I uh... I think I got a little carried away with the backstory.

[hider=Unfortunate Son]

Name: Arcturus Avenza
Age: 23
Race: False Paleblood Hunter
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 175 lbs

Appearance: Arcturus is a tall and slender young man, standing at about 6'4". He is in exceptional physical shape, owing to his military experience, and is more or less incapable of gaining weight beyond muscle. A consequence of his ravenous metabolism. He is pale of skin and his golden blonde hair is cut short atop his head. Usually kept neatly groomed, although when jostled out of place it will tend to fall to about eye level on his face. Staring out from that sharply handsome, clean shaven visage are a pair of icy blue eyes. The piercing hue one might expect to see in the eyes of a wolf. Over his left eye too runs a light, thin scar, starting just above his eyebrow and ending at the top of his cheekbone.

Clothes: The young man's clothing, as of his transfusion, are perhaps what one might expect of a young gentleman like himself. A dark grey long coat, similarly colored vest, yet darker grey trousers, and a white shirt. All well made from fine and durable material. Likely expensive attire judging by the quality of its make. His boots too are sturdy and polished, the sort that one might expect to find upon a ranking officer. Additionally in his coat pocket are a pair of burgundy leather gloves, of a similarly fine make to the rest of his clothing. Resilient and dexterous enough to protect his hands in a practical sense while remaining elegant and fashionable enough for wearing to a dance.

Possessions: Tucked away into the breast pocket of his coat, Arcturus carries a couple items of sentimental note. The first is a decorative silver pocket watch given to him by his sister. The other is a small colored sketch, a copy of a portrait that was painted shortly before he went off to war. It depicts him and his sister side by side, both clearly amused at some mischief known only to them and the original painter.


Background: Arcturus was born in a foreign land to a recently established noble family, having only earned their wealth and holdings through his father's valiance in defense of their country. From an early age he was raised to be a nobleman. Tutored in the art of governance and exposed to the insights of the sciences. His parents wanted to establish their family and ensure that their children lead comfortable lives, such that their son would not have to see the horrors of war his father had known.

It was not to be, however. Arcturus' sharp, energetic mind was fascinated by the tales of battle he heard. Both those his father had been a part of and those recorded in the annals of history. The study of war quickly became a passion of his, and it soon became apparent that he would not be satisfied with merely reading about the battlefield. His curious intellect still pursued studies of science, society, and philosophy. However when the opportunity came the young man fully rebelled against his parents' wishes, using his pedigree to acquire a command in his nation's military. Leaving his shrewd younger sister, Violet, as the heiress to the responsibility of governing their family's holdings. A role that she was eager to seize.

After a few years of boring garrison duty, his father having pulled strings to give him a peaceful post, Arcturus would finally get an opportunity to face the experience that had always held his fancy. In the meantime he had continued to read, educating himself both in scholarly subjects and in war. Trying to occupy his restless mind and prepare as best he could for the day he might one day need to live up to his surname's reputation.

That day came as his country, its ambitious leadership having goaded a neighboring land into invading them, started to call on its reserves to reinforce the front lines. An excited albeit nervous Arcturus was able to meet with his sister one last time before departing, the younger woman giving him a small sketch she had drawn of their portrait. A reminder of their familial bond and the home he was expected to return to.

Arcturus had suspected that real battle would not be as glorious as the tales he read depicted them. However he still had no idea how horrifying it would be, his youthful eagerness quickly recoiling as his first engagement devolved into a desperate defense. In this time of shock, the air filled with gunsmoke and screaming, adrenaline proved a potent drug. With his heart racing the young officer swiftly came to terms with the nightmare he was witnessing, and from atop his horse rallied the men under his command. By the day's end the enemy had been routed, at great cost to his men, however that was not the end of the battle.

[i]If there was one thing Arcturus had learned from his studies, it was that the most losses were suffered while retreating.[/i]

With what remained of his cavalry, the young man personally lead the pursuit, driven both by the excitement of victory and a darker desire for vengeance. It was his first command after all, and the lives of the many men he'd lost weighed heavy on his mind. That day his name was drenched in blood as he ran down dozens of enemy soldiers, tirelessly hunting down every last one he could catch.

