Adalfrid Von Deifhen (approved)

Name: Adalfrid Van Deifhen

Affiliate: Bountou

Age: 325


Visual age: 22

Gender: Male

Appearance:

Personality:


Adalfrid has always
given the most surprising first impression among all that meet him. His
personality is an even mixed of smugness, and a casual leisure that makes him
seem almost aristocratic. He commonly speaks in casual common terms seeming
unbothered by anything.

He also speaks calmly
and normally to all others, indifferent of where they stand, making him
commonly seem friendly and well placed. This usually helps him get along with
all others, and makes his origins seem almost unrealistic.

He is in fact truly
more dangerous then he first seems, willing to go to any length to earn what he
wants. He disregards emotions for cold logic, and will go as far as to hurt
those around him if he sees it fit in the ultimate result.

His worst is when he
is over-powered by bloodlust. His thirst to torture his opponent and slowly
tear out their soul (commonly called “his passion”. He gets lost in an endless thriving hunger,
attacking any individual regardless of (almost) any factor, to satisfy his
craving.


BIOGRAPHY


Childhood



Rain taps against a window… the light sound that ruffles
against the glass. The smell of wet stone and light wet dirt fill the air. No
sound escapes, no whispers. Nothing but a still silence. Nothing but a lone boy
against the rocky walls of a room. A boy of utter sadness. His eyes fight back
tears he chooses not to cry, his own personal battle. There he sits, and no
sound escapes but the falling of rain…


* * * *


Days pass. The rain falls ever still. The boy holds his own
once more alone. Wet rain drenches his modest rags. His hair drapes his face,
uncut and untended, hiding his features, the look of utter devastation that
marks his face. His eyes fill with rain-drops, not differentiating between
tears and rain… but he does not care. He does not care for the feeling of icy
cold against his skin. He does not care about his exhaustion, and how he can
barely walk against the wet cobble-stones of the public streets. He does not
care of all the eyes glaring down at him from warm comfortable windows. All he
wants to do is sleep. He stumbles, and falls to the ground, too tired to stand.
No one helps him up…


* * * *


Years pass. He has grow. Yet he is the same. His face is
pale, and worn. He does not smile. His eyes seem to have died, for no hope
shines in them. None has shone there for
a long time. He walks among the streets of the village, in the open
market. People sneer as he walks by. He feels hated. No one loves him. No one
ever has…


A passer by trips the boy, as he lands hard, bruising his
face. He tries to rise, but he is stepped on and sneered at. Laughs rise from
the crowds nearby. He gazes up at the row of laughing fangs, and fine clothes.
He rises to his knees, his rags dirtier then before. He breaths in and tries to
stand. Someone kicks him in the ribs. He falls once more…


He remains on the ground hungry and afraid. He gives in,
gazing without hope at the dirty stone road… he does not matter….he is only a
monster…


* * * *

The night comes. He is tired, and
his muscles ache. He can barely walk, but he rises none the less. He can no
longer feel anything. Feelings are something of a past far away from memory. A
past that fades from existence. He shifts and stumbles, making his way home. He
lays down on the small bundle of hay in the ally-way. He was hoping to find
some food today, but no such luck. He wheezes and shivers in hunger. He cannot
remember when he last ate. He falls back in the hay and pulls an old blanket
over himself. He falls asleep, but does not dream. Dreams only make him pity
reality…


* * * *


The days pass. It is his birthday today…He has just turned
eight. He says nothing, but merely trembles in cold. Winter is approaching, and
snow already begins to fall. He draws his rags among him… he needs food, and
warm clothing, or he will not survive the cold of the Vienna winter. A bell rings in the distance.
It is a town meeting… perhaps ... he could beg… He limps away, at little more
then a crawl…


People gather among the hall’s main center. Dozens of well
dressed, wealthy patrons. All wonderful, beautiful and magnificent. He crawls
though the crowd. His mouth and throat ache… too much for him to talk… he had
not drank in as much time as he had eaten… he merely prays that some one will
take pity on him… because his voice died the same time his hope did…


No one pays him heed. He is pushed though the crowd,
occasionally hit. Remarks of “garbage” and “useless monger” pass though his
ears, but he is too hungry and thirsty to hear them. He merely walks on paying
no heed to his new found bruises. He has been hit more then enough to learn
pain… he merely walks on…


Off in the distance a voice sounds out as a meeting begins
among the crowd. The boy glances in the direction of the voice. His eyes widen at a familiar face… blonde hair…blue
eyes… a man from long ago… the one memory that had not died with him all these
years…


He pushes though the crowd with what force he has left… and
falls to his knees at the feet of the man, gripping tight at his leg. He glares
up, barely conscious.

