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Name: Acheron / Dark Acheron

Nickname: Dark / The Prince

Age: appearance of about 28, true age is unknown / nearly 1,000,000 years old

Position/Job: Guardian

Gender: male

Species: Unknown- most likely human / Demi-God

Height: 6' 8"

Weight: 140 approximately. His black blood is less dense than Real blood

Maritial Status: lone, loved, lost, then loved again

Apperance: Acheron is garbed entirely in all black, a longcoat, trench hat, slacks, and shoes. beneath his ominous hat are locks of untamed blonde hair, as radiant as the sun. He dons a blood-red scarf about his neck and right arm, that billows like a waterfall of mortal life. A pair of scars run down his chest and back, the flesh in the grooves left behind are charred in their appearance. His most prominent feature are his Opaque, Ivory white eyes.

Attitude: A Glorious day it would be if you were to coax a word out of Acheron. He almost never speaks, as he is used to his voice going unheard and discredited as the very speech of the devil. Due to his unnatural life, he has unnatural emotions, or lack thereof. Having no ability to feel as a human or mortal does, the only emotion he knows is loneliness. Despite all disloyalty borne upon him, he is a loyal and faithful aid if befriended and trusted. He is hot to put forward his beliefs and will not back down in a challenge of morality. he has a lack of self confidence, and will often find his own place to consult his problems alone...the way he prefers it, not wanting to burden others as he is.

Element: Shadow and Darkness, with a slight affinity with water.

Weapons: Acheron depends nearly solely on a pair of 6-shot magnums named the Black Broken Butterfly sisters. thanks to a skilled blacksmith, they are imbued with a Darkside Moonstone, allowing him to phase them in and out of the shadows at will, as well as enabling him to fire bullets made from the shadows. (picture coming soon)

Acheron uses a wide variety of bladed weapons, including katana, dagger, and knife, all of which he conjures through the shadows. In retrospect, they are not real weapons, only made of shadows, but deal damage as any weapon of their purest caliber can.(picture coming soon)

Abilities: Acheron, due to his unnatural birth, is blessed with a wide array of abilities. He is extremely dexteritous and quick, reaching running speeds of about 10 miles per hours on foot. His lightweight body allows for swift striking movements, and excellent fighting skills. IN addition, Acheron hones the capability to "sense" an individual based on their soul, often described by him as a "soul-scent." His eyesight is poor in light, but within the shade, his sight is crystal clear and precise.

Powers: Acheron is capable of manipulating the shadows at his will, weaving them into any imaginable shape. In addition, he can raise a shadow of an object or person, much like a necromancer raises the dead, to aid, or in some cases, pester, in battle. If injured, and as long as he remains in the shadows, the lost black blood is returned within him and the shadows will eventually regenerate his flesh. His blood being made of shadow, he is able to morph into the very shadows, and become somewhat invisible. Some of Acheron's more infamous shadow summons are the shadow wall, durable enough to withstand light, and forging shadow weapons that he may wield.

Apperance:

Eyes: Many a lonely and sacred night has Acheron slaved over the still waters of a pond, accompanied only by the moonlight. Into his eyes he stares, only to find nothing. No true reasoning, no true life, a post mortem complexion within them. It sickens and frightens him if he were able to feel such things. His deepest desire is to completely understand why his Fullmoon eyes are there to haunt him forever.

Hair: though few chances are given to view the locks of hair Acheron has, they are chances never forgotten. A man so dark and Ill looking as him has the most fair and bright blonde hair possible, equaling the radiance of the sun. They contrast every aspect of him, so he hides it beneath his thick, silver-banded black hat.

Bodybuild/details: The body of the Shadow man is sinewy and thin, though roughly defined. His post-mortem complexion of skin pales against his radiant hair and charcoal clothes. His clothes cover nearly every part of his body, including a good portion of his face and eyes. Despite his lanky appearance, he is more than capable of wielding heavy and thick blades and swords if needed. Acheron requires no rest, but having a bit of a disadvantage during daylight, he often will find a quiet corner to rest, but rarely sleep. If an enemy were to give him a glance, their fears would only rise if it were his eyes they were to see first, as the only truly impressive thing of him at first is his remarkable height.

A rock hard face and rigid chin exemplify Acheron’s thin lips and slick ears. Beyond the cumulus of shadows he hides his eyes in, the sockets and not ground in far, but enough to make his eyes look larger than normal.

Deep, merciless gashes left from whips and swords mar his pale flesh across his back and chest. The wounds are irreversible, as most are done by weapons imbued by light, leaving his flesh charred and blackened. One specific scar, left by that of the cross, is etched into the center of his back, and often burns when touched or treated.

Outfit: Acheron’s most cherished color, if cherished is the correct term, is Black. He can hide behind it, and does so in every aspect of his clothes. From the bottom up, his shoes are midnight black in color, with no laces and buttoned together. The thick leather is sewn tightly together, yet still they have been patched numerous times by their owner. His legs are covered by a loose fit pair of clothe jeans, black in color, and drape over his ankles many tears cover the jeans, as numerous patches cover this article as well. A silver chain dangles tauntingly from his right pocket, daring the onlooker to even try and retrieve it. above his jeans is a sleeveless grey top, tight around his defined torso. above this is his Charcoal colored Longcoat, buttons of obsidian and high collared. Numerous chains drape the inside pockets, but what they attach to remains a mystery to all but him. draped around his neck and face is the Blood-red scarf, a trademark of his. It weaves like a banner of his Sorrow, and flows like that of a bloody waterfall, never tangling or faltering his movements. Donned atop his head is the infamous Trench hat, the rim banned with a sliver buckle and fits snugly about his head.
{X}






The legend begins long before all of you, and all of me. It begins before the race of men, before Life and Death, before Night and Day. It begins when Earth was young and fragile, having borne the greatest of her sons and daughters, and having no more strength to bear any more. It begins with the very roots of time, the seedling of right and wrong, Love and hate, and the tyrant known deftly as War.

