Hall Of Fame!

Survival - 9 Wins!

Brutal - 2 Fatalities

AFFILIATION

Alignment: Villain

Team: The Fallen

VITAL STATS

Strength: Standard

Agility: Standard

Mind: Superior

Body: Weak

RECORD

Personal Wins: 9

Personal Losses: 3

Landon

I'm not so fond of the dead. Never mind the fact that my own heart ceased to beat quite some time ago, but if I had any say in the matter I would have nothing to do with the deceased. So impolite in their silence, as if they relish the idea that death gives them excuse to not make small talk with you. Smiling so smugly as rigor mortis begins to settle in. Anyone with any proper education knows death makes no dent in your ability to communicate with your fellow beings, so why do the dead so insist on perpetuating this rude notion? I for one have long believed that the only thing dying does to the soul, other than separating it from the fleshy bits we call bodies, is rid it of its manners. Occasionally a departing soul will stay and chat while I do my work on its former body, usually to make sure I do them justice for when their corpse goes on display for their grieving family and friends, but by and large death makes one a boor. I'm almost glad I'll never have to worry about dying and becoming such a social monster, being a vampire and all.

To say I like my job would be akin to saying a drug addict enjoys being a slave to their chemical of choice. I'm a mortician that hates the dead. I'm also thoroughly addicted to the blood of the recently deceased. The sweet taste of blood chilled by dead flesh is my heroin. The stagnant palate of slightly congealed blood pooling in the lower extremities of the body is my cocaine. I've been hooked for years so untold I no longer remember how I became addicted to the blood of a people I so detest. I often think my younger self must have sought the guidance of the Oracle of Knives to find a way to play a prank on my older self. Some sort of masturbational irony that I may have found amusing a few eons ago. I will admit it does bring a grin to myself in my more jovial and dark moments. I suppose I owe it to my addiction that I have managed to outlive many of my brethren. It drove me to seek easy access to the dead. Far too clumsy to go about killing entities and waiting for them to sufficiently chill before they are palatable. Best to have your victims already victimized and killed for easy feasting. I toyed with the idea of establishing myself as a bestial tyrant like many of my brothers and sisters and cousins. I arranged for a thrall to be bred for my services. I used much of my inheritance to purchase a fortress on an isolated island containing several indigenous villages ripe for harvesting. This was about the time my dear brother Udrich raised the ire of one too many vampire hunter and fell before a flurry of crossbow bolts and burning crosses. I took a loss when I sold the fortress and invested what remained of my nest egg in a modest flat overlooking far more modern surroundings than my kin preferred to inhabit. It was about this time that common sense finally overcame my primal vampiric genes and told me the solution to my problem: the mortuary.

The Dead Tell Unwilling Tales

     Detective: Supreme

The corpse is a wonderful thing. Far more sociable than the newly departed soul. The beauty of the body is in the fact that it doesn't realize the extent of its conversational skills. The living have their own body language. The dead have their own dialect of that language, one far more elegant and subtle in tone. The way the limbs freeze in place as rigor mortis sets in. The rate at which hair and nails still grow after death. Where in the body blood tends to pool. The particular pallor of the skin as rotting begins to take its toll. These post-mortum gestures tell as many tales as our vulgar gestures and facial expressions. Knowing the body language of the dead makes reading the language of the still-living akin to reading nursery rhymes after reading Ulysses in one sitting.

La Belle Femme Dans Le Cooler

     Healing: Supreme

I like to make a fuss over the legal manner in which I obtain my sustenance. I take full conscious pleasure in knowing my (un)preferred lifestyle keeps me clear out of the watchful eye of rapscallions that relish in dispatching people such as myself. In another fit of self-irony, I consciously place myself in harm's way ever so cleverly. I rationalize this dreadful behaviour of mine by noting that the hunger could rise up at any given moment. Never mind that I have calculated my bouts of hunger to arrive precisely every three days, five hours, and 23 minutes. I have convinced myself, despite imperical evidence, that my base instincts could overcome me at any moment. And thus I carry a fresh corpse on my person at all times. An attractive one, naturally. Young. Petite. Female. Folded carefully at the right joints so as to not encourage any unnecessary coagulation of the blood and placed into a cooler packed with dry ice. A novel idea, but novelty never saved a lamprey from his predator. The irrational comfort that I can snack at a moment's notice seems to dull any logical misgivings. I suppose I must satiate such base morals somehow lest I become yet another crude, mongering beast of nature.

La Belle Femme Est Une Brute

     Energy Sheath: Supreme

While the need rarely occurs, I am more than efficient at defending my honour and my unlife. When that need arises, I find the corpse to be effective as a defensive precaution to block unwanted silver bullets and broadswords. The soul rarely cares if their former vessel is desecrated in such a manner. Considering the fact that only 5% of all souls linger around their body longer than a day or two after their death, by the time I've had ample time to prepare the body for such uses the soul has made haste to the afterlife. One rather stubborn woman who refused to believe she was dead made numerous complaints to me as I used her corpse to repel the bite of a lycanthrope a few decades ago, but upon seeing me use her body as a makeshift cudgel she ceased her bickering forthright. The sight of seeing her left foot swung with such force to decapitate a werewolf has a way of silencing all skeptics.

Respect For The Dead

     Illusion Creation: Superior

• Auto-Hit Attack
• Area Affect

Amusing, is it not? The day we look our best is the day we are put to rest. Women swoon for the good looks of the man in the coffin. Men lust for the damsel filled with formaldehyde. If I were so vulgar I would call the decorating of corpses an art. I suppose the idea may not be as vulgar as some, but the art is a wasted one. Doctoring the dead to be more than presentable one last time before entombed in marble, buried under so much soil, or incinerated beyond recognition. I suppose those few moments in which the body is the epitome of beauty, coldly laying in a casket, basking in attention both wanted and unwanted, the art isn't wasted. I also suppose many fools believe living in the moment is a valid philosophy.