Name: Raven or Guidid Ravenstrong
Given Name: Guidid Orrea Veniconis
Alias: The Raven Warrior
Age: 1,591 years of age.
Year of Birth: 404 A.D.
Place of Birth: Fib, Caledonia. It later became part of Fife, Scotland.
Year of Death: Unknown
Place of Death: Somewhere in Britain
Apparent Age: Later Thirties, early Forties
Gender: Male
Coven: Ishak
Appearance (Human) When one lays eyes upon Raven, one instantly knows that they are risking life and limb. Something about the man seems dangerous and brutal, something seems untrustworthy and all of these things are correct.
At 5'5" and 220 lbs, Raven seems a small man for this modern age, petit even. However, a body that might seem frail to some is in fact well muscled and well practiced. It is a body made and defined by the warrior that this man once was, while not particularly imposing on first sight, Raven gives off an aura of danger, seemingly violence and anger distilled. This seems mimicked by the feral look of the man's eyes, a sharp green that at times look much less than human.
Those eyes are striking all on their own and yet they are made more beautiful, more frightening, by the blood crimson hair that is often times covering them. The man's hair is like a fine silk when groomed, but more often than not, it is a wilderness. It's something that is sharp and speaks of the man's uncaring attitude of trivialities such as looking beautiful.
Raven however is beautiful; even now after all his hardships, he retains much of the beauty that made him so popular once upon a time. The man has fine, delicate facial features. He has a sharp nose, eyes that are large and deep, full lips, and he has wrinkles that after he feeds can be seen softly about his lips and eyes.
Appearance(Beast): Raven's normally green irises fill with blood, turning them a bright crimson. The vampire's nails and fangs lengthen considerably, and his skin takes on a slightly translucent quality.
Attire:
In terms of attire, Raven has no preference. He will wear whatever his coven leader wishes or if left to his own devices, anything that is black, white, silver, or that has the ability to bring out the scars that adorn his body. Most of these scars however, are not battle wounds, but are in fact remnants of tattoo. Raven was a Pict warrior, but the blood took away the mixture that was ground and hammered into his skin, leaving only the scars of their making behind. Scars that fill with blood after he has fed, giving his tattoos a rebirth of sorts when blood fills what is not exactly scar tissue, but space beneath the skin.
Persona (Human): When in the company of his coven leader, Raven is quite and protective, a silent promise of violence and death, a variable dog of war, though leashed and muzzled. However, again left to his own devices, the man is something very different.
Alone, Raven is a brutal monster, a masochist, and sadist. He is a creature of unrelenting anguish and rage, his rage seeming to only fuel his power and the madness that is now a part of whom and what he is. When Raven hunts, he kills. Often times his kills are brutal and his victims decimated. When meeting others of his kind, the man is suspicious and often times antisocial with all but those he learns are of his coven and its leader, whom he considers his master.
Raven is also sarcastic with a real nack for annoying those he wants to and charming those he would. This however is a rare sight that is save for when he is on the hunt or conversing with his master.
Persona (Beast): Savage, destructive and wrathful. Can be calmed only by his master, or one that he has some bond to that allows him to see through the shroud that is his fury. To kill becomes a physical/mental need to him.
History: ((OOC: Just to say this now, not enough is actually known about Pictish culture, so for that I'm barrowing a bit from the Celts and a bit from other cultures.))
Born of The Painted People or as they are more formally known today, The Picts, Guidid Orrea Veniconis lived a rather average life. Guidid did not live in the time of Julius Caesar, nor was the Roman Empire the flourishing colossus it had been in the past, in fact by the time the infant that Romans would have considered a Barbarian was a young man, the Empirical rule was only a memory and the cause of the new split between Britons and all who dwelled upon the Roman named isle of Britannia.
After the departure of the Roman Legions, Britannia was split, north and south, as sure as if Hadrian's Wall were suddenly enchanted, dividing two worlds. To the south the farmers and merchants, civilized by their Roman conquerors, refused almost any interaction with their northern kinsmen. Guidid knew nothing of the south, except stories and tales that his father and the elders would tell over the hearths, tales of vast armies that spilled from the sea, of men that seemed an unstoppable force, but yet always were they stopped, or at least in the end.