The reign of the Titans was bearing to a quick and bloodied end, with no true victors. Amid the rage of Olympian and Titan, there were those that were given the option, those who sided with he who's might stood above the other. Among those with a choice, there was the humble river Nymph, Acheron. Acheron was, in his most pure days of immortality, a scholar, studying the arts and world that began to form around them. from his banks of the river, he gazed at the stars, charted their movements, and greened the earth and valley around him. It was by the time that the war came, however, was when he began to toy in the realms of Life and Death, endless study to follow such new concepts. time came when he, too, must choose sides. his father being Oceanus, the Titan of the seas, the choice was all too easy, and regretfully, all too wrong.

The Titans locked in their eternal dwelling of Tartarus, the Olympian victors took it upon themselves to decide the fate of the "traitors" of their Earth. Down the line they went, releasing the shackles of those who lost to fit them in their new punishment. It was when they came to Acheron did they find a shock in the Nymph's spirit. In pity, they offered to free the Nymph, as long as he remain loyal to their rule, and serve them useful. Acheron, the wise and bold Nymph, replied by Damning their rule to Hades, and spat upon their feet. The intolerable act condemned him, as the Olympian victors raised their arms to end his Immortality.

Before their fatal blow could be dealt, Acheron let out a howl of prophecy...
"...God's of the Damned mount of Olives, know Yee this! Life cannot be taken from the lifeless, as my pain and malice for what you have done swells. Take my body, but my grief shall live on!"

The impatient Gods struck the bold nymph, splitting his head down the center. Life slipped from him, as a thick, black stream of blood seeped from his lifeless skull. So ends the story, as the black, churning river became the River Acheronian, flowing directly down to Hades where souls may dwell for eternity.



...Man began to populate the once barren and battle-scarred Earth. Trees grew, crop cultivated, and the beasts and crawling things flourished through their mortal existence. Villages sprouted about the riverbanks and seas, people and God's finally becoming what was to known as one. No sooner had the people begin to colonize by the black river, did peculiar circumstances began to happen.

The oddities began to happen not long after the first town settled there. In the midst of the night, a little boy had gone missing, and the only remnants of the night abductor was small spills of the black river around the village grounds. Following the tracks led the huntsmen and parents to one place...the banks of the Condemned river. the child was to never be found, along with the countless other victims of the nightly river demon. The people prayed to their God's for some kind of sign. to their dismay, they received one.

It was a timid hunter who was to be unfortunate enough to meet the midnight stalker. The depths of the black, churning lake suddenly began to boil, and from it sprang forth...IT. IT quickly gained a name, as the legend behind the river was well known. the black, water-like and formless beast that swelled like the angry tides became known as Acheron's Grief, the embodiment of the very Malice the River Nymph left to fester among mankind. The shapeless beast could take any form necessary, and piteously slaughtered all in it's sight. The hunter was only able to carry himself, shocked, back to the village.

The raging beast was quickly subdued by the Gods, who's faces hung looks of horror as they saw the monster they had spawned through their false agency. Deciding it had no place among man, they sealed it away, frozen in a block of never melting ice, in Adramalache, or The Pit of Sorrows. Brushing their hands from ridding of the Nymph once again, the Gods, now slightly uneasy, returned to their Heavens above.

...But they were far from ridding of the black-hearted nymph...far from indeed.

Within the pure, solid ice, the malevolent nymph's Grief slept. The once mindless beast recontained a conscious spirit, and grew into a solid, existent body. This, however, did not mean he, and indeed it became a he, was any less malevolent. This new form granted himself his own title, Dark Acheron, the Prince of Shadows. His Godly Immortality resurrected, and the strength of the shadows running through his veins, he waited within the ice, knowing that it would melt soon enough.

To completely understand why Acheron's Grief became Godlike once again, you must refer back to Acheron the Nymph's studies. Before enlisted to the War of the Gods, he had researched the feverously about the manifestations of life and death. It seemed that his only escape from complete Death was to encase his Heart in Grief, and hope that the shadows would weave about him. In his own regret, it worked too well, and now his own intent was to cover the world in his Immortal shadows.

The Shadow Prince knew that he would return to the world still in banishment from the Mount of the Gods, and heaven would not open up to him. In order for him to remain on Earth, he would need a vessel, a body in which he could "incubate" and tether himself to this world. And so, manipulating the vast shadows, he created his puppet, his mortal entity twin dubiously named after him: Acheron.

Smiling at his handiwork, the Shadowed Prince crept into his marionette figure, where he would sleep till his day would come.

What Dark Acheron did not realize was that no matter borne or sculpted, a mortal being had a soul and spirit of it's own. Acheron was going to be far from obedient to his Master Creator, The Prince of Shadows. His own will would be all too strong...hundreds of centuries past, and the ice began to crack.

