Status: Booked Solid in Valesport
Name: Unknown
Known Aliases: Jean Cernunnos, Damien Lestrange, René Voclain le Marquis d'Ambert, Theodorus, The Beast of the Coliseum, Pretentious Fuckwit
Age: Unknown (approx. 2,300, give or take a century)
Sex: ♂
Gender: ♂
Sexuality: ∞
Height: 2 meters
Weight: 91 kg
Species/Ethnicity: Homo Sapiens, Celt
Skin Color: #f5eff1
Eye Color: #060b5b - #c8f4f9
Hair Color: #000000
Known Affiliations: Elijah, Alisdair, Adelphie Rhodes, Dilleachta, Rhys de Marucillano, Rylan Sorenson, Bridget Corey, Ren
Marital Status: Living in sins. All the sins.
About:
Jean would like to state for the record that he is not a vampire. He can see how the teeth and the pallor might confuse people, but those bodily fluids are not of any particular interest to him. Neither is he an emotional vampire, not in the traditional sense. He is an empath, and he absorbs emotional energy in the same way that plants absorb light from the sun. He does not take anything that was not being given off anyway, and certainly does not deprive anyone of their own feelings, no more than a flower steals from the sky. Unlike a flower, which cannot urge the sun to burn brighter, Jean is not above inducing emotional responses in those from whom he has decided to feed.
These days, he tries to be nice about it.
He is pretentious and vain and sadistic, and he does not contest these facts. He may well be the first to point them out. For some reason, people tend not to believe him; it makes things worse for them when they figure out that he is as bad as he said he would be. He does not take liberties and does nothing which he has not been asked to do, and really, that almost makes it worse.
But he really is trying to be better. He has a limp in his right leg these days, and it seems to act up when he indulges his unkinder impulses. It is a bit of a puzzling limp, considering he is generally able to recover from even the most deadly wounds without a single scar. His hair, though – his hair is mortal. And he is very protective of it.
(Someone who looked closely would find that he has a misaligned femoral fracture. It is extremely likely that the muscles in his thigh are constantly repairing the damage done by the bone slicing through them. Whether or not he deserves this is a matter of some debate.)
Jean is a lover and not a fighter. His figure is that of a gymnast or a dancer, save for the matter of his cane. His strength and ability to heal are variable, based on how much he has to feed on at the time. His eyes are a decent indicator: at their darkest shade of blue, he is at his weakest. The paler and brighter they grow, the more dangerous he can be. There are not many circumstances that can make his eyes turn white, but he generally tries not to move around too much when it happens. No one likes a shattered pelvis.
His nails, like his teeth, are sharp points. On his right hand, he files them short, because being considerate is important. The left is reserved for emergencies, masochists, or both.
Jean has spent the last few hundred years in the same house on the east coast of the United States. The last decade or so has seen him become a recluse, filling his home with books and feeding on the residual energies therein. He has more recently converted his parlor into a bookstore, but he is thus far proving to be an incompetent salesman. Instead of getting rid of books, he is acquiring people.
It would be rude to call them pets, and Jean does so loathe to be rude.
These days, he tries to be nice about it.
He is pretentious and vain and sadistic, and he does not contest these facts. He may well be the first to point them out. For some reason, people tend not to believe him; it makes things worse for them when they figure out that he is as bad as he said he would be. He does not take liberties and does nothing which he has not been asked to do, and really, that almost makes it worse.
But he really is trying to be better. He has a limp in his right leg these days, and it seems to act up when he indulges his unkinder impulses. It is a bit of a puzzling limp, considering he is generally able to recover from even the most deadly wounds without a single scar. His hair, though – his hair is mortal. And he is very protective of it.
(Someone who looked closely would find that he has a misaligned femoral fracture. It is extremely likely that the muscles in his thigh are constantly repairing the damage done by the bone slicing through them. Whether or not he deserves this is a matter of some debate.)
Jean is a lover and not a fighter. His figure is that of a gymnast or a dancer, save for the matter of his cane. His strength and ability to heal are variable, based on how much he has to feed on at the time. His eyes are a decent indicator: at their darkest shade of blue, he is at his weakest. The paler and brighter they grow, the more dangerous he can be. There are not many circumstances that can make his eyes turn white, but he generally tries not to move around too much when it happens. No one likes a shattered pelvis.
His nails, like his teeth, are sharp points. On his right hand, he files them short, because being considerate is important. The left is reserved for emergencies, masochists, or both.
Jean has spent the last few hundred years in the same house on the east coast of the United States. The last decade or so has seen him become a recluse, filling his home with books and feeding on the residual energies therein. He has more recently converted his parlor into a bookstore, but he is thus far proving to be an incompetent salesman. Instead of getting rid of books, he is acquiring people.
It would be rude to call them pets, and Jean does so loathe to be rude.
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