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Character Name: Donovan Ryder; formerly Brennus of the Gaesatae
Power level: Master Vampire and Sourde de Sang
Age, Gender: Male; Born: 249 BC; Turned: 244 BC; Age: 2259
Location: Venice
Description:
Donovan was unnaturally tall for a Gaesatae, towering over his friends, family and cohorts at a comparatively massive 6’0”, resulting in mutterings of bastardy. Nevertheless, his frame is slim and is defined rather than heavily muscled. His body is that of a warrior in his prime, as he ‘died’ on the battlefield. Someone who had no knowledge of him might describe his face as open, his features being genial rather than astounding; all in all, Donovan looks to be a comfortable person to approach.
His hair and eyes are brown, though that word hardly does him justice. In some light, or lack of, Donovan’s hair could perhaps be described as black; however, at the merest suggestion of light, his hair takes on a richness of colour, becoming multi-toned brunette. Left to grow, his hair would be called wavy, falling somewhere between straight and curly; Donovan keeps his fair fairly short, though the length varies slightly from time to time. He is also prone to growing facial hair, alternating between being clean-shaven and not, as the mood strikes him. His eyes are a brown-green hazel, which, again fails to incorporate the innumerable flecks of colour in his irises. While his hair and eyes are rich in colour, his skin has slowly bled of colour, an accomplishment that only two millennia without sunlight can manage.
Fastidious might be another word used to describe him, particularly his dress. His clothes are always in perfect order and he disdains causal dress in favour of cleanly pressed trousers, shirts and suits, favouring a monochrome colour scheme. Donovan’s idea of causal wear is a suit with no tie. Jeans and t-shirt? No thank you. Dress trousers at the very least, and a shirt. However tousled his hair might appear, it was by design rather than chance, he could assure you. Scruffiness is not something that Donovan tolerates for himself; others may dress as they please but for himself appearances are to be kept at all times. Image is of the utmost importance.
Personality:
When initially meeting Donovan, one might be disposed to dub him charming, even gallant. At first sight he appears to a singularly pleasant individual of even temperament, always polite and gracious; indeed, Donovan appears to be the personification of a gentleman, chivalrous and well mannered… outwardly, at least. He neatly combines his debonair and cool demeanour with a devil may care attitude, believing that those in power should take what they want, the consequences be damned. Nor is Donovan above subtlety; indeed, he much prefers delicate planning and scheming to direct attack.
His patience is a glacial thing, and Donovan is content to wait for as long as it takes for his enemies to tire themselves so that he might grind them into dust; not one to act rashly, he’d rather wait for the ‘opportune moment’ and then step in. Why snatch plaintively at what you want when, with patience, it will either come to you or fall into your lap? Perhaps equal to his patience, or slightly lesser, is his vindictiveness. Donovan will rarely forget or forgive a snub, often employing devious means with which to obtain revenge. Losing face is not an option and all slights against his person will be avenged eventually; some things, such as the wrongful execution of his fledging, result in surprisingly prompt action, which is no less meticulously thought-out.
Donovan is also very much in touch with his inner monster, being prone to cruelty merely for the sake of cruelty; he’d think nothing of touching you hair, stroking your face and whispering sweet nothings in you ear before breaking you over his knee when you cease to amuse him. While he is aware that he is now living in the twenty-first century and that vampires are technically civilians, he is disinclined toward humanity and their namby-pamby twaddle. Whatever they might say, Donovan knows that vampires are not just ‘people with fangs’. They never were, and they never will be. That’s not to say that he is against legalisation… but neither is he completely for it. Nevertheless, Donovan is very much a monster; cruel, arrogant and sadistic, he hides himself behind polite words and fake smiles, only to reveal himself where, when and how it suits him. Donovan is proud of his relative anonymity; apart from a few brief stints as a stalking horse in his later years, he keeps himself out of the limelight. He takes great pride in the fact that he can make himself virtually untraceable.
History:
Born Brennus of the Gaesatae, (hereafter referred to as Donovan, to spare your brains and mine) Donovan was a sturdy child, birthed into a group of Gaulish warriors who lived in the Alps near the river Rhône. His life was fairly mobile as the clan moved around, operating independently of any particular kingdom or state. His life was simple as the son of a mercenary, for he too was sure to take up spear, sword and shield for payment. Indeed, there was no other life that Donovan would have wanted or could have conceived. As an adolescent, Donovan sprouted drastically, soon towering over his peers and elders; the mutterings varied throughout the clan. Some spoke of bastardy, others said that their family must have been blessed by the gods to have such tall and strong children. Nevertheless, he was an able teenager well on his way to joining the men in combat and discussion, which he did in his fifteenth year.