For the first time, air filled his lungs. For the first time, he moved his arms and legs. for the first time, he was alive...

The ice had melted eventually, but how long it took was uncertain. The thin, muscular figure collapsed on the floor, gasping for a third and fourth breath of air. With eyes like clear pearl, he searched, but for what he could not say. He knew nothing, being borne alone in a cave, he was surprised he could even breathe. He was surprised he was surprised. it took long enough for him to stand, let alone kneel for a better bearing of his alleged tomb. He knew literally nothing of himself, of where he was, or what he was. It seemed the only thing he could truly comprehend at the moment was that he had a name, burning words etched carefully in his head.



For a man, he was surprisingly strong and enduring. Having been frozen for more than 1000 years hadn't seem to affect him much, as it only took about a full day to recover. From what he could gather of his surroundings, he discovered that he was underground, though he wasn't sure what that meant. There was no visible escape upward, and a shroud of infinite mist was to be the walls. He had tried to venture within it, but no matter how far he traversed, he would land himself in the same spot, in the center of the pit. His only companions were the small stones upon the ground.

And so he sat. 6 years he sat, amid the mist and black shaft. it only took him a month to grow mad from deprivation of interaction, though he wasn't sure what that was either. He yearned to die, but starvation would not claim him, though it hung around his neck like a taunting noose. Thirst clutched his throat, choked him mercilessly, but held him tight from Death's edge. And so his sanity waned, and would do so for 6 years in the Pit of Sorrows.

His course of action was to consume the time. The stones, the only objects in the whole of the Pit, he gripped and piled amass one another. They rose high, towers of his pain, Obelisks of his Grief. when all stones had been towered, battlements covering his coffin grounds, he grew furious, and charged them. One by one, the Obelisks fell, and though they fell, his Grief remained. Try as he may, no tear fell from him, and no pain left him alone.

It was one fateful eve that would finally free him of his torture, and release him to the Earth known as Hell. As weary as his mind was, his body soon became. 6 years of blunt loneliness had worn him. He sat before his Obelisk, and stared, concentrating as if it held answers it would not tell. Enraged, he cast his hand out, but missed entirely...or so he thought. Despite his obvious miss, the stone structure collapsed as if cast down by an invisible hand. Indeed, it had been cast down by a hand, but not any invisible. As Acheron's own fleshed hand missed, another hand took it's place as to act upon the pile. Surrounding shadows swirled into the shape of his hand, and where he had not, they had smashed the shaft. Acheron, mouth agape, thought he had finally lost what little sanity was remaining. Regardless, he had to know the truth.

Approaching another stone Obelisk, he summoned what concentration he could muster and swiped at it, intentionally missing. Remarkably, the tower collapsed, in the same fashion as the previous one. Acheron bared down at his hands, and back at the shadows that bowed to his movements. The Darkness was his to command.

The only word that burned in his mind now was escape. Concentrating once again, he issued the shadows to wrap about his arms and legs, to hoist him skyward where he hoped to find freedom. It was on this fateful day that he would learn a not only his special power, but as well as his limitations. Acheron had an amazing amount of constitution, and a stable mind to harbor it. The ability to shadow mastery required this energy as fuel. When Acheron was healthy, this was not an issue, but in his current state of raggedness, the energy needed had to be found elsewhere. With no healthy mental resource, the shadows began to sap at his spirit.

The second lesson Acheron was to learn then was about his own body. Being made entirely of the entity of shadows, he was extremely susceptible to light. Outside of his crypt, it was high noon. As Acheron climbed higher and higher, he could feel his very spirit slip away, life draining from him as the ascent grew. Thankfully, he spirit was to be spared, as he burst through the surface, and was immediately encompassed in the light of the afternoon sun. Where sunlight was no threat to mortal man, it was deadly to his skin. The shadows that suspended him faded quickly, and he fell into the mercy of the gaze of the sun. His body burned red, and his eyes set ablaze like sickly white candles. Unable to stand the blaze of the sun, he fainted, and miraculously landed beneath the shade of a nearby Willow.

The sun fell soon enough, and Luna rose to greet the creatures of the night. The shade of the lone willow had allowed Acheron to heal his wounds, even as he slept. Awakening to the friendly dusk, he rose to his feet and once again surveyed his surroundings. The Pit of Sorrows and the lost mist were gone, and a rolling pasture and green hills eclipsed his view. Had he the ability to feel, joy would have overflowed within him. He turned to his savior, the Willow, and bowed in reverence, though he was not sure why. He walked a ways until he found a trade route, and followed it curiously.

It is now that Acheron's real experience through life would begin. He soon discovered that he had no clothes when he had found a group of sleeping caravaners, and stole a set of tattered rags, soon experiencing the thought of crime and guilt. Traveling to numerous towns he learned that he was to remain a social outcast for many reasons. Looking in a mirror made him realize why. His eyes were as white as cleaned bone, Ivory that has parched by the tongue of flame. They even frighten him, had he the capacity to be frightened. His ability to shadow mastery only struck more madness in all who came in contact with him, denouncing him as the devil incarnate, or simply a demon. This was to be the curse of his worst troubles.