“f-fa-father…”

Is all that he is capable to say. The man glares down at him
emotionlessly. A wisp sounds though the air as the back of the hand hits the
boy broadly in the jaw, throwing him to the ground against the rocks and cold
snow.

“I have never met you before”

Is the only reply that arrives. Laughter rises among the
crowd. The boy crawls, barely left with enough energy to survive… he grasp his
hands in the direction of the man he had met only once all those years… but he
is pulled away… men are dragging him away… but it’s in the wrong direction! He
wants his father!

“father!” he calls one last time, glaring at the man, too
exhausted, and cold to say anything else. With too many tears in his eyes to
think of anything else…

“Take this mongrel to the jail… I have no son…”

All lights fade out. Cold and hunger overtake the boy. Life
fades from him, and he falls back, no longer conscious, dragged away by the
men. All he can hear as all sounds fade out are the hooting of the crowd. Their
laughter.


* * * *

Days pass. He is released from the jail. A punishment he was
blessed with. A room, bread and water…this he had not had in a while. He had
been out for days, waking only to eat… he was too lost to think of anything
else…


He left the jail square, and glared off in the distance. The
welcoming sound of meat and fish carried over the air. The feel of bright
grasping flames. The sound of harps and violins and sweet sweet music. He
glares in it’s direction, his eyes glazed over, barely looking at the world
around him. Without thought…he stumbles in the direction of the noise…


* * * *


The gala sounds clearly across the villages. All the
vampires gather for the event. The place is an ocean of bright colors, of
laughter, and of wealth. The band lets loose waves of classical music, allowing
them to flow over the room. The world is perfect, without a flaw, without a
worry… without a need for anything or anyone else…


Suddenly the glass shatters. The world fades. The music
dies… someone dies… a row of gasps rise from among the crowd as they all fix
their gaze upon one spot. The heat of the room seems to die away…


A boy… no more then eight years old, stands in the center of
the gazes, his eyes transfixed upon the ground in front of him. Warm blood runs
down his face and hands, glistening on a sharp edged knife that he holds in his
hands… but he gives no interest to these thing. He merely glares at the ground
in front of him… the corpse of his father at his feet… he speaks…


“Useless disgusting filth… I will kill you… I’ll kill every
single last once of you…”


His words are but whispers, but they reach every ear. His
voice is lacking all tone, yet filled with such pure hatred that it echoes like
a judgment. His eyes rise slightly, and for the first time in a long many
years, he gazes them all in the eyes.


* * * *

Clothes ruffle as the boy juts down the long winding
corridors. Behind him arguments and screams can be heard. He turns the corner
and continues to run. His eyes gaze ahead of him, not looking back to see if
his pursuers are gaining.


Behind him, several meters, a score of men follow him in
pursuit. They will catch him, and they will kill him. That is all that fills
their minds.


They turn right, then left, turning down the corridors. As
they pass, a dead patron marks the ground, cut at the neck or head. The number
of the grows ever still as they run on, but barely see the boy among all the
turns he is taking.


A wisp of ruffled rags sounds. A trail of dirtied white and
brown right around the next corner. They run as fast as they can. They turn the
corner to catch the child, and make him amend for his crimes.


An open window… the ruffle of silk curtains… and dawn rises…
he is never seen again…

Adolescence


The boy sat alone on the dark street. He glared up at the
stars, the hard stoic clouds the covered the sky and a yawning silver moon. It
was nearing winter, and like that winter 3 years ago, it was without feeling.
Every snowflake was a mirror, a remained of a past that was long gone, yet so
close. He hated every flake.


