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Criminies's Blog

The Lonely Libertine

Name: Jean-Jacques Broussard (formerly a Comte with a much longer name)

Race: Vampire

Age: Who knows? Not even he was capable of keeping track. He does not even recall on his birthday. Each year he shrugs at a calendar and then drowns his sorrows in a bottle of wine and blood. He still maintains his his look of youth however lines of fatigue have made their mark below his eyes.

Personality: A libertine from an old world, a dead culture. He is. self-indulgent, hedonistic and nihilistic as that is the trend these days. Yet in his heart of hearts still considers himself a tragic romantic, despite his regarding romance as if it were some facade or a disease that'd ultimately any fool to their undoing. He is well versed in putting on the airs of a high ranking socialite, using his misanthropy and unwarranted opinions on philosophy as a sort of parlor trick to lure in false intellectuals and high ranking peers. Socializing is a game to him, it drains him but he garners joy in manipulation and the art of social engineering. But by the end of the day when the minglers have dispersed from his homestead, he is left as a hollow and alone as he was when they came.

He's licentious in a sense that he always seeking a body for a warm bed and, if things go well or not, warm blood. Those who know him intimately claim that he is prone to madness, and paroxysms of anger and grief that is both self-destructive and explosive. It is a shadow that hovers around him, his shoulders forever bearing its weight as time passes it only seems to become heavier. He has once drunkenly slipped that his suffering comes fro a knowing. The frustration of knowing, and not ever being able to share that knowing with those whom he cares about so deeply.

Likes: Wine, musical composition, music theory, anything that has to do with music in any form, women, men, tragedies, the opera, blood, poetry, roses, flowers, trees, fox hunting, and coffee.

Dislikes: himself

Fears: He is deathly afraid of commitment and love. Any sort of emotional attachment means that he will once again feel the pains of loss. Though he craves death, he also fears it. He has been on the brink once already and he couldn't fathom it. The void that he once faced before being granted immortality. Each day trapped in this world seems to make that fear grow weaker.

Appearance: He puts much effort into keeping up appearances, his clothing mostly consisting of expensive hand-crafted materials custom-fit to accommodate his incredibly large stature and broad shoulders. His fashion is often of mix-matched centuries. One would not be surprised to see him wearing a frock and a ruffled poet's shirt with modern slacks and penny loafers. He is tall and slim but not without some despite making a fuss out of maintaining a figure. His hair of medium length and wavy. Depending on the year he's either got it tied up in lace or trimmed to his ears. His skin is olive but with a pale and sickly sheen he often covers with white powder or foundation. His knuckles are large and jutting making his hands talon-like. He is somewhat self-conscious about them, but they have their use for pressing ivory keys or being slammed into the jaw of some scoundrel who's trying to soil his reputation.

He smells of rotten wood and dust masked with floral perfumes daubed on his cheeks and wrists. When he's angry he smells of rot and decay, it comes from his breath like a thick miasma.

Powers: Precognition and hypnotism, he can see the future but they typically take the form of dreams and they're never positive. If he has a dream about you, you should be terrified. What's worse, is that he will more than often forget them soon after waking up. The visions are liable to change as time is not a straight line. His hypnotism only comes in the form of suggestion. He might be able to insert a feeling or an idea but the target must already be under his thrall or influenced. He often achieves this by getting his targets intoxicated or scaring them into a panicked state, as a lack of cognitive clarity benefits him.

History: Coming soon.
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0 | 0 Comments | Feb 14th 2019 21:05

Anselm Kittel

Name: Anselm Hermann Kittel
Age: 40+
Birth: June 30th
Species: Werewolf
Human Appearance: Anselm strikes quite the imposing figure. Tall and broad with some paunch around his waist, his stature is sure to fill a doorway. However he'd rather not draw that sort of attention to himself and puts more effort in appearing small and unassuming as he gravitates to secluded corners of crowded rooms, dressed in muted sweaters and casual dress. He's pale with thick coarse black curly hair streaked with a brilliant jagged stripe of white as if struck by lightening; a birth mark that he can never hide no matter the hair product he tries. He is clean shaven but his extremities sport thick hair and old scars, most of them self-inflicted.
Height: 6'
Weight: 183
Hair: Black curly hair with poliosis circumscripta which takes form as a jagged streak. (If you look close enough you can see it effect the edge of his eyebrow and the lashes of his left eye, but good luck invading his personal space).
Eyes: Gray
Supernatural Appearance: Anselm is a werewolf and nearly doubles in size when he transforms. He's a large black wolfish beast with thick curling fur, the white streak becoming more exaggerated as it snakes down his brow and maw.