There lived in this time a Guild known as the Blak Bane Guild. Their leader, the notorious Augustus Blak, has descended from a long line of Demon and Vampire slayers, as well as relations to an angelic host. It is unfortunate, however, that he and his followers abuse their power and influence, taking the innocent and either executing them or some other irrepeatable crime. It was Destiny that Blak should descend upon the Prince of Shadows.

It was a clear night, not a cloud blinded the curtain of stars that filled the skies. Acheron, having no place in this town, had rented an inn room with sever reluctancy from th owner, and planned to rest the day and leave at dusk. Just as he had laid own, a strange sphere crashed through his window and exploded in his room, rays of light piercing the once dark corners. Acheron awoke at dusk, tied and nailed to a wooden cross that matched his height. As his senses regained, he glanced left and right to see a crowd had gathered, and that another cross bearing a woman staked beside him. Her faint breathing was all he could hear, just as Augustus approached. Revealing a whip, the tale of which held tiny fragments of light, and struck out at the bare-backed Acheron. He screamed, as every lash spilt his unnatural black blood, seeping about his body and staining the ground like sickly thick ink. Augustus let up to preach to the crowd, and Acheron took the little time and strength he had left to master a shadow to untie the woman beside him. She was startled, but he ushered her to leave quickly. As Augustus turned to see the escaping girl and smirking, Bleeding beast, he howled in rage, and tore the tip from the whip and stabbed Acheron in the chest. He fainted, howling himself, just as a gunshot could be heard, and a female scream to drown it.

The glare of the full moon shook Acheron to awaken. Where the had once been a square of the town, there was nothing but a crater and splinters of wood. A mass of burning bodies lay stagnant to his right, but Augustus was not among them. Acheron arose to his feet, and fled the scene...only dreading that he had done the terrible deed.

Acheron now travels where the wind may blow him, a drifter and outcast to all who fear the shadows. He hopes to truly unlock the past of who he is, as no memory of the past before the pit resides in his mind. Little does he know of the evil that lurks just beneath his heart

Name: Kekkon

Nickname: The Blood Orchid

Age: 118 years

Gender: male

Species: Phantom human hybrid

Height: 5' 11"

Weight: when human, he is about 150 lbs, but being phantasmal, he weighs next to nothing

Maritial Status: No lover currently

Apperance: Kekkon is a tall and skinny young man with a pale and post-mordem complexion. His deep red hair and stained amber eyes are key factors to his identification. although skinny, the boy is anything but wirey, and knows a thing or two about combat. In either human or Phantom form, Kekkon dons a midnight-blue vest and leggings, along with white long sleeved traditional traveling shirt. There is nothing special about Kekkon's apparel, other than the headband and belt he wears. On their long bands and braids are inscribed the anceint letters of japanese text, which ward away evil spirits. These charms are called mayoke, and he caries many with him for different occasions. Another key to Kekkon's clothing is a long draped scarf draped about his left arm, which billows like a lifeless spirit in the wind.

Attitude: to say the least, Kekkon is a man of few words. As his task is to bring death, and solely nothing else, Kekkon has reason to remain silent as gathers his dark harvest. Perhaps it is his past that refelcts him to his quiet and humble nature. He is always willing to listen to the plight and trouble of another, but seldom offers help as his very pressence often brings death. Kekkon is withdrawn from speaking with, and much less aiding, others. In his heart, Kekkon longs for the family he so carelessly tossed away and yearns for any companionship. Kekkon refuses to associate for fear of the damage he will do on another.

Element: Phantasmal, and strong affinity fire

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Bio

Name: Zerich Garrik
Nicknames Gained:Garish (due to his gaudy nature and attire)
Age: One of the few Vampire who actually keeps a record of his Age, Zerich is precisely 790
Gender: Male
Species: Vampire
Height: 5' 4"
Weight: 135 lbs
Marital Status: single
Attitude: Zerich is a difficult character to analyze entirely without error. Without a doubt, this overzealous and boisterous full-blood is haughty and egotistical. He thinks highly of himself and despises error in his presence, as well as possesses a dislike and racial discrimination for the other species. Little can stand between him and his desires, as he believes his deserving natures calls his wants to him. Although Garish, which happens to be his nickname, vain and arrogant Zerich does have a heart. When and if his mind is set to a particular individual, Zerich can present himself as a useful ally, provided it doesn't require a vast amount of effort and if won't ruin his new suit.

Zerich devotes much of his attention to the material aspects of life. Being an expert thief and burglar of jewelry, resources, assets, and virtually anything shiny, there is little that Zerich doesn't get that he wants. With the DarkArts at his disposal, Zerich could care less of the consequences of his actions...or so it appears.

In reality, Zerich is extremely self conscious of his self image. Having lost his past life tragically set his existence in a whirlwind of calamity and doubt. Soon, appearances and ability was all that mattered to him...proof that he wasn't useless or weak. He rarely loses sight of his goals, and will do all that he can to prove his worth to someone...anyone. His sacrifice to the DarkArts was his ticket into doing so...

Elements: Zerich is inclined with very few of the elements. Instead, Zerich utilizes his DarkArts to bend mass and reality, much like an illusionist. Zerich, being an adamant thief and deceiver, often distorts his own bodymass to shift out of tight situations, or into tighter places. In addition, he can walk and run straight up walls and vanish before his opponents eyes. As with most Vampires, Zerich can also practice quite expertly with the shadows, but he uses this element mostly for hiding and illusionary techniques.

