Soren Halveston - Vampire General

Character name: Soren Halveston

Nickname: Sworn, Blade of the South

Species: Vampire

Age: 202, born 1812. Was turned at age 22 and still looks it.

Rank: General

Physical Appearance: Extremely pale skin. Pale gray eyes. Shoulder length black hair. A strong jaw. Skinny and frail looking. Always dresses nicely. 6'5".

Picture:

Personality: He's a typical Southern gentleman. Soren is a flirt, though he does not appear to have much interest in anything romantic or sexual. He is very calm and laid back and would rather take a stroll than do anything else. That has not stopped him from being a prominent and effective General. He speaks with a very gentle and soft Southern drawl. Soren is loyal to those he feels deserve it and not afraif to let someone know if he dislikes them. In battle he becomes a vicious warrioir very different from his normal, gentle self.

Abilities: As a vampire, Soren has the basic abilities: hypnotism (humans only), speed healing, shape-shifting (into a black eagle owl with his grey eyes instead of yellow), flight, inability to die from natural causes. Can draw a sword from thin air (really from the astral plain.)

History: Soren was born in Georgia in 1812. He was always drawn to the pubs, the bad parts of town, the whorehouses. He loves to drink, gamble, and generally have a good time. That turned unfortunate for him in 1834 when a man he was playing cards with got violent after a string of losses. He lost control and attacked Soren, then realized what he had done. This man was a vampire, and saved Soren's life by turning him rather then letting him die. Soren adapted to life as a vampire very quickly and was eager to join the war once he learned of it from his fellows.

That war was not the only one he fought in. When the Civil War erupted, he signed up out of sheer boredom, and rose to the rank of General. But the higher ups found out what he was, that was was a monster who healed fast and fed on the blood of his soldiers. They attempted a coup and tried to slay or capture him, but Soren turned into an owl and was gone before they could blink. All records of him were erased from military history.

Since then, Soren has traveled the world and rose in rank within the vampire army until he was made General there, too. He is happy in his position, working aside the demons alongside Jacklynn.

Likes/Dislikes: Likes: Birds, card games, cavorting, naps, nice clothes and shoes, nice cars. Also bloodshed and tearing people apart. Tends to keep teeth from his enemies and he has a nice collection dating back to the Civil War. Dislikes: Cats, working too hard outside of battle, modern music.

Sexual Orientation: Asexual/aromantic.

1834. A tavern in Georgia. 2:47am.

A sigh escaped two delicate lips. “It’s been your hand for a while now, sir,” those lips, that mouth said, a gentle Southern drawl coming out like gasps of soft clouds into the air.

“Don’t rush me, I’m goin!’ Ain’t my fault I got such lousy cards.” This man, his cards partner for the night, had been experiencing a spectacular series of losses and was not taking it well. He was red in the face, blustering almost curses from beneath a beefy moustache, and gripping his cards to hard that Soren was sure they would dissolve into dust at any moment.

Soren sighed once more and looked at his own hand, held in delicate gloved hands. Gloves were slowly falling out of style with American men, but Soren couldn’t see why; he would not let such a lovely and dignified accessory slip from his grasp. “Ain’t no reason for you to get angry with me because the fates dealt you measly cards.”

He could feel heat radiating from the man’s face. “As far as I see it, YOU been the one dealin’ the cards all night. You been dealin’, I been losin’. Something about that don’t sound right.”

“…sir, are you callin’ me a cheater?”

“I ain’t called ya NOTHIN’, but I’m just sayin’ that with you dealin’, I ain’t won a single hand. Don’t seem right, does it?” He grinned, but it was not a happy expression.

Soren pushed the deck towards him. “Then you deal next time.”

The man sniffed and set his cards down. He slowly stood, muscular and broad; his bicep was possibly wider than Soren’s waist. “No, there ain’t gonna be a next time. Yer gonna give me back all the money you stole, and we’re gonna leave just as we came in, happy with fat pockets. Y’hear me, Nancy?”

Oh, come now. Soren could hadly believe this boorish behavior. He reached out and took the stack of money from his side of the table. “Stole?” he said, looking the stack over. “No sir, you must be mistaken. I won this fair and square. But if you’re forfeitin’ this game, then I think I shall retire. Goodnight.”

He was gone before the man even seemed to realize it. With his hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head, tall boots, and cane click-clacking along the cobblestones, Soren cut an impressive figure. It was a figure that had often gotten him in trouble before. Tonight was no different. He did not hear the man’s angry footsteps pounding the ground, did not expect his opponent’s fist to collide with the back of his head with such strength that Soren lost his vision for a moment. The force of the strike sent him sprawling to the ground. Soren’ did not even have time to register the pain before the man was kicking him in the head, the stomach-anywhere he could reach. The man fell onto him and Soren screamed when a knife starting digging into his intestines.

He did not know how long the beating lasted, but it ended as suddenly as it began. Soren blinked his one good eye, the other blackened and swollen, and tried to get his bearings. He heard someone crying and hoped that it was not himself that he was hearing. There were feet, as his vision came back into almost focus. Feet. A human arm, bent in way no arm was meant to – it was his, that was his glove and his sleeve covering that mangled excuse for a limb- and blood. Blood seeping through the gaps in the cobble stone, bubbling merrily as it soaked into stone and earth. But still sobbing.

“I…I, sweet Jesus, I never meant to, that’s ain’t…I’ll fix it, I’ll make it right.”

The feet approached him and arms hooked around him. Soren tried to speak, but only blood poured from between his parted lips. In that moment, he knew he was dying. There was a flash of pain as he was picked up, then nothing.

Soren barely awoke in a new environment, still wrapped in strong arms and unaware. Unaware of anything except the burning pain in his stomach and head. And a new pain, sharp needles pressing into his neck. He whined, he thought, and the needle pulled from his skin. So did a warmth. A face came into view, bloody and tearstained, with two long fangs protruding from behind a thick moustache. Those were not needle that had been in Soren’s neck. They were teeth. He tried to look away when his opponent, his attacker, his abductor took a strong bit into his own fore arm. The gaping hole was pressed to his lips, and Soren batted at the man to move it. Well, he tried, but his arm was useless at his side, the other pinned down. He had no energy to fight. No energy to anything but what the man commanded from him. “Drink.”

Pain coursed through his body. Terrible pain, tiny razorblades taking the place of every drop of blood in his veins. He slept. But after a time – how long it had been, he’d never truly know. When he woke up, however, he felt fine. His arm worked. His eye was no longer swollen. His wounds were healed. Soren pushed himself up, and gasped. He was on the floor of an abandoned house, but it was not his squalid surroundings that disturbed him so. It was the word scrawled in blood across the wall, with his can and hat leaning against it.

Vampire.