Guidid knew nothing of the truth in these stories, he knew nothing of the combat raged by his forefathers, but always he listened and always he learned. Everyday, the young man would train, he learned from his father with inexhaustible curiosity and comprehension. He took in knowledge that the man said was astounding for a child to know, so quickly and most assuredly to his liking, the young man became a warrior.
Among the Painted Peoples, to be a warrior meant more than combat; it meant more than worship to the gods, or repeating the old stories. It meant to be educated in, initiated into the core of what his people were and after many years, Guidid Orrea Veniconis was a warrior.
It was on this day, in what was perhaps his eighteenth or twenty-second year, he could not know which since his people did not keep track of such a thing. That is except for the entrance into life. The entrance into life became a part of the intricate weavings and carvings that were a sure sign of his people; it was forever recorded, but the remembrance coming after the deed, something such as that was meaning less. However, many seasons had passed on Guidid's life and finally he was able to take on the markings that gave his people their name among the outsiders and foreigners. It was that day that the raven came to him.
The ebony bird of battle stared at him, looking every bit the messenger. It used one eye and then the other, in a move that is familiar only to the birds of the air, and then it came to him, landed on his shoulder. Guidid's father came then, the finely ground metallic blue power in hand, along with the boiling water and the sharp mallet.
He had come to mark his son, but suddenly he stood trance fixed, looking at the bird. The bird let loose with its eerie cackle and then was gone, flown back upward through the hole under the hearth in the thatched roof of the home the young man shared with his father. It was from that day on that the Raven became the young man's symbol, and so too it seemed became what the raven heralded. That autumn was the young man's first encounter with the Raven's master, and it was on that he would never forget.
Saxon pirates were always a problem for the people of Britannia. The pirates would stick close to the coast, attacking and raiding, looting as best they could and in some cases taking entire villages to be sold in the slave markets. It is not a stretch to say that this was an element that was indeed worth ridding the land of. So much so in fact that while the villages had their war bands, some sought out mercenary help. Though in truth was unfair to ever call a warrior of The Painted People a mercenary, but when the complaints of these costal villages and some not so costal grew too heated, it was then that this became a matter for Pict Warriors. Therefore, it was that Guidid, now known as The Raven Warrior got his first tastes of blood and of the battlefield.
Despite the routing of more than a number of invasions and the killing of literally boat loads of pirates (and the splitting of their stolen wealth), Guidid had not truly distinguished himself in battle. Oh, he was a good warrior, but good warriors were expected, a dime a dozen. Greatness was what this man craved and he got it.
It was a cold evening and the war band, their numbers boosted by the influx of Pictish warriors, coming to the aid of their coastal neighbors. The Painted People as they had been dubbed, now built their homes among the craggy rocks and tricky coast of Northern Britannia's upper reaches, but the Saxon pirates had been becoming ever bolder, for no matter how many of them that the war bands could handle there were always more seeking their fortune.
Women, children, and gold. Also grain and wheat, even that grown upon house top, these too enticed the invaders to risk death. Most even knew of the types of deaths they would receive, they knew of the brutality that the North Britons were quickly becoming famous for, but still they came having nearly torn asunder the south and even now having their "dukes and nobles" rule over the people with iron grasps. Little by little, the world was crumbling, everything turning to ash in the shadow left by the mighty Roman Empire. It seemed the curse of Rome was alive and strong.
As the sun faded, and the chill of night fell, the warriors waited, they took shifts sleeping, knowing that a pirate ship waited somewhere out in the grimy gray sea for a suitable darkness and the attack. It was during Guidid's watch, that the attack came.
Having paused to make offering to the spirits and gods among the cliff rocks, Guidid was facing the sea when he saw the vessels with soot darkened sails open. Silently he aroused his compatriots of the war band and it was not long before warriors stood upon a rocky cliff looking down upon a star touched ocean as pirates came ashore like wraiths, leaving their little boats turned upside down in the shallows.