There is perhaps one interesting ability within the cursed DarkArts that Zerich utilizes that should be mentioned here. At a young age, Zerich became very musically inclined. However, mocking the power and awe of this musician is a fatal mistake, as the DarkArts, combined with his musicianship, generates an outstanding amount of energy exerted from his instruments. The DarkArts enhance his musicality even further, allowing Zerich to produce his instruments from the eraethral realm.

Weapons: Zerich harbors perhaps the most unique and unforeseen arsenal of weaponry as opposed to the weapons expected of Vampires and the like. No formal swords or blades do he carry, nor slings and arrows of any kind. No, Zerich prefers a combat art of his own, one never seen among his kind. Zerich upholds the power of instrumentals. At first, this may seem somewhat absurd, hoping to slay a foe with music alone. However, originally an elven practice, Zerich utilizes music as perhaps one of the most powerful combat techniques. Even without the DarkArts, Zerich has been a practitioner of what is known as Musik, or Elite Geomancy.

Musik is a rigorous and painful art to learn, and Zerich has mastered it within his Vampirical lifetime. Each and every one of his instruments possesses an individual talent and ability when played. This ability is then rendered by the individual element and effect of each genre of songs played. Musik is a vast and variable art that spans a great length of power. Zerich, although fluent in nearly every instrument, conjures a few of his favorites using the DarkArts, and then enhances them with the DarkArt's limitless potential.

Zerich's most frequently used instrument is the Violin. Carved from cherry wood and built by able elven hands, The BloodStrings, named for it's robust red color and perhaps bloodlust playing style, is unique and formidable in combat. The Bloodstrings is Zerich's weapon of choice in close-combat dealings, or when he seeks to prove a rather gruesome point. The instrument itself contains a blade within it's spine, it's talent, and the bow itself is a blade. Zerich prefers the swift and fearsome titles with this instrument, implementing either wind or flame elements.

Although perhaps not the mostly masculine instrument within Zerich's talents, the musical elitist can also perform expertly upon the stand-up harp. This golden framed and silver stringed instrument releases heavy tones that tempt the soul and entrances the mind, which happens to be it's talent. Zerich uses the Goldbow in situations calling for soothing a beast or dispelling numerous foes at one time. The Goldbow's heavy strings play lofty tunes, songs that call the water's power and earth's might to battle.

Perhaps Zerich's favorite Musik instrument is his prized guitar. Jet black and metallic, the HellEdge plays ultrasonic chords that pierce through walls. The edges of the guitar are razor sharp, thus giving it the capability to be swung as if an axe. Zerich utilizes the aggressive songs that summon fire's hatred upon his foes.

Though Zerich does house the ability to play virtually any instrument, there are a few he uses less frequently. One such is the Grand Piano he owns that remains within the complex of the Crimson Underground. Although he can summon it into battle, it's sheer size leaves this option impractical.
Occupation: Circle member, Instrumentalist, financial supporter, mercenary and thief
Abilities/Powers: Zerich's powers are not unlike most vampires of his age and stature. Hightened senses such as smell, sight, and hearing allow for him to track a potential foe, or more likely, to evade one. Zerich also possesses vampirical strength and speed, useful abilities that he utilizes to ellude and delude his adversaries. Zerich, however, is also considered one of the weaker vampires, unable to display the great and powerful physical skills that many noble-blooded vampires posses. Arrea and Mordekia both exceed Zerich in strength and agility, but this witty vampire is highly resourceful and a haughty high-roller.

Zerich's most commonly used ability is his musicianship. Even from an early age, his craft for Music and Musik was exceptional. His musicality far surpassed his vampirical powers, and yet he was still mocked as a child for his weakness.

Bio: You will never hear Zerich refer to his life. His past is irrelevant to him at this point. However, it is written in his eyes whenever Zerich spies joy in another's heart...



Zerich began life splendidly. His Father, Falxe, was an expert merchant and smith who bought and sold weaponry of the highest quality throughout the land. Zerich's lovely mother, Esmarelda, was in fact a prospector, and met Falxe during a mining layout. Granted, these were two jobs not common among Vampires such as these two lovers, but they managed a comfortable life together. Esmarelda eventually left her original Covenant to come and live with Falxe. The two law-abiding and wealthy vampires were married and soon bore a single child, Zerich.

It turns out, however, that neither of the couple were very law-abiding after all. Falxe had been smuggling weapons and materials to opposing Covenants and humans for years, and Esma had channeled money into her possession by selling illegal mining and material licenses to anyone with enough money. The couple were astute, and soon discovered each others' financial deplorables. However, Falxe and Esma seemed to only combine their deceptive triumphs, and became very rich and powerful.

So Zerich was born into the wealthy family, whose actions were only one level above common thieves, and yet prosperous like barons. Despite their actions, The lovers wished for Zerich to live more righteously and legally then they, only to remain advantageous by their steady profit. And so they continued their smuggling, while Zerich grew. By the time Zerich had grown to the healthy age of six, his parents had noticed some somewhat unhealthy features of the boy. Zerich was mildly short, which was not so terrible, and he grew extremely slowly for a vampire. Worse of all, and perhaps the most unnatural feature for any vampire to acquire, Zerich had no fangs. His parent's ignored such impurities, and continues to nurture and educate him. Having a healthy supply of funds, Zerich was supplied with a bountiful education. However, no fault goes unnoticed forever, and no wrong is ever left without right.

