Renfield - The Life Stealer

by **Renfield** Wed Dec 19, 2018 7:53 pm

Identity

Renfield

Name: Nicolas
Alias: Renfield, Revac, Johan Striger
Age: 24
Birthday: June, 15th
Gender: Male
Alignment: Villain

Physical Attributes

Height: 5’11
Weight: 143lbs
Eyes: Amber
Hair: White Steel tends to stand out, in so far as hair color goes. Or might if not for the current age where that seems the least radical thing for one to have concerning their appearance. Luckily such mutations did not run in his blood, or at least not the side he knows of. Despite appearance he does take some measure to maintain what he likes in so far as style. Shoulder length, but never longer or shorter. Parted in the middle, even if the effort is a lazy one that leaves a few wayward bangs hanging across his features. Truth being that he has his hair layered, which is what gives the loose sheaf of it across the back of his neck a somewhat unique appearance.

Physical Description: At first glance one can be forgiven for mistaking Nicolas for a normal person. He maintains the illusion so thoroughly that it can’t be helped. Given any real length of time in his presence and one by one –and it is always the little things that give it away- one begins to see him as he really is. A lion, lazily taking in others with a predator’s gaze, while waiting for something quaint to come along for him devour. His eyes never seem to widen, never surprised by anything it seems. Limbs that are just a bit longer than the ought be. Even the way he moves, which never seems quite as fast to the eye as it actually is.

A thin man, to be sure. Not starving, but a sparse frame nonetheless. To his credit it is a body wire tight with muscle; athletic but like every other oddity somehow off in its own indescribable way. Perhaps when compared to the rather lethargic way he carries himself it helps add another strange facet to his appearance. All the more so given his soft pale skin is constantly cold to the touch. It’s his –by way of self-assertion more than actual credit- charm that he believes he gets by.

In part he probably isn’t wrong. His expression easily changes from that sterile, even somber appearance to any of his choosing, his downturned eyes vibrant with a fire that has no source. Whether he feels these things in a way that can be understood by others is not a thing easily answered. Even he muses over it from time to time, but quickly relegates such introspective behaviors to a time better suited for them. Time he never seems to find, but the better for it. Close as he feels towards his goal he can little afford those distractions.

Clothing and Style: Odd really, how his laziness seems to shift based on whether he’s “on the job” or not. Not by much given his wardrobe remains the same either way, but it is the way they are worn that creates the difference. Mainly, he prefers business attire in the form of trousers, a dark belt, black dress shoes, and white dress shirts. Off the clock he wears mostly only those items; the shirt untucked, cuff and collar upturned or left undone. A preference in that he prefers such clothing loose when not acting in his professional capacity.

Costume: When he does though the endearing indolence of his attire disappears. After remedying such things he typically adds a vest and tie to the outfit in question, always matching of course. Creams or blues, usually, but black as demanded and even a splash of purple on occasion. Beyond those things his predictability wanes. Weather seems not to matter as a factor, but when it strikes his fancy he might buy a coat to wear for a time and other bits of apparel to go with it, but they’re momentary whimsy rather than a constant part of his attire. Nor does it generally benefit from the extra resources that go towards his more typical clothing. For one thing they’re not resistant to gunfire.

Notable are the dozen small accessories he keeps on his person. Almost all of them with a silvery sheen: rings on his index and middle fingers, his pocket-watch, a belt buckle which is almost certainly another of the knives among the dozen on his person at any given time and an almost modest chain that settles around his throat. All of them have some application towards his work. As to how they function? That’s another matter entirely; though, apparently only work when in his hands

Psychological Profile:

“-for the life of all flesh is its blood”

Personality: Knowing Nicolas is a lesson in contradictions. Most of which are unpleasant, but not always. Foremost is that his chosen work suits him very well. Those that hire contractors are usually wont for reliable, loyal, and skilled labor. In that regard he provides those services best in a world where those that have that old fashioned desire to deal with their problems would rather avoid heroes or being labeled villains themselves. And for a price he is all too happy to give them just that even if it has put him in conflict with the new world and its changes. But a title is just a thing, just as easily discarded as the many false identities he’s had over the years. Even paid well, and he is generally paid very well, the money is far from the point. What he has no use for ends up where it will have the most use, one way, or another. He is a man that recognizes his own talents and feels accomplished in using them even if they are…to morally questionable ends.