Occupation: Veterinarian
Parents: Sybille Kittel (Deceased at 36) and Hermann Kittel (Deceased at 50)
Siblings: Little Britta Kittel (Deceased at 16 months)

Strengths: Anselm is very empathic and tends to be decent at reflecting the emotions of others when needed. He manages to maintain a healthy modicum of calmness in times of extreme tribulation, or at the very least he is good at hiding his duress for the sake of others. He is also imbued with an otherworldly strength and enhanced senses that tends to come with his "condition."

Weaknesses: Anselm suffers from PTSD pertaining to his childhood and a lot of the events he encountered through his life. This means he could easily fall into depressive spells, or get distracted when it's most inconvenient. Though he is good at maintaining calmness in extreme situations, he seems to have anxiety when it comes to daily tasks. He also often forgets to take care of himself due to his focus on others. As for his powers, he has trouble maintaining control of his wolf form and can be prone to needless violence. He believes this has some correlation to his mental health. He sleepwalks and sometimes wakes up in the woods, covered with animal blood with no memory of what occured.

Backstory: Anselm had a decent life at a very young age, a child prodigy who was meant for greater things, raised by a struggling family in Germany. His mother wanted him to be an artist, a musician, and a genius and thus placed him in many classes that she couldn't typically afford. His father was estranged and rarely spoke to him, but he often heard the two speak his name in whispers. He hated the pressures applied to him, and often feared his father's presence as though he was not very present, he often scared Anselm by dolling out vicious punishments if Anselm spoke too loudly or asked too many questions about his father's whereabouts. His only joy was in his sister. Anselm took great pleasure in aiding his mother in caring for her, and was known to spend hours watching the Britta sleep in her crib or roll on the floor.

Tragedy struck when Anselm turned 11 and began to experience puberty. He began to experience things that none of his peers had experienced. Strange rapid hair growth, dreams of the forest, horrible aches that racked all of his muscles. As these symptoms increased, so did the tension between his parents. His father took a bigger interest in Anselm and began to ask him odd questions. Personal questions, questions about his dreams, his feelings, his sense of smell. Anselm would no longer come home to hushed whispers of his name, but rather faced a warzone where his mother and father would scream. They'd slam doors, throw dishes, stomp their feet and Anselm would hide with his baby sister.

But one night his father became drunk. Very drunk. And Anselm's life shattered.

One chilly winter evening the police were called to their residence to find two mutilated corpses, remnants of the married couple living there, and a young boy, naked and bloody as he grasped on to the cold blue corpse of his little sister.

Police dubbed it as a murder-suicide and Anselm was sent to live with his aunt and uncle. He had barely any memory of the events that transpired that night and no amount of therapy could coax it out of him. He was well aware that his father was a murderer and he blamed himself for the fall that killed his sister, but when pressed about his father's demise his body would freeze and he'd experience panic attacks. Despite this, he grew up a healthy young man. He attended college at first as a medical student, but finding he could handle the gory contents of an animal's body rather than a humans. He changed majors with the goal to become a vet and drowned himself in his studies to forget the past.

But his past would not let him. He soon gained the attention of other outcasts. Queers and freaks. Punks, leftists, and anarchists. They could see his alienation. His inhumanity. They flocked to him. Coveted his affection. His studies waned as he dove into their culture, meeting the love of his life. The man who helped him learn his own sexuality and place in the world. The same man who taught him what a monster he was. It was by him and his friends he was introduced to drugs of a psychotropic nature. It was during a trip with such a drug that all that he repressed was brought back through the threshold of his subconscious, and he learned he wasn't a human. He learned to lose control. Just as he lost control the night he witnessed his mother's death.