It was to be an evening Zerich could never forget. Within his education, Zerich had been taking musical lessons. His expertise with the violin at the developing age of eight was astounding, even to those practicing for years. Zerich was practicing in his parent's wealthy manor amid the Covenant Castle, and his parents had been discussing the bright future in the study. Without warning, the solid oaken door in the main hall burst and split into pieces. It had been raining, and the storm brewed through the gaping hole, exposing the manor to the outside. As Zerich went to investigate, he saw only the shattered frame and door. Suddenly, a sharp pain swept over his head, and he fell atop his violin and shattered it...

Zerich woke up what seemed like days later. There were voices that sputtered in whispers while one towering shout billowed through the room he was in. Trying desperately to uncloud the foggy his foggy bearings, Zerich realized that he was bound and gagged to a large steel stake, and movement was impossible. His hot breath spread across the binds that held him, and his eyesight returned in patches to view his captors. Although he did not recognize the man, whose cannon-like voice charismatically flared throughout the dark and stagnant chamber, Zerich could see, by the reaction of the many others huddled together as if in a tribunal, he was of high stature. Immediately, however, Zerich feared for his parents. His sight failed him there, but from behind him, he could hear their muffled cries. They, too were bound to stakes like he was.

It became quite clear what was going to happen to him next. Although not quite completely conscious, he could tell this was a trial, one in which death was the verdict. Amid the mass of people, his head bent low and mournful to the wrestling sand at his feet, Zerich wept quietly beneath his bonds, shedding invisible tears that left no stains. But a detail eluded his complex yet young mind...what was to be the end? How were his captors to relieve his life from him and, most assuredly, his family? This, too, became quite clear in that passing moment of unnoticed tears. Two unseen soldier-like beings passed by either side of Zerich, heaving the ungodly stakes that bore his weeping and moaning parents. Their eyes met his for one blazing second, amid the explosion of the accusing shouts, and beneath the riotous stares of his new sworn enemies for the rest of his unnaturally short life. Then, as the guards shuffled with positioning the giant steel prisons, and swiftly scuttled away, a great and ominous metallic creak resounded through the hall...sunlight.

The dome-like hallway spilled open, cracked like an egg at it's surface. The sunlight of midday poured in, feverously seeking vampirical flesh to devour. There was need for its rush, however, as its feast was not about to run. The piercing gaze of the sun struck his parents blindly and indifferently then. Gagged and unable to move, Zerich watched as his Falxe and Esma twisted violently under the malevolent sting of sunlight. His nostrils were enveloped under the stench of their hastened charred flesh, and his tears sprang now in disgust and outrage. Their masses were brittle now, crackling like open flame over green wood, and smoke billowed in heaves of putrid clouds. Zerich could not hold his stomach, and vomited profusely in his gag, nearly suffocating his bawling lungs. Now Zerich squirmed, as if saving their now motionless forms was possible and within his power. Within the few seconds that Falxe and Esma had remained in the light, they had become nothing but ash and cloth, and their remains were nonchalantly spread amongst the grains of sand.

With no strength left, Zerich grew limp upon the cold steel he was fastened to. There was no fight left in him...only a searing hatred towards the accuser and all the tribunal for their idiocy. Somehow, even with the choking binds of steel and loss, Zerich was sick with rage. Every symptom blazed inside of him. He knew that his time was now, where his ashes were to lay amongst his parent's and countless others. He felt sick and wanted to vomit again, but held no bowels within him to do so. The sudden heaving of his obelisk was his reminder of fate. The guards had seized their moment upon him now, ans the roaring of the crowed could be heard again. The boy without fangs was to die.

For reasons Zerich could not explain, he flailed miserably upon the stake. They sunlight still poured before him, the heat radiating from its snaking arms swiping dangerously near his face. It was, however, at this moment that the tribunal and the obscure soldiers proposed a more gruesome idea. Torture was several times more enjoyable than the death of one simple boy. The stake-bearing soldiers swept around so that the steel would be fed to the sunlight feet first, agonizingly slow. Zerich, already immersed in a baptism of rageous sweat and fear, writhed more feverously than ever...but to no avail. With slow and paralyzing steps, Zerich was dragged into the light.

At first, there was nothing. Pain was like a higher luxury not alieved to those like him. Zerich was stunned, paralyzed under the coursing light. Then, and only then did it strike. He was immersed in fire that burned whiter and hotter than the sun itself. every pour under the beam was broken, every vessel of blood spewed magma, and every fleck of skin seared off. When the skin appeared sufficiently charred, Zerich's howling form was moved deeper into the light. This horrifying task continued until they reached Zerich's now ghastly face. The smell of his own charred flash was worse than his parents. Not one muscle in his body could react. The intensity of his pain screamed aloud, until he could no longer make sounds out of the mouths of others. kept fully conscious by the mortal pain, Zerich was then, still hopelessly alive, dragged out of the sunlight and into the depths of a adjacent corridor...his torture was not quite over yet.

