TAYLOR CONNOR

 

[Age] Immortal (Twenty-six)

[D.O.B] 13th of October 

[Height] 6''0

[Hair] Brown

[Eyes] Blue

[Species] Incompletely- turned vampire

[Sire] Valentine Grimm

[Adoptive Sire] Carmilla Karenstein

[Residency] New York, New York

[Relationship] Single, pursued by Shamus

[Sexuality] Pansexual

(Not limited in sexual choice with regard to biological sex, gender, or gender identity)

 

 

 

 

       Formally, Christopher Adams, Taylor Connor remembers nothing of his life prior to 2014. An injury sustained to the head would have taken his life had he been human. Rather than his life, a bullet took all of Taylor's memory in an instant. He is medically diagnosed with Retrograde Amnesia, a condition most commonly caused by injury and characterized by a loss of memory-access, or information that was learned. It does not affect Taylor's ability to form new memories after the onset of the condition. To this day he has a scar on his right temple, hidden by his hairline.

      Prior to the accident, Taylor lived a different life under another identity. 

 

 

 PROFILE WILL BE UNDERGOING SOME CHANGES IN ORDER TO ADJUST TO CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT MADE OVER THE YEARS.

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  • "Vampires." He repeats the word, his eyes going wide. "Is this what you think I am? Young man, I am no such thing, though what I happen to be is no easier to stomach. You, though...you are one.” Well, if he's going to be blunt, he's going to go straight to the point. He's grinning, though, like this news was the easiest thing in the world to stomach. “Hmm…funny, that I’d meet one here. I raised one, you see. My son, just not biologically. I know much about how that works. Well…sort of. He is half. I do not understand it. I simply did what my texts told me. Lord knows his father was no help…”

    Now the old man's off on a tangent, a far-away look in his eyes suggesting he's so deep in reminiscing that he's unaware of most of his surroundings and movement happening in them. How in the world could he ever be dangerous? He's got the sensibilities of a priest and the fashion sense of an aging Italian mobster.

    "It is all very well and good. I can keep secrets. In fact, I keep many!"

    34571184?profile=original

  • The old German chatters off numbers in rapt succession, the figures clearly one aspect of the English language he understands quite well. His sense of neatness and order is in line with what one should expect in stereotype, but seeing and hearing it is otherworldly. How can someone live this organized, this “by the book,” and function in a place like this? Maybe that is why he has never found himself staying in large cities for more than a few weeks at a time, without good reason. With the war eighty to ninety hears behind him, the original enemy is vastly deceased. No, it’s the new breed, oft-prone to heading for cheap land and cheaper rent in the far northern reaches of the United States. Montana, North Dakota, Idaho…it’s there they build strongholds and compounds, there they spew their bile and their fury, there they choose a city innocently named after the color “white” and twist it into a living hell of bigotry and hatred. This is where he’s called to.

    This is where he goes.

    “Mm…my fingers are not…so seen by the phone.” Jurgen’s fingers wiggle, miming tapping on the screen itself. “I suppose it is because I am…very cold.” That smile is crooked, but by far the closest thing to human to flash across his face than most of the emotions that he has displayed have been. There’s a playful gleam there, a sign he hasn’t quite lost himself entirely to formality.

    “I will do my best.”

  • The book remained motionless once Christopher made the decision to close it. The sorceress inside had few options when it came to getting out of that wretched book. She could rely on the young man she had spoken to, convince his boss to set her free, or seek out another poor bastard to do the job. All of these options relied on someone else. She had been on display in that museum for God knows how long. This was an opportunity for her and she did not intend on letting it go to waste.

    The ride to their destination was long and silent and her lack of senses made it impossible for the dark fairy to know where they were going. When she felt the car come to a stop the book shook. Unfortunately for her the book was immediately wrapped in black silk. She could hear bits and pieces of the conversation between Christopher and the bidder but it soon became impossible to follow. It was only when the young man spoke that she figured out what had happened. Christopher had changed his mind about giving the book away. It's magic, more specifically the malevolent creature inside had won him over. How delightful, she thought. His apology and offer to free her received a quick response from Maleficent. Her handwriting appeared on the pages yet again for him to read.

    "No apology necessary. You made the correct decision." By now Maleficent had started to wonder about what she was dealing with. The lack of gunshots led her to believe Christopher was inhuman.

    "Releasing me is simple. You need to wish me out of the book." That sounded far too easy but why would she lie about something as important as her freedom? The simple solution meant either one of two things. Either the people responsible for her imprisonment were imbeciles or Christopher was dealing with a monster no one in their right mind would release. The spell made it impossible for any individual with her blood to release her. The same was true for any creature under the influence of her magic like her pet raven, Diablo.