The boy shivered in
his make-shift clothes and glanced down the narrow corridor that was his
resting place. On the far ends of the narrow road the sounds of footsteps and
conversation rose up to his ears. He growled slightly and ignored them, taking
attention away from his own endless gnawing hunger. The unfamiliarity of this
new town haunted him.


He returned back to what he hated most, he thought about his
past. To the father that had abandoned him. To the blood on his hands that same
day. He thought of whether or not the man that raised him was dead… but the
though was minor, for he knew he was. His fingers pressed hard into his knees,
clutching at them until his nails drew blood. But the boy did not care. He
continues to press on them still, his eyes shooting ahead into the darkness. He
tried to stop it. The feeling of being alone. The feeling of being unwanted.


He sat back, angry tears filling his eyes. He tried to think
back. To think of his mother. Nothing came. She had died long ago. A victim of
the same birth the boy shared. His thoughts trailed back to father once more.
He was all alone. He began to cry …


* * * *

The winter came and passed. Along with the spring, the
summer and fall. Another year came and left. And yet, the boy was still alone.
Very little had changed. He was still alone, starving and cold. He lived in a
world where he was frowned upon, looked down on and despised. He was, as always
considered filth.


The boy walked down the main street of the village. He
walked by others like him, ragged people, no homes and no family. They sat on
the streets begging for change. He looked at them sadly and prayed they would
be better. Perhaps one of them would live on, and then the young boy would be
happy. If not him, then at least one should escape this life of perseverance.


His thoughts broke. Yelling filled the air as he glanced
ahead of him. Not far ahead, a beggar lay on the ground. His gray hair ruffled,
his skin dirty and his clothes nothing but mere blankets, was waving his arms
frantically and yelling as he was being beaten upon. Two older men of higher
statues, likely nobles, stood over him. One kicked at him furiously, where as
the other struck him with a cane. Behind him, several people mumbled and
laughed at the display, seeming glad some one was dealing with the beggars.


The boy’s hands moved to fists, he ran towards the men, his
mind consumed by rage. He tried to pounce on the back of one, but was shook off.
They soon turned, and struck at him the lad instead. He was once more helpless,
as they beat down on the young child. His sight faded. He grow sore. He felt
warmth ooze from his head, and from his face. Then the beating stopped…


Too hurt to get up, the boy gave a pathetic glance upwards.
The aristocrat sat over him, a sneer of joy on his malicious face. His beard
long black and trim, his gray eyes scowling down at the boy. He roses his cane
and struck the boy one more. All light faded. As it did, the sound of the
beggars leaving could be made out, a rough scuffing of shoes on pavement. None
stood to help him in return…


* * * *

The years came and went. What was once a young boy was now a
young man. His years more then doubled, and the boy reached the age of 14. The
innocence was gone. The passion was gone. His face was marked in a permanent
scowl. An ever present scar marked his left cheek from a long forgotten strike.
His gaze was filled with distaste and distrust. He frowned as he walked down
the pathway, and his eyes furrowed. It had once again been a long time since he
had eaten or drank. He growled and sighed.


He moved down the street towards the bakery. He looked
around, as the smell of ever-sweet bread, and cakes, and endless things he had
never tasted wafted around him. He smiled for a moment, letting himself be
happy for just that second. His joy soon faded though, in realization of
reality. He did not have the money to afford these things. He could not afford
any of it at all.


The thought irritated him. It seemed to mock and scowl him
that he once again should suffer. That he shouldn’t even be given the
possibility to even live. That either hunger or cold should claim his life,
after he had struggled to move on. The very thought consumed him as it did
those years before.


He shifted his gaze, looking at the bakers. It was crowded
in the store, and they were all occupied. He smiled slightly to himself.
Grabbing a small loaf from a nearby shelf, he bolted out of the door. The
yelling did not bother him. Nor would they ever catch him. What did it matter
when he was hungry? All that mattered were his own need. Things that no one but
he would be able to solve…


* * * *

Another year passed. And the boy was much different. He no
longer cried. He no longer pondered or thought. He only did. He no longer cared
for himself, nor pitied himself. He did not care for the troubles of others,
nor for the wills of others. He was alone, and so he would survive.


