TiI left it ambiguous as to where Zeiss and Dylan are, in case anybody wanted to interact with either.
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Dylan Stroud
“You fancy me a skald, eh?” Now he was at her side and walking in lockstep. Rain fell, churning up smells of what the city once was. “I am afraid if I was to draw from personal experience then stories of heroics would be few and far between. I’m no Siegfried.”
Dylan looked up at the hidden heavens and heavy clouds, hanging there in seeming suspense with the threat of a torrential downpour. “At least the moon will not be jealous tonight.” He grinned.
Wetted hair was beginning to cling to his scalp and nape and clavicle. Lamplight danced in the wide pools of his eyes, and sparkled in the tiny puddles they splashed through, and shimmered in the moisture on his skin. However, it cast his companion in a new light entirely, without her jacket now, much of her form was visible, a tracing of temptation, and in the unnatural orange light, her hair might indeed be flame.
Rivulets ran through the crevices of the paving stones, splashing up as Dylan let his feet take him where they may, his destination a mystery. The silhouettes took a journey through the avenues of time, across the uneven cobblestone of memory. Hands cupped in front from his face and he struggled, but eventually succeeded, in lighting a cigarette.
Trailing smoke as he waved his hands about, he went on, “I do have a few tales involving horses and nuns,” he shook his head, his smile was empty, and the wrinkles seeming more pronounced as he thought of days gone by, “but those are far too adventurous for present company.”
After a long drag, he let free a blue, withering cloud. “I was in a circus for a long time, if you would fancy that.” He seemed to smile at something very far towards the horizon, “Those years of my life were most delightful. The whole circus was a colossal family. They taught me to juggle and walk the tightrope, and all other manner of showman’s tricks. I was a fast learner, but I had an unfair advantage." He gave a fanged smile, "Everyone there was peculiar to some degree. Next to a bearded lady I seemed quite normal.”
“It was a new kind of liberation. We were carefree in every way. Our time together was spent travelling or performing, or chasing farmer’s daughters, or carolling through the streets of Prague, or enjoying the Absinthe bars of Paris, or dreaming deeply in the silks of Istanbul, or skating upon the frozen Thames.” He looked at his muse, his own stolen star, a gift from the gods. She had the beauty of the night-time skies, and all that was best of dark and light, met in her aspect and her eyes. With the alcohol loosening his tongue, he told her all the wonders he saw with his troupe, of the close shaves with law, and of the nights in courtly manors - as well as those in wayside ditches, of ephemeral lovers and haunting performances. The nights spent running from women through cities, or looking for girls that hid from him. Stories of opium and alcohol, of food so fine it made his mouth water even then, and of the days when they had naught but gruel.
It was only a crossroad that stopped his rambling; not entirely sure where he was, even his feet stopped moving. He looked left, then right, and then straight ahead. “Say,” He began, offering the cigarette with a dainty hand, as well as an apologetic look, “You should have stopped me rambling, now my feet have gotten me lost.”
“You fancy me a skald, eh?” Now he was at her side and walking in lockstep. Rain fell, churning up smells of what the city once was. “I am afraid if I was to draw from personal experience then stories of heroics would be few and far between. I’m no Siegfried.”
Dylan looked up at the hidden heavens and heavy clouds, hanging there in seeming suspense with the threat of a torrential downpour. “At least the moon will not be jealous tonight.” He grinned.
Wetted hair was beginning to cling to his scalp and nape and clavicle. Lamplight danced in the wide pools of his eyes, and sparkled in the tiny puddles they splashed through, and shimmered in the moisture on his skin. However, it cast his companion in a new light entirely, without her jacket now, much of her form was visible, a tracing of temptation, and in the unnatural orange light, her hair might indeed be flame.
Rivulets ran through the crevices of the paving stones, splashing up as Dylan let his feet take him where they may, his destination a mystery. The silhouettes took a journey through the avenues of time, across the uneven cobblestone of memory. Hands cupped in front from his face and he struggled, but eventually succeeded, in lighting a cigarette.
Trailing smoke as he waved his hands about, he went on, “I do have a few tales involving horses and nuns,” he shook his head, his smile was empty, and the wrinkles seeming more pronounced as he thought of days gone by, “but those are far too adventurous for present company.”
