[hider=Clark][b]Name:[/b] Clark Fraser

[b]Age:[/b] Chronologically 69, physically 12

[b]Appearance:[/b] 
Clark is what some might disparagingly refer to as a 'Pinocchio' - a vampire trapped in a child's body, allowed to turn at a young age. He carries the frame of a pubescent boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with a voice that just about veers on the cusp of breaking. His features are smooth, with not even a wisp of body hair apart from that found on his head - an unkempt mass of charcoal fuzz. His eyes possess a dull, grey tone, resembling flinty chips of ice - and his skin is a pasty white, cool to the touch. Though undeath leaves him relatively unblemished, he does have a rather deep gouge running along the underside of his left arm, from the elbow to halfway up the sleeve - acquired during an early childhood mishap.

Clothing choices deemed 'sensible' for a child tend to be limited, but Clark usually finds room to wear a mottled-green flannel lumberjack hoodie over a khaki-tone undershirt, usually with a laced pair of sneakers. Sometimes with a pair of fingerless gloves, if it's winter.

[b]Concept:[/b] A responsible, pragmatic member of the group stuck in a child's body. Older than most of the group, but not old enough to shave - apparently.

[b]Powers/skills:[/b]
Though locked in a child's body, Clark has doubtless been blessed with the unholy gifts bestowed by vampirism - particularly his senses. His eyes have adapted to maintain visibility in the dark, his ears are so fine-tuned that they could probably pick up local radio and his nose could rival a bloodhound's. If there's a trace of anything left at a scene, be it gasoline, ectoplasm or, above all else - [i]blood[/i] - Clark can pick up its smell, even its taste from mere presence. Were he a decade older and precluded from the predatory habits of his kind, he'd have probably made Chicago's finest forensic investigator. 

Perceptive capabilities aside, Clark is far more robust than his appearance would suggest, able to commit to admirable feats of speed, stamina and endurance while exhibiting a degree of strength that far exceeds what a 12 year old boy should be capable of demonstrating. He can scale steep walls and adjust his center of gravity to cling to the ceiling, too - among other troubling examples of behaviour uncharacteristic for 12 year old boys.

Sunlight, silver and other appropriately treated materials are corrosive to the touch, burning his skin upon contact and would doubtless prove fatal if exposed for sufficient duration, with fire having a similar effect. A stake or some other such implement impaled through the heart probably wouldn't do him much good either. Otherwise, he is functionally immortal, capable of regenerating from the most grievous of injuries in a matter of minutes. 

Of course, all of the above does largely depend on Clark sustaining himself through feeding on the lifeblood of other living creatures. His robust capabilities wax and wane, depending on how much and often he sates [i]the thirst[/i], with wounds lingering and strength faltering when deprived of blood for too long. This growing weakness, coupled with the addictive nature of the thirst, is often enough to drive him to moments of frenzy if left unsated for too long. 

Certain religious symbols, specifically those of the Abrahamic denominations, do produce a certain unease in him - personal scars from an unpleasant incident in the late '90s when some would-be evangelist attempted to 'redeem' his soul by locking him in a basement surrounded by silver implements and religious imagery. 

Other gifts of vampirism - telepathy, shapeshifting and the power to enthrall other beings - all remain beyond Clark's reach, having little practice, understanding or awareness of the true heights of vampiric power. Perhaps, with time, he might be able to explore this ceiling, but that may take decades - centuries even, provided he even tries at all. 

And unholy capabilities aside, Clark's not above using his diminuitive form to deceive or manipulate others into getting to where or what he wants - perhaps without even needing to play into the magnetism that vampirism lends its gifted. After all, nobody's likely to gun for the child as a suspect at the scene of a disaster - though it is a very, [i]very[/i] sore spot of provocation for him.

Though not a conventional fighter, Clark has learned to be pragmatic and opportunistic where appropriate - relying on more underhanded tactics to compensate for his smaller stature on those occasions where he's needed to be forceful for his own good. He knows how to operate a firearm, but anything larger than a pistol or a plinker tends to be a little too clunky for his diminutive form and most would raise an eyebrow to the prospect of leaving a child with access to a firearm. He's a better pitcher than a marksman, anyhow - anything from baseballs to bricks.

In theory, Clark knows how to drive stick, though he can only just about reach the pedals and not without raising eyebrows. Bicycles are a little more manageable, though typically made redundant when not keeping up a public face and on occasion he's taken a dirt bike for a joyride when walking, running or climbing haven't been so convenient.

A product of his time, Clark shares an eclectic fondness for rock and heavy metal music to help him focus, with a select collection of tracks on his phone. The same applies to his tastes in media - though where video games are concerned, he struggles to appreciate anything newer than the SNES - perhaps his perspective was a little skewed by the unconventional controller layout of the then-revolutionary N64.