The young man sighed slightly on the summer day. He was hot
and drizzled in sweat. His meagre clothes clung to his skin as he leaned
against the wall. No wind blew, and the town well was too under watch for him
to gain any water. He growled slightly. Every day his hunger and thirst seemed
to grow. If he ate, it remained. If he drank it remained. It was ever constant,
defining.


He moved forward, removing himself from the wall. Breathing
heavily in the humid heat, he stepped forwards and moved towards the well near
the center of town. He would merely have to take some from someone leaving.
Weather they liked it or not.


He frowned slightly as he reached the well. Glaring at the
several dozen people moving in and out for water, many of them common people,
or the servants of nobles. He spotted a particular younger child. Some 15 year
old girl more or less his age. Judging from her clothes she was some noble
families’ servant girl. A light mocking snarl left his lips as he shifted
around the streets. He was well aware of the grotto now, of every street and
pathway in the black labyrinth of rotten walkways.


As the girl moved on home, a light touch smiled her lips as
she sung a gentle song. The strike knocked her out before the shock could fill
her young face. A rock the size of a fist came out of the barely notable
crevice that was a corner pathway. The boy walked out after a moment, gazing
for anyone nearby. A few people noticed and began to come over, notifying the
police.


They were too far to bother him. The boy moved over to the
girl’s unconscious body, and picked up the bucket of water she was carrying
home. Placing it over his shoulder, he casually began to walk back into the
pathway from whence he came, leaving the girl to bleed in the street. He made
no effort to run or to hide. He had grown so tired of running … the girl did
not survive…


* * * *

Two more years came and went. The year of being a young man
began to change to that of an adolescent. He was 17 now.


The young man moved patiently though the streets. His hair
ruffled but somewhat well-kept, his moderate clothing consisting of a shirt,
pants, suspenders and dress shoes. His clothes and skin were clean, and
altogether well rounded.


He had stolen enough to money to afford daily bread and
water, not that it ceased his ever present hunger. His thoughts drifted back to
the girl on some days, then to his father and his mother. Those moments lasted
merely seconds now, as he cast the ideas away casually. Their existence was not
his problem.


He smiled comfortably at this idea, almost casually, as he
gazed about the crowd. But he stopped suddenly, and glanced ahead. Some 60 feet
foreword he saw a recognizable face. A hawk-nosed nobleman, with a trimmed
greying beard and stoic gray eyes. His mind wreathed in hatred. A smile pressed
his lips however. A little smile that he shared between himself, a dagger in
the pant of his leg. A gift he had acquired from someone, who like the girl,
was a … convenience to him…


* * * *

The young man walked casually among the large house. He
smiled at all the commodities and riches that filled the noble’s house. He had
always seen these people as a child, seen their homes, but he had never entered
one before. His joy faded for a moment, as his past shone back at him. He gripped
at his head, seeming to try and physically push the thoughts out of his mind.
It did not work, they continued to haunt him.


He snarled out of anxiety and began to rummage the house. He
moved up and down the house at a comfortable pace. He looted all money and
valuables he could, placing them in a sac. Granted, he was still a low class
man, without home and family, so all he could manage was a meager grain sack,
but it was better storage then nought. That did not bother him however, as it
slowly filled with valuables, coins and riches.


Finished with the home, he hoisted it up on his back, and
returned downstairs. Opening the front door, he turned around and gave a large
mocking bow to the empty house. He chuckled slightly and turned, shutting the
door behind him as he laughed comfortably, walking down the garden pathway. Why
would they ever bow back to the likes of him? A better question: How could they
bow back, when they were dead…?

Adulthood


The years came and passed once more. The fall and rise of
the 4 seasons passed 3 times. The lad was now a full grown man. In his early
twenties, his pallid blue eyes, well groomed hair and fine clothes were a
marvel compared to what he once was.


As so many people must have thought, as he came riding thought
town on a horse-drawn carriage, several baggages clinging tightly to the back.
He gazed out the carriage among the crowds of commoners who looked back in
puzzlement and mistrust.