Ruined and ravaged, the blackened boy was carried carelessly down and down and down. Every scent, every sight, every tiny noise audible became secondary to pain, but ever more resilient. The details were amazing, as if he had crawled from some unlit world unto one with shapes and lives never before seen. And yet, the pain pumped through him like black blood. Finally, after a countless time through corridors, was Zerich tossed into a cell. Prison, then. Somehow, prison seemed to calm him slightly, yet he knew that agony was always to follow for however much longer he lived. His black body strewn half-naked across the straw floor, he closed his eyes and wept aloud, though weakness kept him from making a sound.

Under the lack of light, Zerich heard the voices of sweet repose. Some hand felt his face, and he looked up into the eyes of another. He could not see it clearly, whether male, female, human, vampire, or whatever...it simply gave him peace in a way he could not understand. Behind sapphire eyes were music...somewhere, playing softly in his ringing ears. Under that spell, the music and gaze, Zerich finally rested.

In what could have been anywhere from days to months, Zerich awoke. At first, his memory was blank, nothing seemed to make sense. He quickly arose, sitting up, only to find that the great make-shift bandages around his body prevented such movement. It was then, in a surgous, swift reminder, the pain returned. Agony seized every available pore in his skin, and it felt as if needles ran through his body in the stead of blood. He knew, even so young, that he could not be dead, but still in that cell, and began to remember what had happened. The pain and the sorrow burned the tears from his eyes, and he wept. To his surprise, a curse came from the opposite corner of the small, stone-cast cell he lay in. Zerich wheeled to discover that he was not the only inmate in this cell. It was now, also , that he realized, that he lay on the bed inside the prison, and not on the floor where the other personage in the dark corner lay. It got up, and turned to him nonchalantly. It...was a woman.

At first, Zerich was afraid. This was not another vampire, although for his sake, that was an advantage. It was, as she appeared, a young but worn elven woman. Zerich had only read of the elven race, but never had seen one. He knew, however, that they were dangerous even in captivity, and remembering that fact, his feared doubled. She spoke, her voice less than sweet and much more than pained.

"God, an idiot too...lay back down."

Although fearful still, quivering under the bandages that wrapped snuggly about his body where burns once were, Zerich obeyed. It was now that the young vampire realized that he was indeed covered in tight and careful bandages. Had this woman done such an act? Was she responsible for such kindness? As she came over, Zerich cowered less, but moaned nonetheless. Tsking, the elven woman shook her head and began to unwrap the bandages and check his wounds. She was not impressed by what she saw, but rewrapped the wounds once again. It was apparently night, but Zerich's only source to this end was the doused lamps and the bags that the elven woman wore uncomely beneath her eyes. So she had helped him...but why? Elves and vampires were never ones to get along, and her being her was evidence of that.

Zerich wanted to speak, his young mind racing through many questions and possibilities. Perhaps they would become friends? Perhaps they could live together, and she become a mother to him? Such unrealistically hopeless thoughts were conjured, and he was aware of their absurdity...but it did not stop him from thinking...dreaming. Finally, under the musky and dampness of imprisonment, when by her regular breathing Zerich could tell she was still awake, perhaps listening for him to sleep first, did he speak.

"...I...I'm Zerich." He awaited with half-excitement for a response, but one never came. at least not immediately. Shivering a bit from the cold, Zerich breathed in and was about to speak again before interrupted.

"Jlann...now sleep, Maj vesag."

Jlann? was that her name? It sounded elven to him, and Zerich posed satisfied for now. However, encapsulated in his anticipation, Zerich could not sleep. He lay awake for hours, awaiting as if something spectacular were to happen. eventually, he grew weary, and slept.

It was in the months, and eventually years to pass that Zerich realized that nothing spectacular was going to happen. He was imprisoned in a filthy, damp, and unkept dungeon, and he would die here. He and Jlann. together. Their conversation's were limited if at all, and never did they speak of one another. Zerich began to lose hope for some kind of relationship for them. What more, in his youth, Zerich did not understand what was happening just beneath his nose. Periodically, perhaps once or twice a week, a guard would approach their cell and hold out his hand. Jlann, reluctantly, would arise and take his hand, and leave. They were often gone for several hours, and when Jlann returned, alone, she appeared exhausted. This concerned Zerich, but he never understood why. He asked her once, but her response, a quick snap of her voice and a sharp slap to his face, deterred him from asking again.

It was after about two years, filled with the torment of disease, death, and the agony of his lost parents, did something happen. As always, a guard came to the cell and opened it up, and like many others, he licked his lips gruesomely. But this time, as Jlann arose, the guard spat and pushed her back to the floor. The young vampire boy Zerich wanted to rise and strike the guard, but instead listened to what the man said next.

"...Not you, filth. I want the boy."

Zerich cocked his head, confused, but Jlann raced to her feet and stood in front of him protectively, shouting to the persistent guard.

"leave him alone! You b*****d, he is innocent! Don't you dare touch him!"

The anger and concern in her voice frightened Zerich. He had never heard her concerned for him, or anything or anyone, for that matter. The guard effortlessly cast the elven woman aside, and gripped Zerich's hand, beginning to whisk him from the cell. Immediately, while still upon the floor, Jlann groped at Zerich's other hand, tears streaming from her eyes and landing heavily upon his hand. What was happening? Before he could react, however, the guard whipped out a thick cudgel and struck Jlann back. The blow forced her grip to slacken, and Zerich was pulled from the cell. Blood still streaming from her head wound, Jlann leapt to her feet and clasped the thick iron bars that held her in the prison, crying out Zerich's name. Her voice faded as the guard moves hastily down the stone hall, Zerich's arm tightly in tow.

