Veilsight
Mae
Neziul
Azure Bubbles
TokyoPewPew
erikh
KrismasKritter
Candy Cane Elf
Name: Vitek Birgersson
Species: Lycan(Bitten in battle)
Sex: Male
Age: born 1916, 26 when turned in 1942, accepted into the pack recently; so 86 now
Affiliation: Parisian Pack
Role: Combatant
Pack Status: Newblood
Transformation Origin: Bitten in battle
Appearance:
Height: 6' 5"
Weight: 205 lbs.
Reach: 79"
Vitek usually dresses in drab working class clothes to blend in somewhat. He comes off as a burly laborer usually. Nothing glamourous or vain marks his wardrobe. Bears a cap of some sort to avert his gaze also. Furtive motions and a smoldering fuse of mutters in forgotten phrases are often his operati. Some would call him almost unhinged even, and his core beastial flame makes him hard to reel in pack matters save for bloodshed.
History:
Over My Dead Body
Vitek was a partisan of Parisian resistance to Nazi occupation. A Swedish immigrant to The metropolis right before the war broke out, the blitz molded him into a savage of the streets. As his fellows fell to fascists boots he could do nothing but bite and claw at whatever strange scams and foreign assistance he could. This devolved his phyche into that of a thug, nothing but a tool to be used for gain. He deep down resented this however, finding himself searching desperately for anything to stop this maddening war on his people, his life, his way of being. He sought peace with a hand grenade, and respite with a rifle. Nothing went right. Until zieg heiling blood junkies appeared during a bombing, and most importantly, a feral response of lycans. The carnage he saw made him almost balk as his human kin were torn to shreds in the ensuing fight. He only knew one way to go however, and that was on his own violent terms. Seeking no honor or savior, just revenge he ventured into the streets maiming anything he could with the weapons at hand, even his fists. Some say he even dared fight the mythics. The last thing Vitek remembers is a savage blow and an errie yoodle telling him to return when he was ready.
So, he became a Bête du Gévaudan, a terror of the night in canine form. Years, decades past and he did nothing but drink his problems away and bleed his soul to any one who would listen to his madness. Nothing seemed right, until one full moon under the stupor of the moon and wine he began to hear a Budapestian song that chilled him to the core. It was Gregor, he would later find out, mourning another fallen pack member. He spent three nights following its source and scent, rumors and hersay of songs in the night, before he arrived at the Parsian den. He was welcomed, warily, as a newblood even though he and the powers of the pack knew of the blonde mauler of the night that had been ravaging the land with no guidance. A rough probationary period was agreed upon, should the wolfman decide to go straight for the sake of the pack.
Herein though our miscreant dwells. Hated by many as a savage, yet awed by many for his ways. He himself wants to be accepted, to stop the needless pain of violence his life has been, but current affairs seemed to say otherwise.
Motivation(s):
Vitek was first thrust into the mythic world as a statistic in battle but survived. His former allies all are dead now, his visage is scarred both with blood and memories of the second world war. His grizzled outlook is obvious, war is war, and he is breed for it in this new lease on were-life whatever it may be. He does not lead, he acts. he does not decree, he plots. Perhaps his trauma of fascists still lingers.
Motivation(s):
– Be accepted into the Parisian Pack beyond a Newblood
– Stave off his berserking habits
– Become more healthy in his ways with people and substances
– Protect the Pack
– Learn his way in the world of myth
Species: Lycan(Bitten in battle)
Sex: Male
Age: born 1916, 26 when turned in 1942, accepted into the pack recently; so 86 now
Affiliation: Parisian Pack
Role: Combatant
Pack Status: Newblood
Transformation Origin: Bitten in battle
Appearance:
Height: 6' 5"
Weight: 205 lbs.
Reach: 79"
Vitek usually dresses in drab working class clothes to blend in somewhat. He comes off as a burly laborer usually. Nothing glamourous or vain marks his wardrobe. Bears a cap of some sort to avert his gaze also. Furtive motions and a smoldering fuse of mutters in forgotten phrases are often his operati. Some would call him almost unhinged even, and his core beastial flame makes him hard to reel in pack matters save for bloodshed.
History:
Over My Dead Body
Vitek was a partisan of Parisian resistance to Nazi occupation. A Swedish immigrant to The metropolis right before the war broke out, the blitz molded him into a savage of the streets. As his fellows fell to fascists boots he could do nothing but bite and claw at whatever strange scams and foreign assistance he could. This devolved his phyche into that of a thug, nothing but a tool to be used for gain. He deep down resented this however, finding himself searching desperately for anything to stop this maddening war on his people, his life, his way of being. He sought peace with a hand grenade, and respite with a rifle. Nothing went right. Until zieg heiling blood junkies appeared during a bombing, and most importantly, a feral response of lycans. The carnage he saw made him almost balk as his human kin were torn to shreds in the ensuing fight. He only knew one way to go however, and that was on his own violent terms. Seeking no honor or savior, just revenge he ventured into the streets maiming anything he could with the weapons at hand, even his fists. Some say he even dared fight the mythics. The last thing Vitek remembers is a savage blow and an errie yoodle telling him to return when he was ready.
So, he became a Bête du Gévaudan, a terror of the night in canine form. Years, decades past and he did nothing but drink his problems away and bleed his soul to any one who would listen to his madness. Nothing seemed right, until one full moon under the stupor of the moon and wine he began to hear a Budapestian song that chilled him to the core. It was Gregor, he would later find out, mourning another fallen pack member. He spent three nights following its source and scent, rumors and hersay of songs in the night, before he arrived at the Parsian den. He was welcomed, warily, as a newblood even though he and the powers of the pack knew of the blonde mauler of the night that had been ravaging the land with no guidance. A rough probationary period was agreed upon, should the wolfman decide to go straight for the sake of the pack.
Herein though our miscreant dwells. Hated by many as a savage, yet awed by many for his ways. He himself wants to be accepted, to stop the needless pain of violence his life has been, but current affairs seemed to say otherwise.
Motivation(s):
Vitek was first thrust into the mythic world as a statistic in battle but survived. His former allies all are dead now, his visage is scarred both with blood and memories of the second world war. His grizzled outlook is obvious, war is war, and he is breed for it in this new lease on were-life whatever it may be. He does not lead, he acts. he does not decree, he plots. Perhaps his trauma of fascists still lingers.
Motivation(s):
– Be accepted into the Parisian Pack beyond a Newblood
– Stave off his berserking habits
– Become more healthy in his ways with people and substances
– Protect the Pack
– Learn his way in the world of myth
Just hammered out my own work week, might get something up tonight