Too much happened then. He eventually cut ties with the people who helped shaped him and on a whim traveled abroad, fell in love once more, and had his heart broken. However, he ended up becoming enamored with a small northwestern town in a mountainside located in the states. He set up his own private business there and has kept to himself ever since.
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1 | 0 Comments | Feb 11th 2019 23:02

Chauncey "Vargas" DuPree

Name: Vargas
Gender: Male
Nicknames: Chauncey, Rattlesnake, Jethro, Valentine, etc.
Race: Dhampir
Age: 32
Body Type: Slender
Height: 5'8"
Hair: Black with tight curls. Quite often styled in a quiff on the top of his head.
Eyes: Light Brown
Handedness: Left

Personality: He's a grifter and a lover with a silver tongue.
Mannerisms: He purrs out his words with a sleepy southern drawl, likewise moves with lethargic almost unnerving sense of serenity.

Likes: Love, Compassion, God, Spirituality, Faith, Feminism, Money, Fashion, Decadence and Drugs

Dislikes: Cops, Money, Other Vampires, Backstabbers, Vampire Hunters, Predators, and most men.

At first glance, Vargas seems to be nothing more than a wisp of man. A harmless transient standing at your street corner, his blood shot eye hidden underneath opaque black shades. Perhaps it's the bright color of his fashion or the saccharine stench of cheap cologne and clove cigars that calls you to risk a closer look.

He is thin and draped in vintage wear, scrounged from the greasy bins of second-hand shop and street debris only to be restored by his own hand and flourished with embroidery of roses and religious iconography. He has penchant for wearing tight-fitting vests and shirts with floral patterns in strikingly bright colors. He wears steel-toed snakeskin boots, that have seen a lot of use.

His face is thin with sharp cheekbones that could cut a diamond and soft plush lips. Beneath the shades he sports an eye-patch, his good eye always hooded with a sleepy calmness. His lips forever bear a soft smile much like saints depicted in ancient oil paintings. On top of his head sits a quiff of black curls that fall over his brow, heavy with grease, grime, and other un-nameable substances. Strip away his clothes to reveal a canvas of ink across his body. On his shoulder the Lady of Guadalupe stares out with green eyes, her body enshrined with roses. A black rattle snake is inked on his belly, rearing back to strike up against his chest. A dagger strikes a heart on his other shoulder and many lovers have gazed on upon the tiny pair of hands clasped in prayer on the left cheek of his rear.

A scar on his chest echoes the blast of a shot gun. A gash across his brow, a fist fight. His arms are a museum of past knife fights. His inner thighs and forearms are pockmarked with promises of a good time. Most distinguishable is the golden fang that shines beside chipped teeth when he flashes a grin.

Background (Under Construction) : Vargas had no easy life. Born an illegitimate child to sixteen-year-old Rachel Dupree, Vargas was both considered a miracle and a curse. His father having been a predatory vampire who used the guise of his youth to lure Rachel to him. His father, whose name remains a mystery to Vargas, was unable to turn poor Rachel before he was hunted down and chased out of Rachel's small hometown by its religious inhabitants. His father's fate, from therein, remains a mystery.

Driven by her faith in God, Rachel carried Vargas to term, despite him nearly killing her from the inside out as was part of his inhuman nature. In fact, he seemed perfectly normal human baby at first, albeit a little sickly and a little bit hungrier than most infants. So she continued raising him with as much love she could muster for a child that came to her under such distressing circumstances. Her parents were, at the very least, supportive of her endeavors and did as much as they could to assist in the young girl's motherhood. The early years wherein Vargas was oblivious to his dark existence, were relatively easy to him until the hunger inside him started to take over and, as a child, he began to show strange signs that reflected the same other-worldliness of his father.