After a long drag, he let free a blue, withering cloud. “I was in a circus for a long time, if you would fancy that.” He seemed to smile at something very far towards the horizon, “Those years of my life were most delightful. The whole circus was a colossal family. They taught me to juggle and walk the tightrope, and all other manner of showman’s tricks. I was a fast learner, but I had an unfair advantage." He gave a fanged smile, "Everyone there was peculiar to some degree. Next to a bearded lady I seemed quite normal.”
“It was a new kind of liberation. We were carefree in every way. Our time together was spent travelling or performing, or chasing farmer’s daughters, or carolling through the streets of Prague, or enjoying the Absinthe bars of Paris, or dreaming deeply in the silks of Istanbul, or skating upon the frozen Thames.” He looked at his muse, his own stolen star, a gift from the gods. She had the beauty of the night-time skies, and all that was best of dark and light, met in her aspect and her eyes. With the alcohol loosening his tongue, he told her all the wonders he saw with his troupe, of the close shaves with law, and of the nights in courtly manors - as well as those in wayside ditches, of ephemeral lovers and haunting performances. The nights spent running from women through cities, or looking for girls that hid from him. Stories of opium and alcohol, of food so fine it made his mouth water even then, and of the days when they had naught but gruel.
It was only a crossroad that stopped his rambling; not entirely sure where he was, even his feet stopped moving. He looked left, then right, and then straight ahead. “Say,” He began, offering the cigarette with a dainty hand, as well as an apologetic look, “You should have stopped me rambling, now my feet have gotten me lost.”
Dylan Stroud
For the most part, Dylan sat silently with merely the toying hint of a smile, an attentive listener, save for when she was particularly playful; that earned the smile of a satyr. At the end of her explanation, he found himself nodding shallowly, impressed at her concise and fluent explanation, despite her increasingly rosy cheeks. The news that she was not a fighter was a massive relief; he was careful to hide his face when he could not avoid raiding, but he couldn’t avoid defending himself.
In the corner, the jukebox was skipping on a record, until somebody gave it a hearty whack. It let out gentle crooning from the 50s, and Dylan found himself swaying with nostalgia. The gentle pattering of light rain could be heard on the roof. The storm was moving in.
Before answering her question, he tilted his head to the right and met her gaze, his lips barely curling upwards, his eyebrows rising in the middle of his brow. “There is nothing wrong with introspection, my dear, under any state of consciousness.”
Then he laughed drily. “What am I like?” He thought for a moment, “Nice enough, I suppose. Nowadays I collect and chronicle, I seek out seeds of humanity and caution in the hopes of salvaging something paradoxically beautiful from such dire days.”
A silence settled like fine snow, and sat there, until it was chased off by ponderous tones of silk and satin, “I suppose what I’ve been looking for is meaning. I thought I found it, when I partook in every vice and sin available to me, but earthly pleasures are fleeting, and left me feeling hollow.” He finished what he determined would be his last drink here and looked at her. “No matter how sensual it is in that most carnal of moments.”
“I also do things for the war here, of course, but…” a deep sigh, “I fear I have drunk too much to make sense, and I am a dreary topic of conversation anyway.” He stood, unfurling enough money to settle the tab, and then some.
Turning to the woman, he beamed, a held out an arm, oddly stable for his apparent state, “Would you accompany me on this fine night, O muse of mine? Witching hour is fast approaching, and I could really use a walk to clear my head.”
For the most part, Dylan sat silently with merely the toying hint of a smile, an attentive listener, save for when she was particularly playful; that earned the smile of a satyr. At the end of her explanation, he found himself nodding shallowly, impressed at her concise and fluent explanation, despite her increasingly rosy cheeks. The news that she was not a fighter was a massive relief; he was careful to hide his face when he could not avoid raiding, but he couldn’t avoid defending himself.
In the corner, the jukebox was skipping on a record, until somebody gave it a hearty whack. It let out gentle crooning from the 50s, and Dylan found himself swaying with nostalgia. The gentle pattering of light rain could be heard on the roof. The storm was moving in.
Before answering her question, he tilted his head to the right and met her gaze, his lips barely curling upwards, his eyebrows rising in the middle of his brow. “There is nothing wrong with introspection, my dear, under any state of consciousness.”
Then he laughed drily. “What am I like?” He thought for a moment, “Nice enough, I suppose. Nowadays I collect and chronicle, I seek out seeds of humanity and caution in the hopes of salvaging something paradoxically beautiful from such dire days.”