Across various social media outlets, Clark has established quite the footprint under various aliases, surprisingly enough - though it serves an ulterior motive that few would find as a good topic of conversation for the dinner table. 

[b]Things Your Character Wants to Happen:[/b]
Money, continued independence. A solution to the 'pinnochio' problem that doesn't see him well and truly dead.

[b]Things You as a Writer Wants to Happen:[/b]
Interesting concept I want to give a go. I am very vaguely taking some inspiration from other media in broad strokes (think Worm/Ward/Parahumans, Fables etc) but nothing specifically derivative.

[b]Writing Sample:[/b] 
[hider=hospital visit]The faint thrum of hospital machinery, ventilators and heart monitors pulsed against his temples. A dozen footsteps and voices idly chattered outside the hospital room, unaware that an interloper had scaled the wall to clamber in through the window. 

Clark blinked at the fragile creature resting on the bed, garbed in a speckled-blue gown that ran from shoulders to knees, an IV line snaking its way from the bedside stand into her sleeve. Time had robbed her of many things: her youth, her memories and now? Her health. 

His sister wasn't long for this world, that he knew, from what he could follow of the countless conversations and private doctor's messages he'd pried upon. Illness was terminal, this time - and even if it wasn't, lucidity eluded her more days than not. Her own children couldn't bear to watch their mother fade away, seldom making personal calls anymore, and for all intents and purposes she was the last of their family. 

Clark knew he shouldn't interfere. Shouldn't say anything. He was a ghost, and yet... 

“Judy?“ The name slipped out of him. 

His voice was barely above a whisper, yet her frail form seemed to stir in mere seconds and her withered expression seemed to light up.

"Clark?“ she spoke hoarsely, "Is that you?“

[i]Too late to back out.[/i] "It's me, Judes..." The words spilled out awkwardly. 

"Clark... where've you been, huh?" her greyed brow furrowed, leaning forward as though she wasn't aware of the IV drip feeding her fluids, "We've been worried sick." Age had robbed her of just enough lucidity to to deceive her into thinking they were just children once more. 

"Mom and Dad, they've been worried sick for you.." [i]Dad died in '91. Mom in '98.[/i]

But Clark tried to pass it off, best he could with a kind lie. "I was just with Tommy, y'know?" [i] A retiree now, last he knew. At least he got to grow up.[/i] He knew the truth was too much to bear or believe. Far better to tolerate a gentle scolding - any excuse to spend a little time with her, face-to-face. 

"Even Frank.." Judy's features creased a little more as she chided him, slowly forming the words, "H-he went looking all over for you, he can't sleep." [i]Frank enlisted in '65 and got shipped off halfway across the world to Vietnam. In '67, they shipped him back home in a box.[/i] Clark loosened a soothing hush to try and calm her, leaning in close enough to be drawn into her embrace. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, with a childlike sincerity he hadn't felt for some time, clutching her tight as he felt her heartbeat strum a familiar, waning chord. "I didn't mean to upset you." Perhaps for just a moment, he could truly be a child again, in body [i]and[/i] mind. Forget about what happened to him. Forget about everything he'd done - had to do, wanted to do. Forget that he was stuck somewhere between spending eternity as a child and the black oblivion which lay beyond. For a moment, Clark could be the little brother and forget. 

But not the thirst. No, never the thirst. It was always with him at the best of times, like a scratch on the paintwork of a brand new Camaro. And for a brief moment, perhaps by instinct alone, he became acutely aware of her heartbeat. How even her ailing body carried blood - that it would be such a tempting moment, an opportunity. And there he was again, no longer a child. 

[i]No.[/i]

The thought shamed him, and he stiffly drew back from the thin, leathery arms that had been drawn around his shoulders. Even as [i]that[/i] part of him tried to justify the notion, that Judy could join him - he recognised the folly of it. What life would that be? Her mind addled, her body at its final juncture. Would she have ever entertained it if her mind was her own?

He decided not. Better to let Judy rest. It was time he made his exit, before his senses failed him.

"I'll go tell Mom I'm home, Judes." Clark lied, turning away so she wouldn't see the black finger creeping from eye to cheek. "Just get some sleep." He didn't stop to see if she acknowledged that, but he felt the faint murmur on her lips. [i]Goodbye.[/i]

As he left the room, he felt the reverberating [i]thrum[/i] of the burner phone resting in his side pocket. Idly slipping it out, it took him but a few seconds to scan the SMS that had crept across the screen. 

[code]looking forward to seeing u buddy. ;)[/code]

Another matter to attend to, a [i]friend[/i] - the kind that were easy enough to bait out if you trawled the right places. The kind that might've been a predator to some, but prey to him. Which was for the best, really. 

[i]The thirst was never truly apart from him.[/i] Self-control had its limits. 

Clark keyed a few letters back in a well-rehearsed motion, then hit send. 

[code]see u soon[/code]
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