Upon this discovery, Rachel did everything in her power to keep it hidden, supplying her son with the blood of neighboring pets and sometimes her own when she could. Until the neighbors began asking questions. After that, it wasn't long before her family found out and cast them both to mercy of the cruel outside world. They moved to the city together and it was there that Rachel found solace in a young man who took them both under their wing with promises of security.

But something happened and Vargas was, himself, cast out into the world a wanted convict as a mere adolescent. What happened between the incident and the present Vargas refuses to disclose. All that is known is that he spent a long time off and on the streets. Having had tried to set up domesticity in many states, in an attempt to make a home for himself only to stir up trouble and leave town and change names. He's spent years eluding the police and committing identity fraud, and even believed to have committed multiple murders in order to slip into the shoes of his victims. Now, he has claimed himself the voice of a loving god and has taken upon the task to travel the world, spreading the word of radical love. He uses the powers imbued upon him by his supernatural birth right to lure people into benefiting him, and teach them his gospel out from the pink Cadillac he lives in.
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1 | 0 Comments | Feb 11th 2019 00:57


Arnold was gorging on it. The taste of his ichor — the flow, the texture, drawn deep from the well of his viscera to dribble from his lips. A morbid spout. His pulse quickened. Gums tight. Teeth jagged. He ran his tongue over a shattered molar — counted the dollars it would cost to fix. His body gave a shiver, barely noticeable beneath the thrashing seizures that wracked his bones as he grasped hungrily for air. His throat caught in the clutches of the cold unfeeling claws of something dead — Not dead, beyond dead. Certainly nothing conceivably alive. It too seemed frenzied at the sight of his blood. The taste. The smell...

They were kindred creatures. Their desires in that one solitary moment meeting. The desire for bloodshed. Arnold's bloodshed. His own brush with death. He reveled in it. Reveled in the thrill. The adrenaline. But the demon — The parasite at his throat. Its desires came from a desperation of a different name.

Its eyes were wide whites sunken in deep trenches of decay. Godless and ugly thing. A face of which that once resembled humanity, now reduced to a pallid stretch of skin taut over sharp bone. It's a hair long and thin, matted into one mass— clumped at its shoulders. It might have been someone once. It had a name, a family, a home.

Arnold gurgled as the thing slammed him against flaking plaster of the walls behind him. The house's foundation shuttered underneath the impact.

"That's right," He hissed, a spray of red flecked the creature's cheeks. Its nostrils flared. "A little close-"

The thing was at his neck, teeth pricking against his skin. Arnold's vision became shaky, as did his footing. He felt the grip loosen from his throat. Can't be obstructing the blood flow, can we? It wrenched Arnold's head to one side, pressing his cheek hard against the wall until he was painfully aware of the shape of his own skull — the contours, the sharp agonizing angles of his cheek bones grinding against a hard surface. His eyes rolled, bulged, bright white and dark all the same. He caressed the creature, bracing his fingers against the ridges of its spine. He wheezed. He smiled.

It was a wet and hollow sound.The creature's body tightened and curled into itself. It screamed than sputtered, a low guttural sound — an old drain pipe rattling. Arnold twisted the knife inside its gut. A fury replaced the pain. He wrangled the blade free from its twisted body and plunged it back again and again, pressing the sweat-drenched palm of his hand against its face, his fingers finding home in the sockets of the creatures eyes. He felt the teeth threaten to tear at his hand, dry like bones long buried. Its gums were white and shriveled.

It screamed, maddened and blinded. It clawed at his wrists. Broken thick nails tore off skin and hair, leaving trails of red down his forearms, snagging against the rough fabric of his coat.

Arnold pushed the vampire back, sinking the knife deep into its gut before he felt its bony fingers tighten their grip and shove him away with an other-worldly force. Arnold fell again, against the wall, and watched as the creature crumbled. It tore the blade out, blood both thick and black blotted against the carpet beneath. An odor stung his senses, a putrid sweet stench of rot, that brought with it a wave of nausea.