Much of Donovan’s adult life was spent in the blur and daze of combat; he was a mercenary, after all. When not fighting, he aided his leader and chieftain in hammering out deals and contracts; it had come to everyone’s attention that Donovan had a way of speaking to people that quickly had them nodding and agreeing to a great deal of his words. However, all lives end and Donovan remembers the day of his conversion with crystal clarity. The sunrise broke in the east; a pink blush that slowly lightened as the rising sun chased away the night’s darkness; the light crept across hilltops and mountains before sinking into the valleys and crags of the Alps. Donovan had woken before the dawn, rolling from his furs with a grunt and a groan, nudging his sleeping companions out of the way.
The pre-light twilight had been spent appeasing Teutates with a sacrifice. It had been a noisy, messy and violent affair; forcibly drowning a man takes a great deal of effort and some time, particularly when you’re using a half-barrel to do so; holding the man down had been difficult as he floundered like a fish out of water, as all submerged men do, his violent flailing sending copious amounts of water over the side of the barrel, forcing Donovan and his cohorts to shove the man’s head further into the barrel; signs of exertion were clear on their faces as they gritted their teeth, faces contorted into vicious snarls as they struggled to keep his head below the waterline. After a while his struggles began to diminish, becoming steadily weaker as he began to asphyxiate though they did not let up the pressure on the man’s head and shoulders; even when all movements ceased they held him there for another twenty heartbeats to be certain he was dead.
They pulled his body from the barrel as the sun crested the mountains, Teutates’ approval and victory in battle now seemingly guaranteed. Donovan stared down at the man’s body and offered up a prayer to Taranis in his behalf, praying he would have a better life after his rebirth. As a member of the Gaesatae, Donovan was proud to call himself a mercenary spearman of Gaul. He was of moderately high rank; rank achieved in the blur and violence of combat, he would add. When it came to battle, the Gaesatae disdained the bracae and light cloaks worn by their Gallic allies, instead going into conflict undressed. There were two reasons for this, the first being their great confidence in themselves and their skills, the second being that the surrounding terrain was covered in bramble and it often caught on their clothes and weapons.
Needless to say, the battle of Telamon went badly, as history so fondly remembers. The Gaesatae were slaughtered by the efficiency of the Roman troops; over forty thousand died and ten thousand captured. Donovan was among those dying on the battlefield as sun sank below the horizon; he did not fear death, though he was in great pain. The Gaesatae believed firmly in reincarnation; Donovan was certain that he was going to return to a better life as a reward for his achievements in this lifetime. What he did not expect was to see the apparition of a face hovering above him in his delirium. It was so out of place, so unnaturally pale and beautiful that Donovan supposed that he was looking at the face of a god; indeed it was an “it”. Nothing that beautiful could have been human. It was male whatever it was; some line, some bend of jaw stopped it from looking too feminine.
The Gaesatae had no word for “vampire”; indeed, they had no concept of vampires at all. Donovan, rather wrongly, assumed that this was indeed a god, or perhaps a messenger of the gods, come to help him on his way into his new life, and a new life it was indeed. When Donovan rose from the grave three nights later, he was ravenous and raving, and later still would he come to terms with his new life. It was not a horrifying existence, though he had expected a new birth and a new body, rather than a new life in his old body. Yet his old body was changed, and it took the young vampire quite some time to adapt to his new form; by Donovan’s count he was twenty-six when he ‘died’ and the year was 223 BC. He was careful to test this new strength and speed, pushing himself carefully to know his physical limits. Stranger still was this new magic he possessed; he could detect lies from the humans around him, take to the sky with a thought and bend people to his will. His maker was impressed at Donovan’s skill at ‘rolling’ people as he described it, though not too surprised when the young vampire displayed his bloodline powers. With this new life also came a great deal of learning, and Donavan’s master spent a great deal of time ‘civilising’ him before presenting him to his Sourde de Sang.