A silence settled like fine snow, and sat there, until it was chased off by ponderous tones of silk and satin, “I suppose what I’ve been looking for is meaning. I thought I found it, when I partook in every vice and sin available to me, but earthly pleasures are fleeting, and left me feeling hollow.” He finished what he determined would be his last drink here and looked at her. “No matter how sensual it is in that most carnal of moments.”
“I also do things for the war here, of course, but…” a deep sigh, “I fear I have drunk too much to make sense, and I am a dreary topic of conversation anyway.” He stood, unfurling enough money to settle the tab, and then some.
Turning to the woman, he beamed, a held out an arm, oddly stable for his apparent state, “Would you accompany me on this fine night, O muse of mine? Witching hour is fast approaching, and I could really use a walk to clear my head.”
Dylan Stroud
Another glass of murky red liquid was placed by Dylan, his third of the night. The tickling, bittersweet euphoria of blood and alcohol toying with his mind in tandem was all too familiar to those who shared his affliction. That haze didn’t stop both his eyebrows rising.
“Wait, wait, wait,” He waved his hands at the air and the dawning realisation, “You mean to say,” His accent seeming to shift across all regions of Europe as he spoke, and, was that a slight slur? “that you developed this system yourself?” He paused. “My, that is impressive.”
At the topic of the war arose, he nodded grimly, but there seemed to be a noticeable spark in those twinkling eyes. “You think after enough times, losing a friend would become easier. I suppose I am thankful at least that I am still human enough for that not to be true.” He reached for his cup, and found it empty – he hadn’t remembered drinking it, but tapped it on the bar all the same, hoping to rectify the problem swiftly. “I do find myself fascinated with its affects though; war seems to strip people bare, and expose something primally earnest, but unique in them.”
He shook his head, “But yes, too much killing indeed,” he stretched, casting an idle gaze about the room, “but perhaps one of the many things we should leave for when we are alone," He winked. "It is the funniest thing, but I heard the walls have ears here.” He returned to his fourth (or what it his fifth?) drink. The deep crimson liquid reflected Dylan’s deep scowl.
“Why is it just you working on this ‘Stasis Magic’?” There was something earnestly intrigued about his tone, the way it lifted at the ends, “If you want my untrained opinion, it seems far more useful than a simple paralysis. I'd throw as many minds as I could at the problem. Is it hard to understand?”
Another glass of murky red liquid was placed by Dylan, his third of the night. The tickling, bittersweet euphoria of blood and alcohol toying with his mind in tandem was all too familiar to those who shared his affliction. That haze didn’t stop both his eyebrows rising.
“Wait, wait, wait,” He waved his hands at the air and the dawning realisation, “You mean to say,” His accent seeming to shift across all regions of Europe as he spoke, and, was that a slight slur? “that you developed this system yourself?” He paused. “My, that is impressive.”
At the topic of the war arose, he nodded grimly, but there seemed to be a noticeable spark in those twinkling eyes. “You think after enough times, losing a friend would become easier. I suppose I am thankful at least that I am still human enough for that not to be true.” He reached for his cup, and found it empty – he hadn’t remembered drinking it, but tapped it on the bar all the same, hoping to rectify the problem swiftly. “I do find myself fascinated with its affects though; war seems to strip people bare, and expose something primally earnest, but unique in them.”
He shook his head, “But yes, too much killing indeed,” he stretched, casting an idle gaze about the room, “but perhaps one of the many things we should leave for when we are alone," He winked. "It is the funniest thing, but I heard the walls have ears here.” He returned to his fourth (or what it his fifth?) drink. The deep crimson liquid reflected Dylan’s deep scowl.
“Why is it just you working on this ‘Stasis Magic’?” There was something earnestly intrigued about his tone, the way it lifted at the ends, “If you want my untrained opinion, it seems far more useful than a simple paralysis. I'd throw as many minds as I could at the problem. Is it hard to understand?”
Dylan Stroud
The playful smile dancing upon Dylan’s face went slack at the spectacle. For the briefest of moments there was a frown upon his face, and his eyes might have narrowed. It happened so quickly, it may not have been there at all; now, once again, it was so perfectly composed and under control that the falter absolutely must have just been a trick of the mind, surely.
Quite deliberately, he ran fingers through the mop of hair. All his awe was genuine.
“My dear,” Dylan began, his eyes flitting between napkin and woman, “You have indulged me too! Throughout my long years, I’ve never been quite so impressed by magic.” Runes were unfamiliar to him, and he knew he would be unable to recall them from such a fleeting glance. “Can you use it on people? I may not need use handcuffs ever again.” This came with a wry smile.