The war band spilt in two and came from either side of the would be pillagers, as they reached the upward trail leading to the villages on the highland, they were attacked from both sides. The fools never had a chance, save that their commander was an expert at running away and preserving his own skin.
The commander, a bloated and homely man, had a contingent of slave-guards. These were men that would protect him with their lives, for while it was not common practice for pirates to take families, each of these men were alive and had their families so long as they protected the bloated man. Or at least until he was done preying on villages and decided to sell them off before they "turned on him."
He was always a liar, no man betrays his family into the mouths of monsters, but paranoia played with the man's mind.
So it was that these men protected their commander with their lives, holding off near impossible odds, so that the bloated captain could escape and watching him go, no, Guidid could not let him go. The Raven Warrior that was what the others had taken to calling him, the man with hair as red as the fires of the forge and the raven perched upon the sword riding his flesh. No, Guidid, The Raven Warrior could not let him go and so it was that the man dove into the chill sea and managed to kill the last of the commander's guards.
This last man, he fought fiercely, and boldly, the chilled Pict warrior was nearly undone, but after taking a sword part way between the ribs, he had force his blade home. He had watched the man's blue eyes fade, not in color, but light, like so many others and as always, he felt great sadness, sadness that such a man must die by his hands in service to vermin.
Darkness came or was it sleep, the Pict could not be sure, though sleep seemed more likely considering that the battle had started in the dark of night. However when his eyes opened, it was to light, flame, the light of a torch. The light flicked to and fro with the movement of the air about it and Guidid tried rising to further examine the world about him. Pain, excruciating, and familiar made him pause. Not stop, but pause, he knew instantly that any movement would only make the wound worst.
The wound was well wrapped, Guidid could feel it now, and someone had wrapped his wound, but even wrapped it hurt. And to his surprise he realized it was worst than he had thought, the wound was mortal. That is not to say that the man knew what a mortal wound felt like, no, but he had been fighting long enough to understand wounds and his wound, well it was painful, by the gods was it painful. But more than that, it didn't hurt as it should it was already feeling disconnected the way that all truly serious injuries do and then there was the faint warmth, the faint warmth of blood on his suddenly disconnected skin. The Raven Warrior would have bet all his accumulated war spoils that it was his own blood.
His blood, his life was draining out of him, probably soaking into the cot that he was lying on. This was it, the end. But it wasn't the end, no as the story tellers and bards say, it was only the beginning.
When the man woke, the blood had grown cold and so had his flesh. Yet to his surprise he lived, in fact in the darkness he knew instantly that he lived now as he never had before. For keenly now he felt the blood beneath him, felt it as a hard roughness, as he felt the bed, the cool of the night air. It was then that he realized he smelled them too. The man took in the scent of blood, took a deep drought and slowly he felt his skin burning, like he was on fire, set a blaze by a torch, but this torch was inside, in his veins and so it was with this feeling that he first heard her voice.
"So you're awake?" A woman's voice said coolly.
It didn't take the man long to find her, his eyes saw through the darkness, saw through it like it was not there and in truth, to the man's eyes it wasn't. No, he saw only a soft light, like there was a candle even though he knew there to be none. There was no recognizable light source in the room, or so the man thought. That was until he looked at the woman, he wondered looking at her, as if radiant beauty was more than an expression. The woman was glorious and instantly the man felt his claim to masculinity stir.
The woman she just stared at him, her blue eyes icy and distant, her blond hair flowing down her back and her leanly muscled frame giving shape to a white dress that seemed almost sheer. The man stared, the woman stared, but their eyes gave away that they saw vastly different landscapes and without warning, the woman flowed forward like liquid grace and let a pale hand snap across the man's face. The man was surprised at the force, at her strength, and his head turned with the force of the blow. She was on him then, her lips kissing at his throat, her hips straddling his waist, and her lips moved upward till they had his ear between her teeth.