Belle Morte was as terrifying as she was beautiful and while Donovan was spared the honour and horror of her bed, he was nevertheless trapped within the Council. It was by no means a hardship but compared to many of the others Belle Morte had gathered to herself, Donovan was positively homely and was therefore somewhat overlooked. It was here that he learned his terrible patience and how to dance with words; Donovan was well aware that his life had amounted to killing for a living but here he would learn first to kill for neither rhyme nor reason, and then to kill and torment for entertainment.
Donovan spent almost eight hundred years within the confines of Belle Morte’s playground before being sent away; the dark mistress had little interest in him and his wanderlust was increasing. His power had also grown exponentially, and he was able to roll his victims more deeply and with greater skill, call shadows at a whim and bewitch humans and lesser supernaturals with his voice. Now a Master in his own right, Donovan was ordered into another territory where he was to take on the guise of a stalking horse; it was an important task in several ways. Not only was he protecting the real Master of the City, it also provided Donovan with much desired learning opportunities. Here he was always learning, always watching and waiting for the ‘opportune moment’.
His power continued to grow across the centuries, though he desired no territory for himself; he was content, for the time being, to go where Belle Morte sent him, to act as a stalking horse for other Masters and to simply learn and grow. It was some thousand years after his last sunrise that Donovan was shipped to England; he had been given no particular task and many viewed it as an exile, though Donovan saw it as the ‘opportune moment’ he’d been waiting for all these years: a chance to develop his power away from Belle Morte’s scrutiny. While Donovan did not desire a specific territory, he wanted the freedom to move around and do as he pleased and then to fade away when he desired. No bonds, no oaths, no duties.
In a manner of speaking his wish was granted; once away from Belle Morte’s influence, Donovan’s power flourished to the extent that when she tried to call him home, he was not obliged to follow her call. He had become le Sourde de Sang. He was now his own bloodline, his own being, independent of Belle Morte and her demands. After fifteen hundred years he was free to do as he wished. Britain was a horrendously warlike place, and Donovan found it hard to accomplish much in times of strife. Instead, he retreated into anonymity; ghosting through time until the country reached a satisfactorily stable era. The seventeenth century was a particular favourite of Donovan’s, the era of the rake and the dandy, where his bisexual appetites were praised rather than scorned. He made odd appearances throughout time, emerging from the shadows for a while before easing back into obscurity. His power base fluctuated but never amassed greatly; his desire for command and leadership had not grown in the slightest, and his lack of ambition was well known. Even well into the twentieth century, Donovan’s lack of political aspirations was evident. He dealt with challengers quickly and efficiently but did not deign to take a territory of his own; nor did he oath himself or tie himself to one Master. He was his own, he would remain his own; after all, he had enough heft to keep himself distant.
Lucas was one of a handful of Donovan’s few fledglings; the young man was both extraordinarily handsome and well connected, both politically and financially as the son of a high-profile Member of Parliament, as well as being an ardent vampire sympathiser. Coveted by Donovan as a pomme de sang, Lucas eventually joined the vampiric ranks shortly after the Millennium. Lucas’s political heft and natural diplomatic savvy made him a perfect candidate as a progeny and Donovan was pleased to see Lucas step up to the plate. While the first few years were a little sketchy, Donovan was sure that Lucas would grow into a capable and self-reliant vampire, a fledging to be proud of.
To say that Donovan was incensed when Lucas was executed would be an understatement of cataclysmic proportions. It was a feeling that went beyond fury, beyond rational emotion. Of course, Donovan knew that Lucas had been innocent; he could feel it through their bond; the young vampire had not attacked ‘pure’ Genevieve Brydon that much was certain. Donovan’s knowledge of Lucas’s innocence was not enough to save him however, and Donovan had roared his fury aloud as his fledgling’s death had reverberated down the connection of their blood. It was unforgivable. Completely unforgivable! However, no matter his rage, Donovan was not about to do something foolish and rash, and yet he could not sit idle; it was intolerable. What to do? What to do, indeed?
Acting uncharacteristically hasty, Donovan moved swiftly but carefully toward revenge. It would not do to tarry over this matter, despite the old adage that revenge was best served cold. Of course, he was not about to take direct action himself; that would be foolish. Orchestrating Genevieve’s kidnapping was a comparatively simple thing, expertly done so that none would know that he was the mastermind. The negotiations were kept very private, with no police involved. Either Mr Brydon would publicly apologize to him and pay for all of Lucas’s “funeral” arrangements or he would turn little Genevieve whether she consented or not. Seeing Mr Brydon publicly disown and denounce his daughter was perhaps one of the most satisfactory moments in Donovan’s life. Little Genevieve had begged him to simply end her life and Donovan had scoffed, not possessing much mercy. No. The debt would be paid, a life for a life; so Donovan turned Genevieve Brydon, he was after all only being as good as his word. His need for vengeance sated, he cast his new fledging loose and faded into anonymity; he was content that she knew not his face but only the sound of his voice. He was virtually untraceable.