He raised a hand gingerly, as if the napkin might bite. With the same slender digit that he had rapped upon the bar, he pressed gently into the napkin. It felt like, almost disappointingly, a napkin - gauzy paper, almost furry with slight moisture - yet it did not budge. A little more force was applied. Still nothing. The finger withdrew.
After finishing his drink and gesturing for another, Dylan spent a moment reappraising the woman. It was plain for all to see she was unique, but to what extent, he was only beginning to realise.
The blue light on her skin was mesmerising, and he had caught himself reaching out to touch the glowing runes. The hand returned to his knee.
“Truly, there is a beauty in the craft of such magic I had heretofore feared,” He locked eyes with her, “You are giving me second thoughts; a true pioneer indeed. I wonder what other secrets you are privy too,” His toothy grin was back. With cat-like languor, he leaned upon the bar.
Slender hands made an elaborate gesture to the heavens. “But the Gods you say? I searched for mine many a year, and never found them,” an eyebrow arched and a thin smile played at the edge of his lips, the blue lights still dancing in and enhancing his eyes, “I thought most magically inclined folk had forsaken gods, how comes you are so different, my muse?” He rested a finger on pursed lips as he awaited a response.
The playful smile dancing upon Dylan’s face went slack at the spectacle. For the briefest of moments there was a frown upon his face, and his eyes might have narrowed. It happened so quickly, it may not have been there at all; now, once again, it was so perfectly composed and under control that the falter absolutely must have just been a trick of the mind, surely.
Quite deliberately, he ran fingers through the mop of hair. All his awe was genuine.
“My dear,” Dylan began, his eyes flitting between napkin and woman, “You have indulged me too! Throughout my long years, I’ve never been quite so impressed by magic.” Runes were unfamiliar to him, and he knew he would be unable to recall them from such a fleeting glance. “Can you use it on people? I may not need use handcuffs ever again.” This came with a wry smile.
He raised a hand gingerly, as if the napkin might bite. With the same slender digit that he had rapped upon the bar, he pressed gently into the napkin. It felt like, almost disappointingly, a napkin - gauzy paper, almost furry with slight moisture - yet it did not budge. A little more force was applied. Still nothing. The finger withdrew.
After finishing his drink and gesturing for another, Dylan spent a moment reappraising the woman. It was plain for all to see she was unique, but to what extent, he was only beginning to realise.
The blue light on her skin was mesmerising, and he had caught himself reaching out to touch the glowing runes. The hand returned to his knee.
“Truly, there is a beauty in the craft of such magic I had heretofore feared,” He locked eyes with her, “You are giving me second thoughts; a true pioneer indeed. I wonder what other secrets you are privy too,” His toothy grin was back. With cat-like languor, he leaned upon the bar.
Slender hands made an elaborate gesture to the heavens. “But the Gods you say? I searched for mine many a year, and never found them,” an eyebrow arched and a thin smile played at the edge of his lips, the blue lights still dancing in and enhancing his eyes, “I thought most magically inclined folk had forsaken gods, how comes you are so different, my muse?” He rested a finger on pursed lips as he awaited a response.
Thanks, but I fear it maybe harder to include them in the future.
Dylan Stroud
“Why of course,” Dylan purred, saddling a stool next to her. He tapped a slender finger upon the bar and met the tender’s gaze, “And a crimson rush for me, darling.” Using the colloquial term for blood and well drink, one of the wonders he discovered in Meridian. The man nodded, and began preparing their drinks.
Then his attention was fully on the lady before him. Now he could see a brilliant streak of cobalt through her hair, an unnatural delight against her burning locks. She was an amalgam of self-assured fire and arcane mystery. Glistening teeth showed through his crooked grin.
“The stars have left me all alone, and the moon is a fickle lover,” their drinks came, and Dylan nodded his thanks, barely turning from her, “I am here for company, much the same reason as anyone else, I would imagine. I search for singular souls amidst this surreptitious situation.”
A new track came upon the jukebox, this one terribly scratched, causing a groan from a large part of the patrons. Dylan broke his intense stare and took a sip from his drink, the taste on a single malt whiskey and the coppery pang of blood not entirely unpleasant, but still caused him to purse his lips.
When he looked back at the woman, it was with furrowed brow, as if pondering a deep thought, chin resting upon clenched fist.
“‘My hopes are dying, while on dreams relying, I am spelled by art’,” He intoned, “Whole truth told: I am a poet, searching for his muse. However, lady luck must have smiled upon me, for I think that perhaps I have found her.”