The man knew not what to say, he froze as deer so often do before spear or sword, but like the deer, the freeze does nothing to deter predators and just like that her teeth sunk into his flesh and he screamed. The man had not tried moving before; worried about his wound, and then too mesmerized by the woman's beauty or at least that was what he thought he was mesmerized by. But now the man tried to move and now it was that he found he could not and he heard the jingle of chains. The manacles bit into his flesh hard and yet the man did not feel this pain, well at least not as keenly as he felt the woman's tearing of his ear.
It was then that the man looked for his bonds, only to have slick fingers on his chin, turning his head. The man was helpless before the strong arm that gripped him, and suddenly he found himself looking into the woman's face. She was still beautiful, breathtakingly so, but now her mouth was stained with crimson and between her lips she held a hunk of flesh that the pain and the shock that rocked the man's body, told him belonged to his body.
The man's eyes grew wide then, and the woman forced their lips together and used her tongue to get his mouth open, then between her teeth, she crushed the bit of flesh and the blood flowed into both their mouths.
She rose then, sliding backward down his body and her eyes locked with his as a nasty sneer took her beauty as she spit away his flesh like a fruit rind.
"You killed him!" She accused the same voice that had spoken before. "You killed him, he was my husband, my love and you killed him now you'll suffer for this, suffer forever." She continued and in her words, the man could hear madness, and that made him more afraid than he ever had been on any battlefield. The man had felt this woman's strength and felt her rage, just a taste, but still it was dark and horrid and the man knew she spoke all the truth she knew, nearly an oath. May the gods have mercy on him.
The gods had no mercy and neither did the woman, Guidid's mysterious captor tortured him, tormented him without cease those first few days, never once telling him what he had done to earn her wrath. No, instead she would appear each night, the man was sure it was night when she appeared, he wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew. She would appear, sometime with knife, sometimes with bits and pieces of broken glass or steel, and always the same. She would cut into him; she even chewed off bits and pieces of his flesh, and always at night. The torture however wasn't the strangest part, no, what was most peculiar to the man was that his body would always recover from her abuse.
The man would sleep, sleep tortured dreams that he knew the woman would make reality when he woke, and upon hearing her soft foot steps, he knew his body was fresh, healed, no longer dying and ready for more of her abuse. Things went this way for a few days yet suddenly the man felt himself grow ill, sick, and for the first time death seemed a very real possibility. The man welcomed it, but like so many other things for The Raven Warrior, it was not to be.
That night, when the woman came to him, she carried a man, a warrior that had to be nearly twice her size and yet she held him effortlessly and with balance that seemed impossible. However impossible it seemed it was not, for she held him, and in even in the gloom, Guidid could see the markings on the man's skin. They were a dark black, unlike his own blue. They were as were those of the Raven Warrior, the markings were things of power, the maps of the universe that are the rich and vibrant eternal scrawl, the marks were also those of the Salmon, strength and fertility, yet the warrior seemed hold neither as he was effortlessly carried the woman's arms.
It was needless to say that he was one of the painted people, yet say it the woman did, even being so bold as to call the stranger his clansman and then toss his nearly limp body on Guidid's chest. He was dead, the Raven Warrior knew that as soon as the body's boneless flop came to an end, only the dead move like that and rather quickly the man found that he could smell the man's death. Guidid could smell the poison that had took this man to his grave and yet at the same time, he could smell something else, something sweet and succulent, something that called to him and it took barely a breath for the man to crane his neck and sink his teeth into the still warm flesh.
Guidid drank for as long as he could, he swallowed with abandon and little by little he felt better that is until his mind, full and proper returned to him, then he screamed, he screamed the screams of the damned as he felt a warmth of poisoned blood splash about in his belly like drinking too much ale.
He screamed once again, then was silence as the woman's lips met his, drinking down his screams of terror, seeming to devour his horror and so began the cycle of things.