    "I assume you will want something in return?"

  • “A living reminder is often not a welcome thing. I take it this is not the case, if my presence does not cause you further alarm.” What he’s seen and heard is far more to digest than it should be to the average man with no stake in his every waking moment, but Steinholtz takes his second leash on life with the utmost gravity. Perhaps this is better called the third. His brief stint in the service of hell culminated in a literal explosion, from which it took him years to piece himself back together enough to hold a corporeal form once more. After that, it seems, his debt had been paid off. There’s no disguised devil pointing him towards his next target, but his thirst for vengeance has not eased up at all. It is a conundrum, and one which he had to quickly fix or risk losing himself entirely.

    “I am far older than the company you surely wish to keep, ja? But this I would welcome. I have much to learn about this country, still, all these years later. I would welcome your perspective, for whatever good it may bring.” The gentle rumble here and there in his words, the halting pauses, and the occasionally present harmless, but misplaced, stresses make him the very picture of innocent humor.


    “Enough of my prattling. I am not so good with the phone. But I have one.”

  • "I'm just givin' ye the stereotypes about my people," He quirks a brow at Taylor.  Obviously communication was going to be something of a challenge, considering Finn prefered to speak behind a curtain of wit and sarcasm. "no more, no less." A dark shoulder is lifted and dropped in a shrug that has him grimacing.  The whiskey could only numb his pain so much, apparently. 

    It does something to his self control though; grinning boyishly, he flicks the edge of the man's glass after he's poured more alcohol into it.  He didn't know if people like Taylor could even get drunk.. but apparently, he was going to find out.

    "Well, I can't lift as much as ye no doubt, weren't I enhanchin' my physical strength.." but he's much too exhaused to even think about showing off right now.  So he takes a large drink from his glass and swishes the whiskey around his mouth before swallowing it down. "surely ye feel somethin?" Finn's brow pinches doubtfully, could Taylor even feel such a change in his body, or would he have to try flexing his muscles?  The academic in him is curious.

    By the time Taylor is done with his story, the Irishman's glass is empty and his expression is as placid as a still pond. "Why?" he wonders, outloud. "what'd ye do to those guys to make 'em hate ye so much that they'd try and murder ye with vampire blood--which, I if I might-- is completely mental." Far be it for Finn to back away from a dare, even the unspoken kind.  He reaches out to grip the man's wrist, feeling for a pulse with the pad of his thumb.  

     

    "I need some air, let's go outside." he says after a minute.

     

  • He finds it a little funny that Taylor seems so worried about a little bit of whiskey on his counter when there was what probably looked like a murder scene upstairs in the hallway.  He figures he should probably work on a little spell to wash his blood away when he's feeling a little less buzzed and a lot less drained, both physically and spiritually.  Tonight's been a good wake up call, a reminder he can never be too careful.  And who knew what kind of friends this leechy lad had hanging around.

    Finn takes another drink from his glass, not reacting physically to burn. "Well, it's what the old kine shite claims.  'The druids were peceable wise men, scholars and wizards..'  n' they pranced about in white robes, casting spells wit' their wands and taking part in ritualistic orgies and bloody sacrifice of livestock.." he chuckles, taking another drink. "Well, I s'pose some of it's true, then.  But it's mostly kine shite."

    Lugh's massive balls, I'm sloshed.  The realization is a startling one.  It's been a while since he's been drunk of just one glass of anything.  Must have something to do with all the blood he's lost.

    "Fuck mate, I dunno'.  There's people out there doin' all sortsa weird shite.  Waterin' down the guest's drinks is white picket compared to suckin' their blood, eh?"

    He sniggers, refilling Taylor's glass without spilling a drop this time around, and topping off his own.  Then he shakes his bottle at the man, blue eyes peering past the neck of it at the other man's healed face.  He's tempted to lie, but decides against it. "Naaah," Finn waves his hand once in a dismissive gesture. "Bet ye could bench more than normal, though." smell sharper and see further, maybe even feel the earth's smothered presence depending on how much he's ingested.  He keeps this to himself, though.

    "Pardon my bluntness, but ye ain't a pure blooded vampire, are ye?"

  • { Seeing as you are back, I wanted to say welcome back. I hope you're doing alright and what not with life. That's all really. }

  • He looks around for something to dry his hands on and bind the wound on his wrist with afterwards.  Then he tips some whiskey into each of the glasses.  He very nearly hands one over to the man--but thinks twice about getting that close--and slides it across the counter to him instead, causing the whiskey within to slosh side to side, a bit spilling over the rim.