He was new to this city. He had moved once more. The spoils
of that day 3 years back had earned him much keep. He had left that very day to
a nearby town, where he sold what he could, and kept the rest. His money
staggered. He bought fine clothes, fine food, and fine grooming. Now he rode to
a new town. A large city this time, to spend that money he had left on a home.


He smiled once more at this thought, a casual, superior
smile that seemed to radiate both threat and interest from him. Yet it
subsided, as he retrained himself. It was replaced by a calm, casual and polite
smile, as he nodded and greeted passers by on his way to his new home. One must
act the part…


* * * *

Yet more years passed. The young man took many new interests
and new customs. Now he ate daily, he learned to read and write, and he took an
interest into learning music. He was living the life of a noble. It infuriated
him, yet pleased him. He enjoyed the overwhelming sense of power, yet despised
the idea of becoming what he so much despised…


That ideal did not last long however.


* * * *


It was a cold damp night. The sun had set among evanescent
clouds of orange and lavender. Clouds that soon let loose tears of rain on that
evening. Perhaps they were crying because they knew what would happen that
night.


But their splatter of rain that poured from the heavens did
not cover the sound of a bang on the door. The young man, sleeping peacefully
in the armchair in the library, shifted slightly, one of his eyes opening
sharply. Its blue tinted deeply with blood red, gazing out in fury among the
curtain of blond hair that hid it.


He sighed and shut his eyes once more. However the knock
came once more. Content with the understanding that whoever was there was
clearly there for a reason, he rose from the chair.


Moving longingly and slowly, he moved the lengthy distance
from the small room to the opposite of the house, reaching the front door.
Opening it slightly and glaring out into the dark, he sighed slightly, noting
no one was there.


He shifted, turning back to return back to the
semi-permeable warmth of his estate, then a voice spoke out towards him, from
within the darkness and the pouring rain of the storm.


“Adalfrid I presume?”


* * * *

The two men sat around at opposite sides of the table. The
parlour decorated in reds and gold among many lavish tables, cabinets and
drapes, seemed frighteningly cold, despite the open fire that stood but some 6
feet away, which crackled in a sense of joy, cackling at the situation.


Adalfrid sat across from the man, his legs crossed one over
the other, his fingers tapping passively against each other, as he sat deep in
thought. A cup of tea sat calmly at his side in an expensive china cup. His
eyes were distant, and his gaze at the floor, making his face partially lost in
the ruffles of his long blonde hair.


The other man, dressed in moderate clothes and a trench
coat, watched him pensively. He sipped at his tea lightly and seemed to await
his reply. He was drenched in cold rain, for he had traveled far, yet the cold
flame seemed to ease away the phantom wounds his muscles suffered.


“so…”


Finally spoke Adalfrid. His fingers ceased to move. He
dropped his head slightly, and glared down at the red-brown liquid that was his
tea. He seemed quiet for a moment, almost worried at the breaking of bad news.


Then the smile appeared. One that had not appeared for a
long time. A crease across his face, that scarred it not because making it lose
any of its handsome apparel, but by the suffocating poison of malice found in
it.


His eyes rose, hungry and intense, matching the jagged sickly
smile. He seemed short of insanity, but most of all, he seemed filled with a
sudden joy and passion. His blue eyes darkened to a murky color of red, as it
seemed to float among his eyes like blood in water.


“I am…bountou?”


* * * *

The man stood with him for many days. Every morning Adalfrid
would sit with him. They would discuss for long hours what I it was to be
bountou. He asked of history, physiology, ideals, people, and so forth.


The man’s name, turned out to be Einhvert. He was a man from
the farther ends of central Germany.
He sensed the dawning of Adalfrids power on his travel back home, as he was in
the Vienna
train station.


He replied all he could. They spoke during the day. In the
evening they would dine, and at night Adalfrid gave him lodging in one of his
guest rooms. This cycle continued for a while.


After many months, the man told him of his leave. And so he
left, not to return for many more months. In this time, Adalfrid’s passion and
interest grew. And at the same time, so did his hunger.


* * * *

The man did return eventually. This time, with a book,
something that stirred Adalfrid most interestingly.


They soon began another aspect. Training.