The vampire crawled, a wounded animal, hunched and small as it retreated to a dark corner of the room. The Hunter didn't pursue. Heeding the warnings of his weakened legs, Arnold collapsed against a mattress on the floor. He tried not to think about the crusty brown spots that stained its yellowed surface. Instead, he focused on his breath. His lungs had not caught up, each frantic breath accompanied by a wheeze. Along with the whimpers from the creature that glowered from the shadows, they made a symphony together — its eyes reflected the glow of the shards of moonlight that cascaded out from boarded windows.

It would be long before the creature made another hungry attempt at his throat. It was tough. Tougher than anticipated. Tougher than his client had initially disclosed. Tough enough that Arnold felt it fair to demand extra compensation for the new cracks that had undoubtedly formed in his skull, and the feeling rot that gnawed away at his gut. Dissolving whatever lining he had left, the excess trying to spill its way up through his gullet and on to his tongue. Hot and rusty.

His breath was slowing now, the wheeze nearly gone. The sweat that weighed his clothes against his back and dampened his hair, now cooled against his skin. He felt faint, yet he now stood over the body of the beast that drew first blood. His body was screaming, but he ignored it as he lifted a splintered plank of wood from the ground. A makeshift stake since his gun had been lost to the darkness upon his entry of that old house — him having been ambushed before he could even find comfort in the squeeze of cold steel underneath his fingers. He hefted it with great effort, and following the muscle memory of a high school batter, he swung it at the thing's head.

A moment of clarity flashed in its eyes. Something human. Something with a memory.

He repeated the motion until there was nothing familiar to discern from the fragments of skull, and brain now piled on the ground. The room became blurry, his bones felt weak and light like paper, incapable of bearing his weight any longer. Arnold swayed to a silent rhythm and found footing in a doorway, deprived of any door.
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2 | 0 Comments | Feb 9th 2019 01:44

Arnold Wolf

Name: Arnold Wolf
Gender: Male
Nicknames: Arnie, although he's very particular on who receives the "privilege" on calling him that.
Age: 36
Body Type: Short, Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested.
Height: 5'4"
Weight: 155 lbs
Hair: Disheveled ruddy brown and a little shorter than medium.
Eyes: Dark blue
Relationship Status: Unknown
Family: He has an older sister named Catherine and a niece, Catherine's daughter, named Jessica. He also has a younger brother named Peter who lives a pacifist's life on the road. His father is deceased and his mother's whereabouts are unknown.

Basic Physical Appearance:
Arnold is small at 5'4"" but broad and barrell-chested. He's semi-brawny although certainly not without a soft beer belly. He's got skin like leather in texture, battered and marred by multiple scars caused primarily by his profession and proneness to needless bar fights.

Cynical, Cocky, Impulsive, and at times mean-spirited. Also somewhat prideful about certain things and it seems his feelings are hurt more easily than expected. He is often known to makes obnoxious crude jokes at the expense of others, and he rarely backs down on a fight. Unless, of course, he is heavily outnumbered. He has just enough sense about him to flee when it's needed. He's an alcoholic and an incredibly strong dependency on cigarettes he's not willing to give up.

Biography (WIP)
Having grown up in the poorest part of Brooklyn, New York, Arnold had a very violent childhood. He was mostly raised by his sister as his father was estranged and his mother had left when he was thirteen. His sister simply hadn't the time nor the experience to properly guide any of her siblings, so Arnold took to shooting cats and starting fist fights to keep himself preoccupied after school hours. Eventually, their father lost his job and subsequently bit the barrel of a gun, leaving Arnold, his younger brother, and his older sister, Catherine, to fend for themselves as they moved from family member to family member. Arnold and Peter at one point were sent to a private Catholic school under the care of their grandparents and it was there that he saw for the first real time, the weak being prowled upon by those in power. This instilled in him a fury that would later grow.

Eventually, the Wolfe "pack" simply separated and each of the children went their own way. Arnold, unfortunately, instantly followed his father's footsteps spiraling into alcoholism and systematic self-destruction. This and his natural penchant for violence lead him to a career as a fairly successful vampire slayer and part-time hitman.

Sample of Writing for Arnold Wolf:
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1 | 0 Comments | Feb 9th 2019 01:30