    "Not a big fan of literature, I take it." he's hardly surprised, if anything he's a bit relieved.  Pre-conceived notions are at best amusing and at worst another symbol of his religion's degradation.  Another reminder that he's the last of the last, and if he's not - the others are damn good at keeping themselves hidden from him and the whole of the world.  He shrugs, then flinches with regret and pain almost immediately.

    Taylor's next question has him pausing, mouth open to respond but the words shriveled on his tongue. "Errr.." his blue eyes rotate around the room before finally landing on Taylor, thoughtful. "No..? Well, kinda yeah? It's a bitch of a long story, and me head's poundin'." Finn picks up his own glass and starts drinking from it, and he tips his head back to drain it to the last drop.  Then, he pours himself another. "Although not for long if yer bottle aint watered down," he shakes it at the man, then slumps back against the counter as if all the strength has gone out of him.

    "Bleedin' grand, really." He'd heal, anyway.  He just needed a good rest and maybe an arm wrestling match with one of the numerous trees outfront.  "..ye don't feel like yer gonna' explode or nothin', now, do ye?" Finn asks, his eyebrows knitted together with concern.  There wasn't the slightest possibility of someone exploding after drinking his blood-- unless it had something to do with a totally unrelated but quality timed incident.  However, the feeling that one could take on the world and still have enough energy to fly to Jupiter and build a bridge back was almost universal, not that many have gotten the chance.  These are things he just knows.

     

  • He squints against the light, scanning the contents of the refrigerator with the methodical gusto of a starving wolf.  His stomach groans at him-- and he closes the door roughly. "In the name of the Dagda.." he murmurs under his breath, turning halfway to look at Taylor sideways. "I knew that," the corner of his mouth quirks slightly.

    Turning back, he pulls open the cupboard doors and peers at the selection, if any at all.  He's not picky- he's not partial to whiskey in any case, he reaches in and snags something brown, dragging it out along with a single glass.  He sets both on the counter, then he casts a brief and thoughtful look at Taylor.  

    Then he grabs a second glass.

    He limps to the sink, rinses out the glasses, then shakes them somewhat dry.  "For the record, I'm somethin' of a magician.  The technichal term is Druid, and no.  Before ye ask I don't have long white robes and I've never had a beard, and no, I don't have a wand." slowly but surely, he's healing.  His headache is fading away, but his ribs are being stubborn- and he's not bleeding quite as much, but he's still gushing all over the place.

    Finn uncaps the whiskey, then tips the bottle back to his mouth without touching his lips.  He swishes it around his mouth, then he sticks his hand into the sink and spits the whiskey onto his wound. "Ah!" he growls out three curses in Old Irish in the span of a second, smacking his fist into the bottom of the sink because he can't think of any other way to aleviate the pain. "Shite, hah.." keeping his arm where it is, he turns the sink on warm and lets the water run down his forearm, turning pink and nasty.  Cutting lines through the layer of dirt and salt that clung to probably every inch of him.

     

  • Finn reigns in his anger as best as he can, spitting out one last nasty "Fuck," before he sets his jaw and sticks a bloody hand against the wall, dragging himself to a knee and then to his feet.  Bleeding all the while, making him consider that Taylor might attack him again.

    Though, he'll be ready this time.  He'd been so disoriented before that he could lean on that as an excuse, and he sure as hell wasn't expecting to run into a vampire of all things--which he's still not entirely sure how to fight, and he can't exactly hurl around fireballs--but he's confident in his miniscule arsenal.

    "Totally tossed, for one.  Hungry and near desperate for that finger of whiskey, mate," Finn murmurs, his dark blue eyes following the trail of his own blood that runs down Taylor's chin.  Then he sighs, "I'm tired." And turns on his heel to stalk back down the hall the way he'd come.

    Aye, he's totally aware of the fact that wasn't what Taylor meant when he'd asked what are you? But he was hardly in a mood to answer silly questions sober while he bled out all over the place.  

    He reaches the kitchen and then suddenly topples forward as his legs turn to rubber, just barely stopping himself from smacking his head off the counter.  For a moment he just leans there, staring at the backs of his hands against the counter-top, wishing he had access to a larger energy reservoir.  He'd give his left leg to lay out on the grass- but so far, American soil hasn't been kind to him.

    "Aye, aye.  What's passed is past, just know that if ye try n' bite me without my permission again I'll fry ye inside n' out." Finn makes his way to the fridge, pulling it open. "where's the bloody whiskey?"

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