Their conversations and discussions were now left for the
evening, when all else was done and complete. Until that time, from dawn to
dusk, they trained. Einhvert instructed Adalfrid on the many aspects to
becoming a bounto, and encouraged him to train several techniques, controlling
both his physical and spiritual powers.


“One day, Adalfrid, you will have to decide your path, and
show it to the world, bearing the pride of the bountos. You will have to show
them your passion!”


Adalfrid merely smiled, chuckling and nodding at this
supposed passion.


* * * *

The man sat bloody and strung. His whole weight held by the
sword plunged though his chest, binding him to the tree where he hung. His
consciousness faded, as Einhvert clung, his gray hair drenched his blood, and
his once green eyes gray as life slowly ebbed from him.


The sword blade, cold and hungering, seemed to pulse,
slowing down to match his ever-fading heartbeat. Slower and slower it went,
until the pendulum of time ended, with one final tick.


“My passion, old man, is das leiden (suffering). A passion I shall cleave
into the souls and corpses of this world”


Adalfrid chuckled, his eyes red as blood, gazing into the
fading life of his mentor. His smile seeming endless and hungry. He had finally
gotten what he had achieved. Something with which to end the lives of all those
who cause suffering. That was all he had ever cared about.


And with that, silver rang as the corrupt blonde man removed
the sword, cracking bones and ribs as its metal gleamed, tearing out of the
body.

Einhvert feel dead to the ground.


* * * *

Einhvert Oftstein died February 27^th, 1887.


Adalfrid Von Deifhen has not been seen since that day…Until
now…

RP Sample:


The footsteps echoed evenly across the cold stone floor, an
even patter of hard leather tapping evenly against chiseled granite. Damp wet
granite, freshly glistened with the fall of new spring rain, the kind of
endless rainfall that came and went like the passing of the day.


Yet with every moment as the rain grew, the steps kept their
even monotonous tone, an even sound tapping at every second, keeping in beat
with every pump of the heart. There seemed something almost pensive about the
steps, out in the middle of the rainfall, as others clattered as they ran by
for shelter, shattering but not stopping the rhythmic clicking of the man’s footsteps.


On occasional passer by might catch the smells of the
cigarette smoke, or the light smell of imported cologne. But those that did
were too far lost into their own worlds to pay it much mind, other then a
sidewards glance of curiosity.


But these things never did bother the man. No he found that
such ignorance was rather wonderful, in the way that it kept the world
spinning, the mind working, and the even balance among reality and fiction…


The latter brought a comforting smile to his mild and
care-less seeming face. His ever blue eyes gleamed across the faces of men and
women that ran by, and at the occasional driver that shot by, the cars piercing
through the rain. He seemed to be watching out for something, or some one more
likely. Of course it was a discomfort, but not a bother. He was aware they were
not too far away, but the idea of walking in the middle of a storm to meet
them, well, that was not all to fun.


He sighed slightly, the smile still on his young and
auspiciously wise face. He turned the corner, his wet hair and clothes whipping
as he came about, sending a splatter of water against the ground, and making
what damp-free spots remained as wet as the surrounding. He was in thought, and
the rain was far too insignificant to shatter the haven that was his mind.
There were too many matters to deal with, and stopping over small matters would
merely get in the way.


But then…the footsteps stopped. The man glanced up, the
strands of golden hair on his head
cascading down and clinging to his skin with a dead chill. He lifted his hand
casually. A nearby ventilation shaft hissed and shivered as a subway train
passed by. Shifting it a sideways glance, his eyes moved once more ahead.


He had finally found her. Some 16 feet head, in the midst of
the dark evening and the palavering rain, there stood the person he was looking
for. She was a woman, something he did not expect, but was not altogether
bothered by. She trembled slightly from
the cold and damp weather, pulling her coat close waiting patiently for the
stop light to turn.


“ah…. How convenient…”


The man’s eyes focus, the pupil glaring cannibalistic hunger
in her direction.


“I hate it when the ones with the good souls visit at the
most inopportune times…”


The casual smile and gentles nature that once remained was
lost. A look of intense determination and arrogance took its place, chaining
hinted signs of hatred, hidden behind his mocking, smiling facade. The
footsteps began once more in the direction of the stoplight. A swipe of silver
gleamed.


All was quiet once more…