But morality is, in of itself, a complicated subject when concerning him. He certainly does not lack them, nor empathy or emotions. It’s simple a matter of irrational rationality. If the best method for approaching a task also requires some unpleasantness, it was at least necessary rather than wanton. But for all that practicality he sees his existence in a constant state of flux. He does not plan so much but adapt to the circumstances as required and enacts his will in the most efficient way possible. Much could be said of how he spends his time with people.

Most serve no purpose. They’re merely interchangeable parts, roles, which show up in his life to eventually be replaced. He smiles and plays them each out to the ending as he’s done before and moves on, no more malicious intent in it than anything else he does. He simply repeats the play as he has in the past. Yet that does not seem to stop him from being genuinely invested in the human experience itself. Even if he feels it repetitive that does not prevent his curiosity from refreshing him to the experience in a way that perhaps, he had yet to experience before.

But perhaps all that time, his inclinations, have given him an instinctive insight into others. Where others rely on quirk or training to do the same, he is capable of reading into others and their actions with eerie precision. Rarely does he point the same at himself, or at least not openly. As he rarely displays his actual feelings or reveals them strongly it’s difficult to tell what the man thinks most days. And even if they could, it might not be an occurrence one wants to repeat more than once.

Despite his off-putting behaviors he is well studied, self-educated, and a ravenous reader with a preference for fiction, romance, philosophy, and theology. While his given profession would demand at least a few non-native tongues he is passable in many but fluent in any second hand language he’s required to negotiate with before, including English. There seems to be a sort of enjoyment he takes from being polylingual, more so context and the societal encoding that seems to come with each. Of course, understanding other languages and revealing that he does are two different things. And like so many of his attributes seems a thing he conceals more for the advantage it might provide.

Motives: Oh yes, every action is towards a goal, after all. And there is one thing that matters more than most to him. And if he has to kill to get the information that will bring him one step closer to that realization? Then the more appropriate question would be asking “How many lives will it take?”

Quirk:

Hungry Blood

Quirk Type: Emitter

Manifestation: A difficult quirk, given what it is capable of, but even more so for the issues that present themselves with its use. The best way to begin is to address the most unusual aspect: Nicolas’ blood is alive. Not as a singular entity but every cell. More concerning is that it presents several unusual behaviors. Provided organic matter to cannibalize the blood can propagate itself to various ends; usually to absorb more or rebuilding or even replacing tissue. In theory it’s most natural application is regenerative; using the cloned cells as building blocks to undo damage done to the host body it may not have any upper limitation to that capability. It also seems to transmit, more as a byproduct than benefit, information from organic sources. Like people. Mostly people, in fact.

It’s the unintended purposes it has been used towards by Nicolas that make it a frightening quirk. Having some control (or at least able to point it towards a subject) all it takes is to spill his blood somehow, on a surface or more unfortunately on a person, to see just what it can do once catalyzed. That it can both rejoin its host and that Nicolas is capable of containing the increased quantity suggests there are still greater heights it can be pushed towards.

Drawback: Well, offensively speaking, one major flaw of the quirk is that it requires his blood to be out of his body. While its’ main capability is restoration it can only do so if there is enough cloned cells to safely commit to it. The blood loss inherent with using it as he does leaves him anemic as an after effect. The problem resolves itself once the blood re-enters his body but presents an obvious risk when deciding whether or not to (if there is a choice in the matter) employ it in that manner or not. Though he has found other ways to make creative use of it that may not offer the effectiveness of direct use but make up for it in the versatility it may offer.

Another problem occurs when one realizes what happens when blood is exposed to open air. While its properties slow down the rate of coagulation effectively enough it can only accomplish that to a certain point before the growth rate does not exceed its decay. And while it may not be normal, it is still a liquid in how it can be affected by the elements. Normal temperatures may not factor much into that but enough heat or cold can hinder reabsorption or even the weaponized applications for this quirk.

History:

There are things I miss about home, a-times.