He straightened up, shaking his reverie, and split his face with a fanged grin, his eyes seeming to twinkle, “Just listen to me go on!" he gave a theatrical sigh and chuckled, his voice turned to treacle and chocolate, "Tell me, my dear, where do your interests lie?”
“Why of course,” Dylan purred, saddling a stool next to her. He tapped a slender finger upon the bar and met the tender’s gaze, “And a crimson rush for me, darling.” Using the colloquial term for blood and well drink, one of the wonders he discovered in Meridian. The man nodded, and began preparing their drinks.
Then his attention was fully on the lady before him. Now he could see a brilliant streak of cobalt through her hair, an unnatural delight against her burning locks. She was an amalgam of self-assured fire and arcane mystery. Glistening teeth showed through his crooked grin.
“The stars have left me all alone, and the moon is a fickle lover,” their drinks came, and Dylan nodded his thanks, barely turning from her, “I am here for company, much the same reason as anyone else, I would imagine. I search for singular souls amidst this surreptitious situation.”
A new track came upon the jukebox, this one terribly scratched, causing a groan from a large part of the patrons. Dylan broke his intense stare and took a sip from his drink, the taste on a single malt whiskey and the coppery pang of blood not entirely unpleasant, but still caused him to purse his lips.
When he looked back at the woman, it was with furrowed brow, as if pondering a deep thought, chin resting upon clenched fist.
“‘My hopes are dying, while on dreams relying, I am spelled by art’,” He intoned, “Whole truth told: I am a poet, searching for his muse. However, lady luck must have smiled upon me, for I think that perhaps I have found her.”
He straightened up, shaking his reverie, and split his face with a fanged grin, his eyes seeming to twinkle, “Just listen to me go on!" he gave a theatrical sigh and chuckled, his voice turned to treacle and chocolate, "Tell me, my dear, where do your interests lie?”
Dylan Stroud
An explosive buzz tempered the hum of conversation, and demanded Dylan look up from his work, the world materialising around him anew as his eyes left the page. The thrumming electric lights, the stone floor, the aged armchair in which he found his form sprawled upon its beaten upholstery. Dylan stretched. There was something feline about his movements. When he yawned, the sharp incisors added to that parallel, and his eyes were half-closed and slow to blink.
There seemed to be much excitement. He pocketed his tiny notebook.
Attacks by the rebels, no matter how frequent, always seemed to revitalise the young and foolish, filling their heads with such notions of glory. More often than not they found their tale concluding. Many of them left hurriedly, on the hopes they could get to the infraction before the fighting ended.
Boots clapped the floor as Dylan made his way over to who might have been the most stoic man in the room.
“Lancelot, darling, do not drink yourself into a stupor,” He said, gently resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Events may unfurl tonight that require your attention, and I will be otherwise occupied.” And with that he breezed of, seeming to walk with infinite grace and purpose. It was almost ruined by his frayed jeans and baggy, grey-wool jumper.
The stars were absent from the sky that night. Brooding clouds smeared the heavens, and hid its gems from view. A chill wind bit through Dylan’s clothes, but encouraged no shiver. Stalking from shadow to steeple, he made his way through the city via rooftop and alleyway, hidden, if not for the tiny embers and trails of smoke from his cigarette.
There was distant popping and thunderous crashes that rang through the hollow city, emanating from the city’s northern region.
Perhaps this is why his feet took him that direction. Before he got too close, though, he changed direction, winding his way towards the centre of the city as he listened to the twin melodies of death and triumph.
Making his way into the rebel section was simple enough with an access key. Some here knew him as an informant, a double-agent, others as a friend. Most didn’t know him at all.
It was not long walking before “The Ancient Cavern”, an establishment from which music and conversation bled, invited Dylan inside. He stomped out his cigarette. Inside was musty, but comforting. An old jukebox sang crackling records from the corner, forming a counterpoint with the gossiping huddles of fervent whispers. Those of the patrons that were not in huddled groups were staring deep into their drinks, except for a young lady with startling orange hair. Instantly, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Those which did not blend in with the crowd usually had the most interesting stories.
Approaching from behind, he could smell her: sweat and coffee underneath honeysuckle soap.
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” he said, stepping up beside her, and, with a sidelong glance, “Might I buy us a drink?”