It was rather soon that they left the pirate ship behind, that being the place that Guidid had found himself restrained by the strange woman. And with it The Raven Warrior left behind any concept of the mortal wound that he knew he had sustained, or any concept of escape or even of humanity. That is not to say that the man knew anything of what he had become, for in truth it would be the better part of centuries before he discovered or was even in a mind to understand, let alone discover anything.
The strange woman's torture would continue well over the space of two hundred years, her only moves to feed Guidid of his own people and their descendants, to rant about someone he killed, and to each night do as much damage as possible. Oh, she would be sure to keep him alive, but always in pain, and as the woman's madness deepened with each passing day, so to then did her imagination soar.
The Raven Warrior endured agony after agony and it wasn't much of a surprise that he became mad, lost in a deep and all consuming madness, and yet even madness did not end the pain. No, the woman still extracted her revenge night after night and night after night the Pictish Warrior suffered, his speech having long since fled from him, leaving him nothing more than a suffering beast, whimpering before his abuser and nursing a fiery and all consuming hatred.
Oh, how the beast hated its abuser and how it longed to tear her throat out, but always it was so weak, so underfed.
Years seemed like eternities from one torture chamber to the next, life but a dream of exquisite pain and agony, that was until first the beast laid eyes upon her. She seemed a child, a mere veal to be devoured and rising to his hands and knees, the creature launched itself at the small child, only to be brought back by the massive collar about its neck. A roar of fury tore the room's silence then, a shriek of pain that spoke of bloodlust and death, more than enough to scare any child. In fact the sad sight of the beast, the man that had once been Guidid Orrea Veniconis, this was the stuff of nightmares.
The years had not changed the man physically, nor even the torture in truth. There was something about his preternatural flesh seemed to simply absorb the damage, damage that would have perhaps tried the limits of other immortals. But that, well for some reason that seemed make such a thing even more obscene. What had happened here was repugnant, and the child, the child with such large eyes and pale, pale skin, she was horrified at what her fledgling had done.
Eyes wide, the girl cried tears of blood, or more accurately tears tainted with that miraculous blood that turns mortals into the immortal undead, and the child, the old one cried for her own foolishness.
The beast watched her tears, smelled the blood in them and yearned to lick them from her skin, it watched her for a long time with large emerald eyes, eyes that would have been just as at ease in the face of some massive cat and yet they were his eyes and the other immortal pledged then to undo what she had done, to undo what her hatred had brought.
"Why?" The child hissed, as the abuser appeared.
The beast saw the target of his fury and whimpered as his eyes blazed their hatred. The woman looked at him, then the other, and her voice came out shrill.
"He killed him.¨
"Killed whom?"
The mad woman seemed to shake at the question, as if the answer should be obvious, as if she wanted to strike the child bodied immortal simply for asking such at thing, but something within the mad immortal kept her from the feat that would certainly have meant her death.
"He killed my husband!¨
That surprised the child-woman, she looked up at the woman then, her dark, dark hair falling like a cloak across the bright eyes that dominated her dark face.
"He killed your husband, him, one of The Painted People. Why?"
The mad woman looked uncertain then, as if she had never really thought on the reason and then she seemed to speak, but stopped, and started again. She stopped once more, and the child-woman knew then that she was correct in her assumption.
"He killed him because he was working with the pirates, am I correct?"
The woman looked uncomfortable, as if her mind wouldn't quite focus, and then she turned from her sire, leaving the child-woman looking at the feral man, and with a deep sigh, she turned to leave.
"We shall speak of this again." She said, then was gone as she disappeared through the room's only door.
The torture came again that night as with any other, the woman vicious as always with her seeking of vengeance, and yet she seemed worst this night. Blood sprayed and flesh ripped, she bit at him, astride him, she raked nails down his flesh, lapping the bloody grooves clean only so to place nails back in them and to turn them, like a five little knives tearing flesh. She did this again and again, stopping to watch as the man's body healed his damage, only to inflict more. As had become the case long ago, the woman quickly grew bored with her teeth, fangs, claw like finger nails, and as now was her favor, she turned to the blade.