Little affects, mostly. You might feel the same. European skies, hah, but they still held a sort of beauty that made them worth the watching. Warm grass…now that’s something I haven’t stopped to enjoy since then. It was beautiful. It wasn’t luxurious but my childhood residence was quaint, comfortable, and filled with family and friends. Well, they pretended to be friends, much as my supposed family, but they are a footnote in my life that I would forget if not for…well let us just say there are reasons for it. But most of all I miss my mother.

More and more as I grew she was confined to her bed. My birth had not been an easy one, you see. Cursed, as one of my Uncle would tell me many times before realizing a bit of tact might have served him better. Once I knew how to better control my particular abilities he was one of the family that tended to me at her behest. More his own, at times, but having grown I realize that he hadn’t just been cruel for the sake of it. None of them had. Part of it was their culture, but more than anything I can understand why they felt as they did, or acted as they had. After all, she was only hurt because of me. I’d taken someone from them. Their customs and traditionalism did not exclude her, nor do I think they ever stopped caring for her as family ought. And what was left was more a shell than the woman that they probably shared a smiling lifetime with.

I envied them. They knew her smile in an abundance I never would. She did for me so few times; could only afford to those few times and each came with a cost.

One of the first things I learned as a child was to take care of flowers. Somewhere deep, I think, that as a child I believed if I was a good enough boy, that if I showed her how much I loved her, she would get better. So I would slip away from my family to pick flowers. A small boy like that, I had little trouble hiding or sneaking away. Funny, to think of that now. But I would pick the ones I had seen in her photos. It was something I didn’t need to hide, eventually. My uncle was not an emotional man but he allowed me this activity as a boy because I think, even knowing better, because he hoped her child bringing her bouquets of wildflowers would bring her back to them all.

That had been her joy in life before my father, before me, I wanted to believe. Taking pictures, that is. That maybe if I could remind her of such happiness that she could go back to the woman I had never known, but had always wanted to. She was in so few photos, my mother, but in those she was she was radiant. Memories I would never be a part of but wondered if she smiled because she was with him. Did she smile because she knew about me? Was I in those photos with her but still just starting? No, probably not. But we all tell lies to ourselves. And my first was that in somehow learning to tend the flowers I brought her, to keep them alive, that I was doing the same for her. There were days when the flowers looked beautiful and strong that I swear she was getting better.

Fourteen is not an age a boy should bury his mother. In many ways still just a child, but adult enough to appreciate the sheer emotional gravity of what was happening. Just not prepared for it, if indeed we can ever be insulated to the destruction it inflicts. It was a slow death; undeserved. And –speaking without bias- was entirely my fault. The flowers died, untended, weeks after. Her family followed not long after. Hers, I say, because they told me what I meant to them and what was left for me after she passed. Something broke. Or maybe it was just the crack that started the rest in the years that followed. Grief and anger became a fit of laughter. And one by one, I tore at the edges of my emptiness until there was nothing left to remind me of the lost but for one thing. One, crucial thing I recognize only now.

I am not whole.

The world showed me the ugliness, its truth, in the years that followed. It meant little but to help cultivate what was already dark in me and make it deeper. Broken little boys are a commodity in some circles, after all. I suppose it could have ended up in even worse ones if my luck had gone that way. But in a world where power exists, and heroes are too common a sight, having disposable employees has its benefits. Still came with plenty of unpleasantness but I was alive in the end. And those people…well they tended their garden poorly. Come back once too often without a reason, without revealing what you’re capable of and eventually they become unsettled. But by the time they were I’d gained most everything useful they had to offer. The rest I saw no reason to allow them to keep.

Very good at what I do, if I do say so myself; perfect for me in its own way too. Never meet directly with a client, never involve myself in the details too much, and never leave a body. I push the dominos and beyond that it matters little. Mattered little, I suppose. I’ve rules I’ve enforced and lived by. They’ve served well. Still, when there isn’t much beyond that life one grows to wonder if there is a purpose to their existence. Have you eve pondered a purpose, a need so great that it will define you, fulfill you? There is a power in that, in certainty, that I cannot begin to describe.

I know mine.

And the blood will spill until I am made whole.

Miscellaneous:
Imagine Dragons – Natural
Rival X Cadmium - Willow Tree (feat. Rosendale)
Hollywood Undead – Lion
Highly Suspect – Lydia
Starset – Point of No Return

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