The Hunter
Name: Julian Ambrodiel
Nicknames: Ever
Gender: male
Age: 24
Category: Life
The Weapon
Name: Amory
Nicknames: n/a
Type of Weapon: An ornate, medieval-style stiletto
Unsummoned Form: A slim art deco cigarette case, like a mocking reminder of what he doesn't have.
Former species of weapon: Undead - Vampire
Gender: Male
Personalities: Ever's nose -- the bend in the bridge, the way he tips his head slightly to look down it -- says a lot about him in one single glance. Combined with the sliding-sideways mockery of his smile, his inability to just keep his mouth shut when he should keep his mouth shut, the overall effect is that of someone who most people want to punch.
And a lot of people have.
It's the look of a home-schooled Christian boy who went from raising goats in the back property of his parents' Montana home to finding his own way on the streets of a big city with no money and no sense of self. The attitude of a small-town kid trying to act like he's bigger than he is, and knows more than he does.
In general, it works: people remember him for his big mouth and his apparent inability to take anything seriously. They remember him for short-lived relationships, a week spent on someone's couch, for drinking too much and being an a*****e that one time at a friend's party, and then spouting Sartre [inappropriately] at the top of his lungs. None of it is flattering, but at the very least it's a way for him to shape his own image to those around him.
The surface motives are remarkably simple. It's what's underneath that becomes more complex. A desire to be noticed and accepted fuels his often-too-loud personality [he's impossible to ignore]. Fear of commitment is the true cause for his inappropriate outbursts [the perfect way to drive people away again, before they can hurt him]. And, in the end, his efforts to manipulate the people around him stem from one basic, fatal flaw -- which is just how easy it is to manipulate Ever.
Amory might be the absolute best at this. He is everything that Ever likes to pretend he is -- indifferent to the opinions of those around him, his tone actively biting and nasty, well-read and well-educated. He is old enough to have seen quite a lot and built up a callous against the world around him.
He's also halfway crazy, sometimes unintelligible, lapsing into fits of disorganized speech that are alternately interesting and terrifying.
Why did your human character choose to become a Hunter?
For the past year and a half, now, Ever hasn't exactly been the same couch-hopping mooch he was before that. No. Instead he's had a closet-sized apartment over a Greek restaurant in a sketchy part of Queens, tending bar not too far away. It pays the bills. Mostly. And it's more stable than he's been before, but --
He hasn't spoken to his family since he was 18, with no intention of speaking to them anytime soon. He's currently unattached, unless you count that guy from last weekend whose name he can't quite remember. If he stepped away, it's likely no one would even notice his absence. His life, in the human realm, is exactly what he worked so hard to make happen, and exactly what he doesn't want.
Weapon Ability
The Bite: manifesting as a thudding of his heart, an oddly pleasant wash of his skin as he draws the Fear into himself.
Physical Description:
Eye Colour: dark brown; so dark it's almost black.
Hair Colour/Style: very, very pale, almost white, and hand-cut into a messy, soft halo around his head.
Skin Colour: the pale of someone who hasn't seen much sunlight in the past couple years.
Clothing Style/Colours: His style was always salvation army and thrift store finds, and stays that way -- most of it in shades of khaki green, grey, and black because that's what's easy to find, mixed with crazy punk items dug out of sales bins because they're interesting. He wears a lot of hats, and a lot of layers, designed to make the angular skinniness of his body less obvious.
Extra:
References:
Concept! If changes need to be made to be appropriate, though, that's fine, this was just me messing around with ideas.