Knives, a whole assortment littered the walls, held in place by various means. There too were swords, and many other weapons, each and everyone the woman could not be bothered to ever ponder their origin. Most of the weapons she had taken from the slain, but none of that mattered now, not that it ever had, that it did, oh no not in face of the pained groans of the beast. No, the woman enjoyed her nightly revenge to much too long ponder anything else, sans blood. Only blood, the color bright and crimson broke through the frenzy of her mind, only her own hunger and the thought to feed her victim so that he would live. So that he could live to suffer at her hands, to bleed and be carved as her husband hand been carved.
Carved?
No, he had not been carved, he had been impaled, and a blade put through his heart. By the gods, was she forgetting him? No! Such at thing could not be! No!
"No!" She roared aloud, from her place on the man's waist, her eyes locked on his pain fogged gaze. "No, damn you. You will not make me forget him not anything about him!¨
The knife in her hands, how had she gotten it? The woman looked confused for a moment, but then she was sliding backward, straddling his hips and she was no longer confused. No, not confused at all. She ground her body into his, as she had done for so long that he felt almost like a lover. No, that wasn't right, he felt like an old dress, something that was broken in and familiar, but a thing, dog would be too good a comparison. Much too good for him.
She moved farther down his body, and then the knife came into play, she stabbed it home. She pulled it free with a wet sound and the feel of his flesh giving to her intrusion.
"Yes!" The woman growled the word; let it rumble through her like the feel of him, the smell of blood and the faintest odor as she gutted him, tore into his intestines. "You won't make me forget himK"She cried, and it was then that she leaned forward, caressing his neck, before lowering her lips to mold them around his flesh as she took him again.
The blood was a shock to the woman's system, as it always was and that perhaps may have been why she did not see the marble pale hand when it smashed into the side of her skull.
Darkness, it faded into the candle light that the woman had had the room burning bright with tonight and the world began to swim then, but before it did, the child, no the woman, the immortal with her dark skin and hair, her beautiful dark green eyes, she stood there as she had. Was it moments earlier? Was it hours? The woman didn't know, all she knew was that the child-immortal was not alone, but standing with four others and they all stared at her as she slipped away into the darkness.
The woman awoke and she knew instantly that she was nude. She wasn't cold, her body didn't get cold now, it didn't get anything. That was the deal that the woman had made with the child vampire. She had promised that the woman could live forever, her and her husband, they would kill all the pirates; make a point of keeping them from the land. The Immortals were not ones to mettle in human affairs, but the pirates were becoming too strong a human force, especially when one took into account their bad habits of raiding any target, taking all the women and useful children, killing all the men they could not heel and leaving behind nothing but ashes.
As the child vampire had said, "Such things grow tiresome." The woman having been a victim thought it more than tiresome, but she had agreed to the child-woman's deal and now, well now he was gone, meat for the sea eagles, and she had been stuck with his murder. The Pict Warrior had been near death when she found her husband's corpse, and she had vowed to deliver him from his fate. She had delivered him, and now he was hers, little more than a beast, something to be used as she wished, and the woman wished to seek her vengeance. She might well do so until the end of time.
This however was not to be for the woman, for as she awoke, it was to the eyes of six Immortals, one of which was still chained down, wrists shackled above his head, embedded into the walls by strength he did not currently posses to free himself or otherwise.
The other vampires however looked more than healthy, one was so large that his shoulders looked to be wider than the woman was tall, while a woman, only slightly less impressive in size, yet with skin that was as dark as a sun beaten river stone. She smiled, and her teeth looked unusually ivory against that dark skin of hers. There was another woman, a woman as pale as she, she had eyes that were the same gray-green as the beast, hair that was a similar crimson flow, and when the woman looked closely, scars. Scars that were much like those of the chained man, like his it had obviously once been the markings of The Painted People. This brought pressure to the mad woman's throat, and she watched the coldness that moved behind those eyes. The woman wanted to kill her, very badly.