Zerich followed, an obedient pup unaware of his fate. They stopped before a room, and Zerich was let in by the grinning guard. It was empty, and yet full of darkness. The lamplight diminished from the closing door, and the guard slipped in, cackling. Before Zerich knew what was happening or before he could receive his surroundings, he was thrust to the frigid floor and his clothes removed. The guards, little to Zerich's knowledge, were going to molest, rape, then beat him. and so they did, but with reluctance. It seemed, as heartless and cruel as they were for raping a small child, they either pitied or were disgusted by his burning wounds that covered all but his face. When they were satisfied, They shoved Zerich back into the corner nearest the door, a cold death sweat pouring over him and crying aloud the whole while. He wanted to die, now more than ever. His eye bled from a blunt wound, his whole body defiled and smelt of semen. Gripped by his collar, the guard dragged the boy back to his cell, and threw his clothes and limp, blackened body back into its cell.

His eyes were shut, but he knew the feel of Jlann's hands when they came. She quietly redressed his wounds and body, running her fingers through his hair and trying to comfort him. Her love was insignificant now...he felt nothing but the rage that boiled like his skin had all over again. But this was not entirely true...he tears showed his compassion towards Jlann, too. She was the only creature that loved him now...and now that he knew what they did to her, he could not live with himself like this any longer. Hours passed before Jlann returned to her spot on the floor, and Zerich lay in bed...cold and pained once more. He wanted escape, comfort, and reprise that could not be found here, not amongst rapists and halls of stone.

Just as Zerich had began to ponder this, a sweet and soft melody filled the room. It felt like spring flowers had burst through the stones and crags, and the warmth of the sun blazed from the lamps. Zerich, swollen with tears, turned to its source. Jlann, sitting upright, had placed a small, green, box-like object between her palms and blew on it softly. From the box, then, produced the greatest and most soothing sound Zerich had ever heard. He had not heard music since that fateful night ever so long ago. It raptured him, it brought about emotion since lost from him. Joy made his senses become passionate. He arose from the bed and swiftly knelt by Jlann and her instrument. When she had reluctantly finished, Jlann wrapped her arms around Zerich and cried with him. The music, and with it the spring feelings, had slipped back into the box. Now Zerich knew what would be his escape...music.

From then on, Zerich and Jlann were as mother and child, inseparable. The guards had subsided from coming to their cell for now, and Jlann was free of their pleasures. With every passing moment, Jlann taught Zerich all she knew about the strange box, which she called Spring's Palms, and her talent; Musik. It was risky for them to practice, but Zerich and Jlann taught one another the art, creating and bending the elements through make-shift instruments. This they did for many years, together in that cell.

More than one-hundred years passed, but Zerich charted every minute of it. He kept his sanity by it. He proficiency with Musik was astounding, and Jlann was sorely impressed. But their lessons were to be cut short. The guards had waited long enough, the aging elven woman had become tempting enough. They now had, however, to deal with a fully grown vampire...Zerich...which is why they came in a group. Lined at the prison door, and weapons ready, they beckoned Jlann and glared fiercely at Zerich. Zerich, watching and now fully aware to what was happening, appeared to not be able to contain himself. He hissed aloud, and grinded his teeth, but the guards weapons flashed if he came near. The adrenaline surged through his body as Jlann was stricken and dragged off through the open cell door. Zerich could no longer wait silently by...

The massive amount of hatred and blood that pumped white hot through his body reacted with his vampirical nature. Without warning, Zerich flung himself forward and gripped the weapon of the guard. With no time to react, the weapon was ended to shreds before the terrified guards hands, and Zerich, somehow no longer fangless, bit into his neck and drank feverously. Drained almost immediately, the soldier collapsed...dead. Soaked with blood and fury, Zerich lunged at the next, who could naught but cower under Zerich's pure instinct and new fangs. Given the chance, the third Guard bolted, leaving Jlann behind. The second guard rend, Zerich calmed himself to confront Jlann, and wasting no time, began their escape.

Zerich's memory proved vital. He navigated through the hall where he had entered so many years ago, and they sped, hand in hand, toward what they hoped was an exit. Their hopes were shattered, as Zerich and Jlann fell before an exit...blocked by the man who had thrown Zerich and his parents before the sun. Rage was all that could be felt by the fanged vampire, but this was his mistake. Two elite vampires immediately overpowered his frail body, leaving him limp in their arms and useless to the recaptured Jlann. Watching frailly as she struggled, two other vampires began to conjure behind him a great and terrible portal. He was to be exiled, his fate sealed forever. At the last second, Jlann bolted forward and clasped Zerich's hand for the last time...before that world vanished.

Zerich awoke as if from deep slumber. He arose in a wood, surrounded by fog and no sign of his entrance into this world. All that remained was the small box in his hand...Spring's Palms.

Since then, years from his exile to earth, Zerich has become freakishly worldly in the ways of earth. He lived loveless for so long, life seemed to mean nothing to him. Aware to keep his charred flesh unexposed, Zerich wandered aimlessly before finally finding a covenant of Vampires, the Dark Arts...and perhaps...a way back to Jlann...

Appearance: Zerich, in one of his perhaps hundreds of suits.
{X}
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