[Hider=Viktor A.]
[u]Name:[/u] Viktor

[u]Age:[/u] 801, 
	[hider=Age Notes]Birthday: December 18th, 1216
	Turn Date: August 26th, 1237[/hider]

[u]Race:[/u] Vampire, Turned

[u]Appearance:[/u] 

Viktor hails from a poor 1200s farming village in the North Eastern areas of what is now known as Russia. Considering his background, Viktor never had the chance to escape the scrawny frame his life forced him into. Grey eyes and blond hair would normally go a long way for those of Russian heritage but his eyes are slightly sunken in and lanky frame always seems just slightly underfed, no matter how recently he has eaten. Standing a solid 5' 10”, Viktor still moves with the unnatural grace his cursed life affords him despite his seemingly malnourished appearance. Viktor wears  simple clothes, T-shirts and jeans and sneakers, decidedly uninterested in mortal concepts of fashion. This is likely a result of his self imposed isolation at the beginning of the 16th century.

[u]Personality:[/u]

Despite appearances, Viktor's personality reflects his age. With a focus only those who have lived too long possess, Viktor moves a his own pace. This often leads him to situations in which he comes off as cool or aloof but really he is merely taking the time to process and change. When you've lived one way for five hundred years, that is a slow and painful process. Though once it has processed, Viktor often latches on with the desperation of a dying man. Indeed, the vampire has an obsessive personality born of centuries of repression. Coffee for example. Once a delicacy, the concoction spread like wildfire through the world and yet only once he came to Luna Prima did he realize it even existed. Since then, he applied to the Academy of Luca Prima's kinetic magic division and applied for a job at a small coffee shop that specializes in the use of kinetic magic to craft specialty coffees.   
  
[hider=Background]

[i]I came into this world as I expected I would leave it, hunted and hated, loathed and feared. My skein, once smooth and silky, turned tangled and knotted through the unfathomable quirks of Fate. My first memories of my existence were of lust and longing. Of a terrible thirst for that which pumped through mortal veins. I remember prowling through small settlements dotting the tundra, snow underfoot muffling the inevitable. I remember the crying, the begging, the screaming. I remember how none of it mattered.

Before that, I remember nothing but hunger and fear and anger. I remember the blistering pain as I turned against my will, as my humanity burned beneath my skin. I fail to remember who turned me or exactly why they chose to do so. Though I suppose it matters not for whether it is a blessing or curse, the inevitable results will not vary. I remember hunting night after night, impatiently awaiting the softness of my once kin's flesh beneath my teeth. I remember a part of me struggled against my desires, the small bastion of humanity left untouched by the turn. Though even that succumbed to the new reality of my life. And so my memory of that time fades to little more than an insatiable appetite.

As best as I can recollect, it took the better part of a century before my memories returned. I awoke chained in the basement of a cozy home. I could say I awoke imprisoned. And while such an observation may by all technical accounts be true, it was cozier than anything I could remember. Strange patterns adorned the bare patches of the walls and faded tapestries concealed the rest. A comfortable bed took up a small portion and a desk and book shelf adorned the rest. A small silver bell that seemed to glow in the dim lighting caught my attention and unspeakable urge to ring it came across me. And, with the same weakness I indulged my base urges with, I rang it.

Алла. A witch forced to hunt the monster indiscriminately slaughtering the impoverished of Kievan Rus'. A witch who originally knew nothing more that rudimentary healing magics and a few obscure scrying spells. A witch who saved a man from death, only to have him turn her in for supposed justice. And humanity turned away from one of their own in their fanatical skepticism, demanding that a child who just stepped over the threshold into womanhood hunt a beast they were too afraid to find. Her desire to spite those who wronged her drove her out of civilization and into the broken and beaten villages. Drove her to succeed where they hoped she failed, or at the very least died after killing the beast. 

This, I now realize, is the very moment from which my overwhelming disgust of the Children of Dawn stems. The damnable irony is that despite their best efforts to strip her of her humanity and her grace, she instead strip them of theirs when she chose to teach that monster control and restraint, when she chose to give it back his sanity and purpose, instead of obliterating it as they demanded. The Children of the Dawn who know nothing of the Night see more black and white than do those who see nothing but black and white. Their absolute dedication to the concept of absolutes, of right and wrong and nothing more, sickens me to my very core and leaves me hating those of the Dawn because of the fear. For my existence, and all those of the Dusk, hangs as precarious as our namesake, for the Dusk has no place near the Dawn in their eyes and they would snuff it out to avoid the shattering of their twisted truths. [/i]

A soft breath ghosted over the ink, drying the letters quickly. Viktor gently closed the journal and leaned back into the chair. An odd, uncomfortable feeling stirred in his stomach and he stubbornly shoved it to the back of his mind. His employer, Valencia, suggested this as a method of self reflection, a way to analyze himself and become better. A few details of his life had escaped after seven centuries and with the existence of this City, it may be time to find ways to overcome his prejudices. Or rather she threatened to fire him if he didn't start getting along with the Children of the Dawn and smack him upside the head with the journal. Repeatedly. The alchemist who ran Valencia's Caffeinated Concoctions didn't mince words or use eloquent phrases like most Elves he had encountered. She spoke bluntly, her opinions always harsh but fair. And despite avoiding civilization like the plague for the past five centuries (excluding enough time to pick up enough of the vernacular that a moments passing wouldn't reveal the extend of his unlife), he found himself unwilling to disappoint the woman. 

He thought back to the blind panic that had settled in as haven after haven was torn down be the encroaching Children of Dawn and how that simple letter sparked a desire in him he though stolen by immortality. The desire to change and learn, grow and adapt. Watching the endless cycle of time tended to cement your life into a series of inescapable ruts. He resigned himself to solitude. He resigned himself to stagnation. That letter appeared on his doorstep as he concluded it was time to give up his immortality for good. It was his saving grace, like Алла all those years ago. 

He smiled at the though and gently placed the journal away. There was plenty of time for self reflection later. For now, it was time to focus on The Regulations and Responsibilities of Kinetic Mages. As much as he enjoyed learning, this one was worse than watching love struck fools serenade empty balconies back in the 15th centuries. Those voices still haunted his nightmares. 

Viktor sighed but a small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. This world gave him a hope he had lost and now he had it, he wouldn't let it go anytime soon.[/hider]

[u]Other:[/u]

Despite his age, Viktor lived in solitude for so long he has very little functional knowledge of the outside world. He practically loathes the Children of the Dawn, believing them to be barbarians and murderers who know little more than their own greed. He finds the concept of religion revolting. He has watched it turned kin against kin and justify the senseless torture and death of millions. He has no problem laughing in any poor soul's face about it if it comes up in conversation. His connection to the other races are tenuous at best, although he gets along with mages of every society except Goblins and Orcs. He finds them disgusting to the eyes and judges them harshly for it. He rather enjoys the presence of Elves and the Fey but wildly distrusts dwarves and their close ties to the Children of Dawn. He speaks to them quietly and with reservation, afraid whatever he says will travel to the hellish humans and end with him dead. 

The biggest issue Viktor struggles with as a turned Vampire is the hunger. The all consuming need to devour every last drop of blood out of any humanoid possible. He keeps it in check through a very strict set of rules:

1) Feed only once a week.
2) Attempt to feed from blood bags only.
3) Always screen potential meals if a blood bag cannot be found, including sexual history and blood type.
4) Never under any circumstance drink blood type AB. The hunger will turn into a frenzy. 

Viktor doesn't care to have a last name. If something would require him to have one, he writes the letter A.[/hider]