Another man, he looked almost bored, as he looked into her eyes, with eyes so dark that they looked black, black like his skin, which was that shade that opals have. The woman had learned from the child-woman what such a thing meant, that it was a sign of age, his skin was like black marble, darker than human skin ever could be short of fire. He stared at her then, and the woman realized the man was reading her mind. The woman made an attempt to say something, some words that would have no meaning to her, one way or another, but perhaps to them.
This hope was dashed when the child-woman said, "Don't we do not wish to hear your words, the words of an oath breaker are meaningless.¨
Those words pierced the woman's heart and she screeched. "Oath breaker? You are the oath breaker! You promised me eternity with him, if only I would let you change me, so that your group could grow in numbers. I accepted¨
The child bodied vampire moved so quickly that it was as if a breeze had befallen the room, and her hand connected with the woman's face so hard that the woman couldn't scream as she felt her body go numb, still. Only the gods then knew of the woman's agony, and perhaps it was only they who cared.
The child's body stared down at her, but the mad-woman could feel the presence of the woman that the child's mind had grown into, she could feel her fury and her wrath, it was the wrath of scorn of hatred, and all of this showed in her expression as she glared down at the prone form.
"A spoiled child," She spat, the little girl's voice sharp and high, but the words those of a much older mind.
"That is what you are and what I should have realized you to be. It has been centuries since I left you upon that ship, a fledgling, but prepared to do my will, what I asked of you. Yet, you could not, did not, instead you found a man that fought to protect this land that you claimed as a home, and now that he is of your own blood, you torture and maim him. You are the lowest and most foolish of children, killing the War Band and The Painted People, and for what, because your damned husband was to afraid to stand up to a pirate. He got what he deserved if you ask me. If he was not willing to fight for you, to lay down your life and his, then he was a coward.¨
The woman wanted to scream, the rage, and curse the little monster that had given her eternity without him, but she found that she couldn't all she could feel was the pain, the agony, and the feeling that her body would not obey her. Helplessness, this frightened the woman and so she should have been afraid as the child woman approached the chains that held the beast.
The woman tried now, desperately to move, she fought, but in the end it was not use, her body was in pain and no use to her. She could only watch in horror as the child, release the man, the animal that she had kept shackled and bound for so long. Even moving him, as she had been forced to, never had he been unshackled, no at least one pair of steel chains had adorned him at all times and now, as easy as plucking the strands from a spider's web, the child vampire broke those chains and with their destruction, so the woman knew her end. The funny thing was, that by the time he tore into her, she had healed enough to scream. The beast relished those screams as nothing human could.
The beast turned on the gathered immortals then, after it had torn its tormentor asunder. All looked on with absolute stillness, prepared to destroy what they saw as an abomination and in all likely hood they might have had it not been for a gesture and two small words.
The beast crawled on blood red hands and knees, its back a showing of skin rubbed raw and bloody against stone, but already quickly healing. The man looked every bit the beast, eyes wide, lips drawn back from fangs that had lengthened with need and rage, yet something was different now, the death of the other, the parts of her body that even now littered the floor, they had done something for this pathetic creature, and there was light in eyes that had looked so far gone, so crushed, and without thinking the old one uttered.
"Come to me.¨
To her surprise however, the creature obeyed, coming to the child-woman's feet, and nuzzling them with his cheek. No one to play the child, she giggled despite herself, and found those strange gray-green eyes looking up at her with a stillness as if, not content, but indifferent, as if the man had in one fell swoop accomplished his life's ambition and was now without a purpose. Then to her surprise, the Immortal realized that perhaps he had done just that. The vampire had watched how the woman had abused him, how she had torn at him and perhaps taken away more than skin, flesh, or bone. It was then that he placed a heavy head on her knee.
"Help meK"A voice that the Immortal was not sure she heard, croaked and so she did.
It was a long road to recovery for the beastly Immortal as he rejoined the world of man. For a long time it was thought that he never would, that too much damage had been done to his mind for him to ever be more than a growling watchdog, but little by little, a man emerged from the beast. But it was not the same man that had been, but that man had no companions left, all he loved was dust, and he had been tortured as no being deserves beyond his mortal lifetime. So it was no surprise that that man was gone, but in time another rose to take his place.