He was surprised when the Council contacted him, and wary to say the least; Donovan had been peripherally aware of the situation in Venice but had not expected the Council, after killing the old Master of the City, Elise, to recruit him as a peacemaker. Thus, Donovan became the Master of the City; a role he finds that he actually enjoys… somewhat. China-Rose was given the position of Témoin, Donovan’s second in command. For the last year, Donovan has worked to resolve the issues caused by his predecessor and the Kiss is slowly rebuilding from the devastation brought by the Council.
Powers/Training/Experience/Weaknesses:
Powers:
- Vampire's Bite (orgasmic)
- Empathy
- Deep Rolling
- Mass Hypnosis
- Flight
- Increased strength, fortitude, heightened senses
Training:
- Able to fight with spear, sword, dagger and shield
- Competent in empty-handed fighting
- Diplomatic
- Speaks English, Spanish, French and Italian
Experience:
- Twenty-six years among the mercenary Gaesatae
- Two millennia as a vampire
- Five hundred years as a Sourde de Sang
Weaknesses:
- Sunlight
- Silver
- Holy objects
- Silver
- Fire
- Decapitation
- Cannot rise early
Master vampire Powers:
- Animal to Call: Lion
- Call Shadows
- Sourde de Sang
- The ability to form an emotional or hypnotic connection with his voice.
Blood Line Power: Belle Morte
Donovan lacks the ardeur but is unusually strong at “rolling” his victims mentally; as well as being able to feed from orgasms, Donavan’s bite is orgasmic and his victims may become addicted, in addition to potentially experiencing orgasmic flashbacks.
Kiss or Non Kiss: Kiss; Master of the City
RP Sample:
*waves admin immunity card*
Playerbase/Face Claim name:
Christian Bale
Pictures:
Power level: Master Vampire and Sourde de Sang
Age, Gender: Male; Born: 249 BC; Turned: 244 BC; Age: 2259
Location: Venice
Description:
Donovan was unnaturally tall for a Gaesatae, towering over his friends, family and cohorts at a comparatively massive 6’0”, resulting in mutterings of bastardy. Nevertheless, his frame is slim and is defined rather than heavily muscled. His body is that of a warrior in his prime, as he ‘died’ on the battlefield. Someone who had no knowledge of him might describe his face as open, his features being genial rather than astounding; all in all, Donovan looks to be a comfortable person to approach.
His hair and eyes are brown, though that word hardly does him justice. In some light, or lack of, Donovan’s hair could perhaps be described as black; however, at the merest suggestion of light, his hair takes on a richness of colour, becoming multi-toned brunette. Left to grow, his hair would be called wavy, falling somewhere between straight and curly; Donovan keeps his fair fairly short, though the length varies slightly from time to time. He is also prone to growing facial hair, alternating between being clean-shaven and not, as the mood strikes him. His eyes are a brown-green hazel, which, again fails to incorporate the innumerable flecks of colour in his irises. While his hair and eyes are rich in colour, his skin has slowly bled of colour, an accomplishment that only two millennia without sunlight can manage.
Fastidious might be another word used to describe him, particularly his dress. His clothes are always in perfect order and he disdains causal dress in favour of cleanly pressed trousers, shirts and suits, favouring a monochrome colour scheme. Donovan’s idea of causal wear is a suit with no tie. Jeans and t-shirt? No thank you. Dress trousers at the very least, and a shirt. However tousled his hair might appear, it was by design rather than chance, he could assure you. Scruffiness is not something that Donovan tolerates for himself; others may dress as they please but for himself appearances are to be kept at all times. Image is of the utmost importance.
Personality:
When initially meeting Donovan, one might be disposed to dub him charming, even gallant. At first sight he appears to a singularly pleasant individual of even temperament, always polite and gracious; indeed, Donovan appears to be the personification of a gentleman, chivalrous and well mannered… outwardly, at least. He neatly combines his debonair and cool demeanour with a devil may care attitude, believing that those in power should take what they want, the consequences be damned. Nor is Donovan above subtlety; indeed, he much prefers delicate planning and scheming to direct attack.