It was only the first entry in what would become a series of bloody victories. As the fires of war tempered the young man's nerves, inoculating him against the horrors it brought, his passion for the art of warfare slowly reasserted itself in his mind. He became an expert in the aggressive maneuver warfare that his country's military was known for, gradually earning a fearsome reputation. Known by his enemies to be brutally violent and relentlessly determined. Known by his men to be firmly patriotic and fiercely loyal.

Unfortunately his career was to be cut tragically short. It was a dark night, and Arcturus had been recalled to meet with some of the higher ranking officers. It seemed as though word of his success had made its way to the ears of the brass above him. Excited at the possible opportunity and confident that there would be little danger while traveling through captured territory, the young man's guard was down as he and his escort set up camp.

[i]Something[/i] had been prowling the woods that night. A creature seemingly born from the darkest fairy tales, larger and more ferocious than anything he had ever seen. Arcturus had heard little and believed less about the beasts that supposedly stalked the shadows of the land. Hungering for the blood of the innocents, or for lonely travelers, or for disobedient children, or whatever else the cautionary tales were engineered to warn against. It wasn't until he met one firsthand that he finally started to take the warnings seriously.

It took them by surprise, springing from the shadows and tearing one of the guards open before any of them could respond. There was a couple moments of shock, just watching scarlet ichor pour from their former comrade, before the reality of the situation rudely imposed itself upon Arcturus' mind. His booming voice shook the others from their fear and disbelief just in time for another man to meet a gruesome end, the death buying a few seconds for everyone else to scramble for their weapons.

Three more died that night before Arcturus could gain control of the situation, using fire to keep the monstrosity at bay until they could encircle it. With flashing steel and adrenaline fueled fury they were eventually able to bring it down, but the damage had been done. Almost all of them had been injured by the beast's flailing claws, including Arcturus himself. Only a glancing cut, right across his eye, just shallow enough to leave a scar without blinding him. However this seemingly minor injury would prove critical.

Arcturus knew how to wage war against men. He had become very good at it. Disease, however, was a different story. War drew pestilence like crows to a corpse, and plague was a soldier's worst enemy. An enemy he had no experience in facing. Dejected and worried for his life, the young man had no choice but to return home, and before long he was bound to his bed. Lacking the strength to even pursue treatment for his own sake. At least that's what the doctors told him.

He felt as though he had the strength to walk, but his sister insisted. With a wry smile Violet appealed to his respect for duty, claiming it was her turn to fight for him. So fight she did, seeking out doctors and hunting rumors, pouring money and time into trying to save her older brother. At one point she even gave him a beautiful silver pocket watch, trying to imply that she was confident he'd live long enough to make use of it. However Arcturus could tell she was straining herself. With each passing day dark circles began to sag beneath her normally bright eyes. With each grim doctor her usually sweet demeanor became ever more aggravated.

Clearly the disease had no cure, and Violet was going to stubbornly destroy herself in her efforts to find one.

Arcturus could not bear to watch it. How his youthful sister wasted away and squandered their family's fortune. All because of him. To him there was only one course of action. A gamble that would save Violet's future and give him a chance at being cured. What did he have to lose? His life?

Whispers of an isolated city, hidden within a mountainous region, had long been the subject of idle fancy and haughty ridicule among those Arcturus knew. A tale he always knew was a myth, but always wondered if it held some credence. The city of Yharnam and its miraculous blood. Now it was his only hope. So he stole away while his sister was out of the house, leaving naught but a letter. A message detailing where he was going and firmly suggesting that she tend to herself, lest she contract the plague as well.
[i]Love, Arc[/i]

The gamble paid off. Not only was Yharnam real, but it seemed as if they had an entire industry dedicated to the medical application of their fabled blood. Ordinarily Arcturus would have tried to do some proper research before making a decision. Indeed he was still quite skeptical of this all singing, all dancing healing blood. It all seemed too convenient.

He didn't have time for that, however. His legs were weak, his body tired, even his lungs failing him as he coughed up small quantities of his own blood. The plague and the journey had worn him down to the point that he was not confident he would see the next day. No, his only option was to roll the dice and pray.

Easy, with a bit of Yharnam blood of his own. All he needed to do was sign the dotted line.
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