An explosive buzz tempered the hum of conversation, and demanded Dylan look up from his work, the world materialising around him anew as his eyes left the page. The thrumming electric lights, the stone floor, the aged armchair in which he found his form sprawled upon its beaten upholstery. Dylan stretched. There was something feline about his movements. When he yawned, the sharp incisors added to that parallel, and his eyes were half-closed and slow to blink.
There seemed to be much excitement. He pocketed his tiny notebook.
Attacks by the rebels, no matter how frequent, always seemed to revitalise the young and foolish, filling their heads with such notions of glory. More often than not they found their tale concluding. Many of them left hurriedly, on the hopes they could get to the infraction before the fighting ended.
Boots clapped the floor as Dylan made his way over to who might have been the most stoic man in the room.
“Lancelot, darling, do not drink yourself into a stupor,” He said, gently resting his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Events may unfurl tonight that require your attention, and I will be otherwise occupied.” And with that he breezed of, seeming to walk with infinite grace and purpose. It was almost ruined by his frayed jeans and baggy, grey-wool jumper.
The stars were absent from the sky that night. Brooding clouds smeared the heavens, and hid its gems from view. A chill wind bit through Dylan’s clothes, but encouraged no shiver. Stalking from shadow to steeple, he made his way through the city via rooftop and alleyway, hidden, if not for the tiny embers and trails of smoke from his cigarette.
There was distant popping and thunderous crashes that rang through the hollow city, emanating from the city’s northern region.
Perhaps this is why his feet took him that direction. Before he got too close, though, he changed direction, winding his way towards the centre of the city as he listened to the twin melodies of death and triumph.
Making his way into the rebel section was simple enough with an access key. Some here knew him as an informant, a double-agent, others as a friend. Most didn’t know him at all.
It was not long walking before “The Ancient Cavern”, an establishment from which music and conversation bled, invited Dylan inside. He stomped out his cigarette. Inside was musty, but comforting. An old jukebox sang crackling records from the corner, forming a counterpoint with the gossiping huddles of fervent whispers. Those of the patrons that were not in huddled groups were staring deep into their drinks, except for a young lady with startling orange hair. Instantly, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Those which did not blend in with the crowd usually had the most interesting stories.
Approaching from behind, he could smell her: sweat and coffee underneath honeysuckle soap.
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” he said, stepping up beside her, and, with a sidelong glance, “Might I buy us a drink?”
Name: Dylan Stroud
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
Name: Dylan Stroud
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
Age: 400+
Race: Vampire
Faction: Darkworld
Appearance: A wiry whipcord of a man, with gaunt cheeks and high cheekbones. Perhaps most noticeable are the large saucers of blue-grey, like the sea after a storm, that gaze out from underneath thick, black, expressive eyebrows. Incredibly fine wrinkles and creases dance upon his face, by his lips, brow, and eyes. They make any guess at age difficult, but hint of haunting smiles, the ghosts of anger, and the resting place of sorrow. Unlike his dark brows and goatee, the straggled mop upon his head is straw, and reaches down at his shoulders with teasing stalks and locks.
Personality: A selfish, yet easy-going romantic searching for a muse to displace his growing existential and epistemological nihilism.
Background:
Tracing “Dylan” back through history would be a feat deserving of its own epic. Changing names and appearances frequently, you would only chase the shadows of rumours.
Life whilst he was human has been long since forgotten, not least by himself.
After came an indulgent parade of hedonism spanning centuries. Often the centre of attention and the recipient of many a lustful gaze everywhere between the courts of Europe to the dingiest of waterfront inns, there was no social circle he did not permeate, no sin he did not partake, and no vulgarity he spared himself.
Eventually this flaming desire guttered, and the pursuit of the sweet secrets of pleasure became vapid, and all of Europe lost a marvellous centrepiece, though many knew him by different names, and, as is the way with such frivolous folk who exist on the fine edge of fashion, they fast forgot him.
During the following years he was rarely seen by anybody, his religious journey towards enlightenment often requiring the walking of paths of solitude. The soul searching seemed to be in vain though, and he did not feel any closer to what he was searching for than when he started. After almost a century of pilgrimage and learning, he turned to the arts, trying to find meaning in poetry.
That is when an old friend contacted him, a friend he owed a favour. It was requested he fight in a war, and not just a human war, a war between DarkWorlders. The very idea struck a bolt deep inside, and Dylan found that he was eager to oblige this request, wanting to use this sombre and destructive event as inspiration for his creative mind.
Skills/Equipment: Nothing beyond what might be expected of a normal Darkworld fighter.
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