His patience is a glacial thing, and Donovan is content to wait for as long as it takes for his enemies to tire themselves so that he might grind them into dust; not one to act rashly, he’d rather wait for the ‘opportune moment’ and then step in. Why snatch plaintively at what you want when, with patience, it will either come to you or fall into your lap? Perhaps equal to his patience, or slightly lesser, is his vindictiveness. Donovan will rarely forget or forgive a snub, often employing devious means with which to obtain revenge. Losing face is not an option and all slights against his person will be avenged eventually; some things, such as the wrongful execution of his fledging, result in surprisingly prompt action, which is no less meticulously thought-out.
Donovan is also very much in touch with his inner monster, being prone to cruelty merely for the sake of cruelty; he’d think nothing of touching you hair, stroking your face and whispering sweet nothings in you ear before breaking you over his knee when you cease to amuse him. While he is aware that he is now living in the twenty-first century and that vampires are technically civilians, he is disinclined toward humanity and their namby-pamby twaddle. Whatever they might say, Donovan knows that vampires are not just ‘people with fangs’. They never were, and they never will be. That’s not to say that he is against legalisation… but neither is he completely for it. Nevertheless, Donovan is very much a monster; cruel, arrogant and sadistic, he hides himself behind polite words and fake smiles, only to reveal himself where, when and how it suits him. Donovan is proud of his relative anonymity; apart from a few brief stints as a stalking horse in his later years, he keeps himself out of the limelight. He takes great pride in the fact that he can make himself virtually untraceable.
History:
Born Brennus of the Gaesatae, (hereafter referred to as Donovan, to spare your brains and mine) Donovan was a sturdy child, birthed into a group of Gaulish warriors who lived in the Alps near the river Rhône. His life was fairly mobile as the clan moved around, operating independently of any particular kingdom or state. His life was simple as the son of a mercenary, for he too was sure to take up spear, sword and shield for payment. Indeed, there was no other life that Donovan would have wanted or could have conceived. As an adolescent, Donovan sprouted drastically, soon towering over his peers and elders; the mutterings varied throughout the clan. Some spoke of bastardy, others said that their family must have been blessed by the gods to have such tall and strong children. Nevertheless, he was an able teenager well on his way to joining the men in combat and discussion, which he did in his fifteenth year.
Much of Donovan’s adult life was spent in the blur and daze of combat; he was a mercenary, after all. When not fighting, he aided his leader and chieftain in hammering out deals and contracts; it had come to everyone’s attention that Donovan had a way of speaking to people that quickly had them nodding and agreeing to a great deal of his words. However, all lives end and Donovan remembers the day of his conversion with crystal clarity. The sunrise broke in the east; a pink blush that slowly lightened as the rising sun chased away the night’s darkness; the light crept across hilltops and mountains before sinking into the valleys and crags of the Alps. Donovan had woken before the dawn, rolling from his furs with a grunt and a groan, nudging his sleeping companions out of the way.
The pre-light twilight had been spent appeasing Teutates with a sacrifice. It had been a noisy, messy and violent affair; forcibly drowning a man takes a great deal of effort and some time, particularly when you’re using a half-barrel to do so; holding the man down had been difficult as he floundered like a fish out of water, as all submerged men do, his violent flailing sending copious amounts of water over the side of the barrel, forcing Donovan and his cohorts to shove the man’s head further into the barrel; signs of exertion were clear on their faces as they gritted their teeth, faces contorted into vicious snarls as they struggled to keep his head below the waterline. After a while his struggles began to diminish, becoming steadily weaker as he began to asphyxiate though they did not let up the pressure on the man’s head and shoulders; even when all movements ceased they held him there for another twenty heartbeats to be certain he was dead.
They pulled his body from the barrel as the sun crested the mountains, Teutates’ approval and victory in battle now seemingly guaranteed. Donovan stared down at the man’s body and offered up a prayer to Taranis in his behalf, praying he would have a better life after his rebirth. As a member of the Gaesatae, Donovan was proud to call himself a mercenary spearman of Gaul. He was of moderately high rank; rank achieved in the blur and violence of combat, he would add. When it came to battle, the Gaesatae disdained the bracae and light cloaks worn by their Gallic allies, instead going into conflict undressed. There were two reasons for this, the first being their great confidence in themselves and their skills, the second being that the surrounding terrain was covered in bramble and it often caught on their clothes and weapons.