This man born of beast opted to call himself Guidid, his former moniker, but without clan or kith to color its harshness. He was alone but for his master, or so his being told him.
Then little by little as word of his brutality and his fierce protectiveness of his master, the child-vampire, Sidhe, became common knowledge some began calling him Ravenstrong or even as once the war bands had, The Raven Warrior, because of the tattoo-scars that are a permanent part of his skin and his rather explainable connection with violent and painful deaths.
However, now, having survived a torture that was meant to last for eternity, having been lost to all sanity and reason, still being a beast well and truly in his heart one of the most destructive and devastating beings to call himself Ishak took the name Raven and so it has remained, rather fitting as the raven is the harbinger of death, even in this modern age.
Now the raven comes to Demaitre serving as has been his custom for the last few centuries after the death of his former master. Raven now chooses his master, playing the mercenary once more, but this time for his new people, The Ishak. His travels and his work, have brought him in search of the leader of Demaitre. Unsure of his welcome, Raven accepts this whole heartedly, or rather as much as he accepts anything or cares, so he is ready to serve , leave, or die. It matters little to him.
Vampiric abilities: For all intents and purposes; Ravens abilities seem more Tarepha than Ishak, however his loyalty is to the Ishak Coven and like most Ishak, he has neither a reflection nor the ability to change his outward appearance for more than a night, after which it reverts to his original state.
Þ High Level Regeneration: Raven heals quickly, supernaturally fast like most vampires, however Raven's healing is faster still. He has an incredible tolerance for physical damage and can regenerate lost limbs and organs, sans his head, brain, and heart.
Þ Transformation: Raven has a second appearance and persona that awaken with his full rage. The vampire's normally inch and a half fangs, lengthen to a frightening four inches, his gray-green irises turn a bright blood red, and his nails that are already like glass shards, lengthen to about three inches a piece. He becomes feral like a wild animal and must be calmed by one he calls master or any other that might be capable of reaching through his fury.
Þ Drinking Dead Blood: While not likely considering his rages and his seemingly sometimes physical need to kill, Raven is capable of drinking preserved or cooling blood and surviving. He can go up to two days without feeding, though he feeds often and seems to have a bloodlust that runs deeper perhaps than those of others. Raven always kills when he hunts.
Þ Cross Resistance: Crosses will burn Raven if they touch his bare skin, however he is able to look at them and he can hold one if he has a decent amount of material between his skin and the relic. Because of this one of his nastiest and most clever tricks is the fact that he often wears a pair of combat boots that have steel crosses embedded in their heels.
Þ Normal Vampiric Strength, Speed, Agility
Þ Heightened Senses: Raven has heightened senses of ; Smell, Touch, Taste, Hearing, Vision, and surprising night vision.
Þ Wall Crawling: Raven can move up walls without much difficulty.
End notes:
-Raven is actually well educated. While not likely to talk philosophy or discuss Shakespeare, the man that arose from Guidid Orrea Veniconis's ashes is much more intelligent than would seem from his anti-social behavior and gruff exterior. He has actually self taught himself as a surgeon, reading many a medical journal and text book ever since he first became interested in the subject. Though for him, it is perhaps used in taking bodies apart more so than fixing them.
-Raven knows very little of the human world outside of the books that he enjoys, but he cares even less.
-Because of his studies, Raven is also rather adept with blades, he can skin, gut, or dissect anything. Living, dead, or undead.
-Besides his self -education, Raven has also had some teachers, though he is loath to give away names or even if they were mortal or immortal. He will simply look at an individual and say, "I know lots of things." An example of this is a sword form he seems to have learned, using a Japanese blade. Being as self contained as he is though, such things come as no surprise. As a fellow coven member once said, "With all the time that he spends alone, I wouldn't be surprised if he were building a bomb.¨
-Currently Raven has no bomb creating knowledge, but would probably be willing to learn.
(I'll add more character timeline specifics later, but this would be it for right now.)
