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C L I N T . W E S T O N
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216 | male | pansexual
__________________________________________ ..................▹ hair color | brunette
..................▹ eye color | brown
..................▹ height | 6' 1"
..................▹ build | fit / muscular
..................▹ species | vampire
..................▹ faction | coven
..................▹ role | rancher | .
S T R E N G T H S
animal handling - Even before his time owning his own ranch, Clint had always had a way with animals. He found them to possess the beauty and innocence the world often lacked. People were skum, sometimes including himself, but there was something about animals that he always connected with. He could be patient with them, and understood them unlike people. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he disliked the wolves, they tainted his opinion on animals. But he preferred to think of them as mongrels, it helped keep a separation.
dirty work - Clint had a way with taking care of the things no one else could. If a rogue vamp needed handling, someone needed to disappear, a score to settle, it was always him they turned to. He made it look easy, simple, the pull of a trigger or one bite to the neck and that’s all she wrote. Sometimes it haunted him, turning lives into sport or a petty task to be crossed off a to-do list, but if it bothered him, he'd never say.
supply chain - Weston Ranch is one of the primary suppliers of animal byproduct in Pine Ridge. His animals stock the meat counter and produce most of the dairy found in the local market. He is an integral part of the food supply chain for the town. Which, for better or worse, means he is—or at least his land is—a vital piece of the food market, making him modestly one of the wealthiest people in Pine Ridge.
W E A K N E S S E S
samuel holt - Clint and Samuel are brothers by choice not by blood. What is it they say? Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb? This could not be more true, for these men have been to hell and back together. He has killed for Samuel and would do so again without a second thought. And while Clint is selfishly attached to his life, finding immortality to be quite spectacular, his brother is the one person he would sacrifice it for.
cravings - No amount of time as a vampire can truly curb a craving. He monitors it well, keeping to scheduled feedings or resorting to Weston’s Red when he has no other options, but he was human… once. Clint was never the best at taming his impulses before he had a constant thirst for blood and old habits have a way of creeping up when he least expects it.
old fashioned - He had the opportunity to grow and evolve with the modern world, but rather he clung hard to his cowboy ways. If anyone in Pine Ridge actually had two brain cells to rub together they might have been able to figure out Clint’s secret years ago. He doesn’t have a license or own a car, riding his horse everywhere around town instead. No phone or TV and the most advanced thing he has on his ranch is plumbing, electricity, and a record player. He has no interest in figuring out what wifi is.
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P E R S O N A L I T Y
charming .... | .... cunning .... | .... aloof .... | .... cynical .... | .... self-reliant
H I S T O R Y
Clint was born on the frontier. His childhood wasn’t memorable by the time he was thirty and it is even less so now nearly two centuries later. What he does remember is the first time he felt the weight of a pistol in his hand and the strength it took to pull back the hammer. Being an outlaw came easy to him, the power, the thrill, and the cash wasn’t a bad outcome either. He never really had a destination in mind, just going whichever way the wind blew following wealth by means of fancy wagons and fancier trains. He would take his spoils, live off of it for a time, often blowing it quickly on booze, gambling, and lovely ladies all the way from Mississippi to Kansas. When he was low, that’s when he would find a nice farm or ranch, offering his services for a day in exchange for a bed or pile of hay to crash in and a meal to fill his belly.
By the time he crossed paths with Samuel, Clint had already earned a reputation as a drifter and an outlaw—not out of a desire for cruelty, but out of an inability to stay in one place for too long or conform to the laws trying to be set upon this ‘free’ land. He moved through the world with an easy smile and an undeniable charm, hiding a broken moral compass that bounced between freedom, greed, and pressing the barrel of his gun between the eyes of any piece of shit that had the misfortune of crossing his path.
The night he killed Samuel’s master was not a calculated move, actually Clint was attempting to be on his best behavior. He had spent the day out beneath the oppressive sun, working the fields alongside Samuel and countless other slaves. He saw the way they were starved for food and water, whipped and beaten to work faster than their tired hands could handle, and then kicked while they were down as if dominance needed to be reinforced. Every time he tried to help, lending a shoulder, an extra hand, or sharing a sip of his own water, a crack of the whip stilled every farmhand. "Don’t let ‘em touch that," they’d say with a spit of chewing tobacco that landed on a slave’s back. "Filthy fuckin’ animals."
By the time the sun had fallen below the horizon and dinner was set, Clint’s rage had plenty of time to smolder like embers shifting closer to gun powder. Super smelled heavenly and he made sure to eat his fill, if only for the sake of the women who slaved over it and catered to their master’s endless complaints. He hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do until the master forced his hand. Samuel was dragged in by the collar around his neck and forced to the knees. "Is this the slave you tried to help?" he asked, taking the bloody club from the man who dragged him in and smacked Samuel against his already beaten and swollen face. That’s all it took. The gun was raised before the help or his master could reach theirs. Two shots. Two quick fans of the hammer.
Anyone else who tried to race into the dead man’s defense was given a courtesy he was not, leave or meet the same fate. Clint freed every slave on that plantation and killed anyone who stood in his way. He didn’t take any valuables, leaving them to the newly freed slaves to do with as they pleased, ideally starting new lives. But Samuel had nothing tethering him to the people he worked alongside. He asked if he could join Clint and the man agreed easily, not realizing then that the one thing his life was missing was a companion to ride through life beside.
Throughout their years robbing trains and haunting the frontier, Clint took Samuel beneath his wing. He taught him how to ride, how to shoot, and how to spurn a world that wanted them dead or in chains. For Clint, freedom was more than laughing in the face of the law, and for Samuel it wasn’t just the absence of a master; it was the presence of a brother who understood that some bonds were forged in blood and fire rather than the laws of society.
Their travels eventually took them to the Black Hills and a mine whispered to be bursting at the seams with gold. They had no intentions of becoming prospectors, rather stealing and gambling the gold right out from the other men’s noses. It was an easy plan, one they executed in countless other towns, but the mountain had other plans.
The transformation should have broken him, but Clint took to immortality like a fish to water. They could have left, but there was something about Pine Ridge that kept them strong and close. They made a home in that strange little town, drifting in and out whenever time and age did not wear on them as it should. But they always crept back in a few decades later, a distant cousin, brother, or son, and no one asked questions. He backed Samuel’s reach for the office of Mayor, but did not care for titles or the petty power play within the coven. To the town, he was the charming cowboy who was never far out of the Mayor’s reach. To Samuel, he was the only anchor in a world that had shifted for two centuries around them, but more importantly, he was a brother… and he’d destroy anyone who tried to sever that bond.
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hexcode . | . #89684d ........ faceclaim . | . karl urban ........ creator . | . mjolnir |