Needless to say, the battle of Telamon went badly, as history so fondly remembers. The Gaesatae were slaughtered by the efficiency of the Roman troops; over forty thousand died and ten thousand captured. Donovan was among those dying on the battlefield as sun sank below the horizon; he did not fear death, though he was in great pain. The Gaesatae believed firmly in reincarnation; Donovan was certain that he was going to return to a better life as a reward for his achievements in this lifetime. What he did not expect was to see the apparition of a face hovering above him in his delirium. It was so out of place, so unnaturally pale and beautiful that Donovan supposed that he was looking at the face of a god; indeed it was an “it”. Nothing that beautiful could have been human. It was male whatever it was; some line, some bend of jaw stopped it from looking too feminine.
The Gaesatae had no word for “vampire”; indeed, they had no concept of vampires at all. Donovan, rather wrongly, assumed that this was indeed a god, or perhaps a messenger of the gods, come to help him on his way into his new life, and a new life it was indeed. When Donovan rose from the grave three nights later, he was ravenous and raving, and later still would he come to terms with his new life. It was not a horrifying existence, though he had expected a new birth and a new body, rather than a new life in his old body. Yet his old body was changed, and it took the young vampire quite some time to adapt to his new form; by Donovan’s count he was twenty-six when he ‘died’ and the year was 223 BC. He was careful to test this new strength and speed, pushing himself carefully to know his physical limits. Stranger still was this new magic he possessed; he could detect lies from the humans around him, take to the sky with a thought and bend people to his will. His maker was impressed at Donovan’s skill at ‘rolling’ people as he described it, though not too surprised when the young vampire displayed his bloodline powers. With this new life also came a great deal of learning, and Donavan’s master spent a great deal of time ‘civilising’ him before presenting him to his Sourde de Sang.
Belle Morte was as terrifying as she was beautiful and while Donovan was spared the honour and horror of her bed, he was nevertheless trapped within the Council. It was by no means a hardship but compared to many of the others Belle Morte had gathered to herself, Donovan was positively homely and was therefore somewhat overlooked. It was here that he learned his terrible patience and how to dance with words; Donovan was well aware that his life had amounted to killing for a living but here he would learn first to kill for neither rhyme nor reason, and then to kill and torment for entertainment.
Donovan spent almost eight hundred years within the confines of Belle Morte’s playground before being sent away; the dark mistress had little interest in him and his wanderlust was increasing. His power had also grown exponentially, and he was able to roll his victims more deeply and with greater skill, call shadows at a whim and bewitch humans and lesser supernaturals with his voice. Now a Master in his own right, Donovan was ordered into another territory where he was to take on the guise of a stalking horse; it was an important task in several ways. Not only was he protecting the real Master of the City, it also provided Donovan with much desired learning opportunities. Here he was always learning, always watching and waiting for the ‘opportune moment’.
His power continued to grow across the centuries, though he desired no territory for himself; he was content, for the time being, to go where Belle Morte sent him, to act as a stalking horse for other Masters and to simply learn and grow. It was some thousand years after his last sunrise that Donovan was shipped to England; he had been given no particular task and many viewed it as an exile, though Donovan saw it as the ‘opportune moment’ he’d been waiting for all these years: a chance to develop his power away from Belle Morte’s scrutiny. While Donovan did not desire a specific territory, he wanted the freedom to move around and do as he pleased and then to fade away when he desired. No bonds, no oaths, no duties.
In a manner of speaking his wish was granted; once away from Belle Morte’s influence, Donovan’s power flourished to the extent that when she tried to call him home, he was not obliged to follow her call. He had become le Sourde de Sang. He was now his own bloodline, his own being, independent of Belle Morte and her demands. After fifteen hundred years he was free to do as he wished. Britain was a horrendously warlike place, and Donovan found it hard to accomplish much in times of strife. Instead, he retreated into anonymity; ghosting through time until the country reached a satisfactorily stable era. The seventeenth century was a particular favourite of Donovan’s, the era of the rake and the dandy, where his bisexual appetites were praised rather than scorned. He made odd appearances throughout time, emerging from the shadows for a while before easing back into obscurity. His power base fluctuated but never amassed greatly; his desire for command and leadership had not grown in the slightest, and his lack of ambition was well known. Even well into the twentieth century, Donovan’s lack of political aspirations was evident. He dealt with challengers quickly and efficiently but did not deign to take a territory of his own; nor did he oath himself or tie himself to one Master. He was his own, he would remain his own; after all, he had enough heft to keep himself distant.
