian [url=https://imgur.com/a/ROKKy]slew the latest one[/url] and attuned the blade to himself. A magnificent hand a half (or bastard) sword of 43.5 inches with a 33.5 inch double edged blade that seems to gleam softly like pale moonlight, the grip wrapped in midnight blue leather and the bronzen guard and pommel decorated with rose and thorny vine motifs. Perfectly balanced for use in one hand but allowing for a comfortable two handed grip, it is effective for both slashing and chopping blows and thrusting through gaps in armor.

Magically speaking it is essentially indestructible and capable of cutting through and/or harming most anything, though not effortlessly and depending on some level upon is user, it bears saying. It is even capable of cleaving sorcerous energies, allowing the user to defend themselves from spells and the like should their skills be sufficient. Furthermore, the blade has its own storage of arcane power, which the wielder can call upon to strengthen sword and self in time of need. Finally, the sword can be mentally summoned to the hand of the wielder, making it rather practical for everyday carry.

[b]-Webley Revolver:[/b] Sometimes there’s just no replacement for putting a bullet in someone and for that the Nightslayer carries a six shot [url=https://imgur.com/a/OMQcL]Webley Mk. V revolver[/url] in a hidden holster on the inside of his coat, along with three full reloads. A World War II antique, made for a british agent tasked with running counter operations to the activities of the mystical Thule Society, this old school top break gun was enchanted for toughness, reliability and boosts the impact and penetration of its bullets beyond their original power. The conversion from the extremely rare .455 webley caliber to commonplace .45acp, on the other hand, is the Count’s doing.

[b]-Vorpal Dagger:[/b] A 20 inch dagger with a 14 inch blade, crafted to match the Sword of Night visually if not in power. A companion weapon meant to serve as a parrying dagger should Dorian deem it necessary or simply to stab or slice someone at close ranges, it is of course magically reinforced and cuts with far more venom than any regular blade of the sort, but it’s still very much an offhand weapon. Carries it hidden in his coat as well.

[b]-Folding knives:[/b] Small, nondescript lockback pocket folding knives with a slim handle, not garbage cheap ones but not exactly anything special. Dorian carries them in the four pockets on his waistcoat, four on each bottom one and three on the top ones for a total of 14, with a simple cantrip helping keep them hidden. Not great for fighting, though obviously stab wounds are no laughing matter even from these, he uses them as disposable throwing blades.

[b]-Cane:[/b] A black hardwood cane threaded with silver in a thorny vine pattern, with a spherical handle and a slightly longer and thicker than usual ferrule at the bottom. Not a weapon per-se, it still makes for an effective bludgeon in Dorian’s hands and actually helps him focus when he decides to summon the Sword of Night, typically replacing one for the other.

[b]-The Arsenal:[/b] Dorian, as a connoisseur in the art of murder and given his rather hectic life, has collected a fair number of assorted special arms and armors across the years. Not all of them are necessarily magical or even particularly powerful when they are, but they are unique or simply very very well made and he has a whole collection of them spread about his properties. He doesn’t carry them on the regular, his usual loadout is as detailed above, but given time and preparation he can whip out some nasty (or even just curious) implements.

[u][b]-Gadgets:[/b][/u]
[b]-Magic rope:[/b] What manner of adventurous man can’t appreciate having some rope or rope-like implements for climbing, swinging, tying and other rope uses? While grappling hook guns are quite popular, Dorian carries some magic rope with him. Silk rope because he’s not an animal, and also because spider silk is comparable to kevlar in mechanical properties and some magic works better on organic materials. Usually collapsed into a deceptively (impossibly) small monkey’s fist knot, the rope can operate individually and obey commands.

[b]-The Infinite Smoker’s Case:[/b] A handy little silver case that holds 16 short, narrow cigars and 35 wooden matches, along with an appropriate striking surface for the latter. So named because the supply slowly replenishes as they’re consumed. Very hard to destroy, much like the vice, otherwise unremarkable and harmless unless you’re in the tobacco industry.

[b]-The Flask of Endless Libation[/b]: Much the same as above, a self-filling, handy little silver flask filled with quality red rum, though its contents can be changed by the owner with a little work.

[u][b]Biography---------[/b][/u]
[b]Character History/Origin:[/b]
Violence and bloodshed have marked Dorian Cornelius Timar-von Jelek since before his birth in 1954. Scion of a cadet branch of the ruling line of Vlatava, a small country infamous for its never ending internecine conflicts, it was through deeds of arms that his bastard-born line was legitimized, and it was civil war that resulted in his family fleeing the land and settling in Germany first then England after, seeking to escape the rising tides of communism and fascism. By the time Dorian came of age Vlatava had been forsaken by God and ceased to be, reduced to a smoldering ruin split amongst surrounding countries and its royal line declared extinct.

Count of a nonexistent land of the dead and in-name-only at that, reared on tales of martial valor, all his life Dorian felt a strong fascination with violence and combat and death. But as a frail sentimental man, educated to avoid such matters and afflicted with albinism to boot, he found but one way to delve into what he saw as his calling in life: through art. By age 25 Dorian von Jelek had gained some renown as a painter and photographer, if a rather bizarre and at times offputting one, having taken to travelling the ever more troubled world and finding the moving and beautiful in the ugliest and most savage it had to offer.

It was a journey to what had once been his doomed homeland that produced his ultimate masterpiece and started him down his current path. Vlatava was pure death wrought by human hands, the worst and lowest of the times, and as he wandered accosted by refugees and fleeing the activities of still operating guerrillas he sought to convey it all: the dark depths of man, the harrowing frailty of life and the finality of death. And in so doing he found her. Upon an altar of flesh and blood and bone, bodies of the rich and poor and young and old alike indiscriminately strewn about, sat the Spirit of Murder, and the artist was smitten as though God’s own lightning had struck.

For the first hour he stood stone still, frozen in equal parts terror and admiration, and she sat and examined him curiously. When the spell finally broke and he regained some control of himself he set off on a desperate dash, and perhaps she understood his purpose or perhaps was simply amused and cared little for the comings and goings of another mortal, but still she sat. Soon enough he returned with canvas and the tools of his trade and for the rest of the day he set to work in a feverish trance, violently discarding what he deemed as failed attempts with mounting frustration. And she rested upon her grisly throne and smiled a predatory smile at this sickly man with clear curiosity in her eye.

The next day came and at last he considered himself satisfied with what he had done. This was his zenith, his apex as an artist, of this he was certain. And at last murder incarnate left her perch and strode to examine this fresh idol, and she saw a pale woman of perfect proportions and entrancing beauty, hair as dark flame partially covering a mysteriously blind eye, her body marked in its near entirety by red flowers in bloom and thorny vines. The Lady of the Rose Tattoo saw herself and she was pleased, and Dorian von Jelek wasted not a single moment in having it delivered to where others might admire his new muse. And then he vanished from the public eye as his new life began.

For a year the strange couple journeyed together across the world. She spoke little but seemed endlessly amused by this frail man who felt such an infatuation for death, and for whatever reason she indulged him and worked to mold him in her image. For a year, a time spent in a blissful haze as though he were living out a first love of summer, he followed the Spirit of Murder to the ends of the Earth as she introduced him to the lows of man and taught him her ways. She made him better, turned the sickly artist into a man that seemed carved out of stone and replaced his brushes with blades. He would never again love another so.

But a year was all it would last, all it could last. For you see, such a spirit was never meant to walk amidst mortals. The Lady of the Rose Tattoo was a part of something far greater and far more terrible, she was an aspect of the cosmic truth of death known as The Rot, and she was not its Avatar tasked with expanding its influence. It had been the massive scale and man-made nature of the ravaging of Vlatava that had accidentally summoned her and allowed her to bind herself to a borrowed body, but her time was limited and she had chosen to spend it on him. This she explained to him in perhaps the longest conversation they had ever had, and she added that she had two final gifts for Dorian.

The first was a test to prove that her efforts had not been wasted, to allow him to prove his worth both to himself and to her. For a full day did he battle a guerrilla cell in the bombed out remains of what had once been a city in Vlatava, where they had returned to end their relationship where it had started. For a full day he once again worked to represent her perfection through art in a feverish delirium, though this art was one of blade and gun and worked on a canvas of flesh and blood. And once again by the end he stood and basked in his work, drained physically and mentally but pleased to his very core, and she judged his work satisfactory. The feeling was exhilarating.

And for her second dark gift, she whispered in his ear what he had always known and always sought: “You are mine forever”. And so did the Spirit of Murder, on her last day on Earth, mark Dorian Von Jelek with her sigil. A dark power coursed through his body and inflicted upon him pain unlike no other, and he could feel what only the truly dying feel as they trascend their mortal coil but die he did not even as she vanished in one final, cruelly mirthful laugh. The horror had rendered him cold and pale as snow and she had taken the light from his once bright red eyes. This was, in her way, a confession that she saw beauty in them and thus in him, he was sure of it. He was hers. Forever.

Thus began the life of the Pale Count of Nothing. A life lived in the dark corners of the world, a life of spilled blood and delightful excess, of serving some and leading others and rivalries aplenty throughout the decades as dark powers staved off the coming of decay in his body. But, ultimately, the passage of time still affected the Knight of the Bloody Rose. With time the excesses grew dull and the prospect of dedicating himself to others bothersome, and the rivalries faded or grew into mutual respect or were settled to the bitter end. Dorian found himself increasingly tired of his station and pined for the days of his youth, spent in intoxicating trance with his muse who he knew he would never see again.

So afflicted, for many years the Pale Count faded into obscurity, content to rest and amuse himself as best he could in what was his first period of tranquility since his youth and ensuring only that his skills dulled not one bit. But, eventually, peace lost its luster and restlessness settled in once more. He wondered what it was he might do, but not for long, for his timing had been nothing short of impeccable. Here he was, seeking the next great adventure in his life, and the world had seen fit to provide with a cadre of new heroes and strange happenings abound. Ah, what fun he would have.
[/hider]