Lucas was one of a handful of Donovan’s few fledglings; the young man was both extraordinarily handsome and well connected, both politically and financially as the son of a high-profile Member of Parliament, as well as being an ardent vampire sympathiser. Coveted by Donovan as a pomme de sang, Lucas eventually joined the vampiric ranks shortly after the Millennium. Lucas’s political heft and natural diplomatic savvy made him a perfect candidate as a progeny and Donovan was pleased to see Lucas step up to the plate. While the first few years were a little sketchy, Donovan was sure that Lucas would grow into a capable and self-reliant vampire, a fledging to be proud of.
To say that Donovan was incensed when Lucas was executed would be an understatement of cataclysmic proportions. It was a feeling that went beyond fury, beyond rational emotion. Of course, Donovan knew that Lucas had been innocent; he could feel it through their bond; the young vampire had not attacked ‘pure’ Genevieve Brydon that much was certain. Donovan’s knowledge of Lucas’s innocence was not enough to save him however, and Donovan had roared his fury aloud as his fledgling’s death had reverberated down the connection of their blood. It was unforgivable. Completely unforgivable! However, no matter his rage, Donovan was not about to do something foolish and rash, and yet he could not sit idle; it was intolerable. What to do? What to do, indeed?
Acting uncharacteristically hasty, Donovan moved swiftly but carefully toward revenge. It would not do to tarry over this matter, despite the old adage that revenge was best served cold. Of course, he was not about to take direct action himself; that would be foolish. Orchestrating Genevieve’s kidnapping was a comparatively simple thing, expertly done so that none would know that he was the mastermind. The negotiations were kept very private, with no police involved. Either Mr Brydon would publicly apologize to him and pay for all of Lucas’s “funeral” arrangements or he would turn little Genevieve whether she consented or not. Seeing Mr Brydon publicly disown and denounce his daughter was perhaps one of the most satisfactory moments in Donovan’s life. Little Genevieve had begged him to simply end her life and Donovan had scoffed, not possessing much mercy. No. The debt would be paid, a life for a life; so Donovan turned Genevieve Brydon, he was after all only being as good as his word. His need for vengeance sated, he cast his new fledging loose and faded into anonymity; he was content that she knew not his face but only the sound of his voice. He was virtually untraceable.
He was surprised when the Council contacted him, and wary to say the least; Donovan had been peripherally aware of the situation in Venice but had not expected the Council, after killing the old Master of the City, Elise, to recruit him as a peacemaker. Thus, Donovan became the Master of the City; a role he finds that he actually enjoys… somewhat. China-Rose was given the position of Témoin, Donovan’s second in command. For the last year, Donovan has worked to resolve the issues caused by his predecessor and the Kiss is slowly rebuilding from the devastation brought by the Council.
Powers/Training/Experience/Weaknesses:
Powers:
- Vampire's Bite (orgasmic)
- Empathy
- Deep Rolling
- Mass Hypnosis
- Flight
- Increased strength, fortitude, heightened senses
Training:
- Able to fight with spear, sword, dagger and shield
- Competent in empty-handed fighting
- Diplomatic
- Speaks English, Spanish, French and Italian
Experience:
- Twenty-six years among the mercenary Gaesatae
- Two millennia as a vampire
- Five hundred years as a Sourde de Sang
Weaknesses:
- Sunlight
- Silver
- Holy objects
- Silver
- Fire
- Decapitation
- Cannot rise early
Master vampire Powers:
- Animal to Call: Lion
- Call Shadows
- Sourde de Sang
- The ability to form an emotional or hypnotic connection with his voice.
Blood Line Power: Belle Morte
Donovan lacks the ardeur but is unusually strong at “rolling” his victims mentally; as well as being able to feed from orgasms, Donavan’s bite is orgasmic and his victims may become addicted, in addition to potentially experiencing orgasmic flashbacks.
Kiss or Non Kiss: Kiss; Master of the City
RP Sample:
*waves admin immunity card*
Playerbase/Face Claim name:
Christian Bale
Pictures:
