OOC - A little background on my Character.

I am Mark Archer. This is who I am. I am a man of god. I am 23 years old. This is my story. A story of tragedy….. a story of hope. Most of all it is my story… it is who I am.
My life started in a simple village. A village in the central regions of a large island. The island of Great Britain. The village was modern for its time. There were many cottages, houses, shops and Inns. But we also had a church. Our troubled village was a strange brew. The innocent, the rich the poor, the abused the defiled. Humans ruled the day and the kindred ruled by night. Anyone , or anything that forgot this came to a unfortunate end.
My troubles began one winter night. The sky was a void of hate and destruction. The clouds loomed over the village. Rain poured from the sky like tears from a golem. The sky whistled a violent and harsh tune that tore through the village. Shattering anything in its path. God frowned upon us… his wraith flashed across the sky.
The streets were empty….save for a few drunks and sinister men. The pebbled streets were straining against the flow of the rain. Lanterns were loosing a battle against the darkness. The village was settled… except my house…a small humble house.
I was awakened by the whimpering howl of a women….. my mother. I leapt from my bed and down the stairs to the main room. The fireplace was alight. Its flames danced to a harsh beat that changed rhythm with the gentle breeze of air rushing through a cracked window. Its flames created many beautiful things….but could destroy it all in a wink. The crackle was soothing to the ear….the colors of the flame transfixed me. Its freedom fascinated me. The Fireplace was made of old wood. Hollowing out….its life draining from it. A door to the right, an escape. An escape from the horror that haunted my family. Pictures of the family lined the filthy walls… chairs and tables occupied the middle of the room. A rug laid before the fire.
Upon this rug lied a women…. My mother. Her clothes ripped. Her battered and abused body exposed to the elements of the world. My father kneeled above her… one hand holding a belt that rapped around her skinny , withered wrists. In his other hand was a cane…. his tool of pain that I had felt in my younger years. I had know my father raped and beat my mother since I was a child. Fear kept me away… hate kept me silent. I was a mistake… something they didn’t want. A rejected gift. The unfortunate product of his game.
She laid there , suffocating on a sock that silenced her pleas…. her pain. The belt cutting of her hands circulation. The look of terror and sorrow filled her face. Her stares could not penetrate the harsh exterior of the heartless basterds face. His stern face showed no sign of remorse… no sign of pleasure… no sign of emotion. He through the cane behind him and began to slap her up. His rough hands struck the soft gentle beauty of her face.
A single tear rolled down her face…this single tear struck me like a hammer. My mind was suddenly empty. I was on auto pilot. My hand griped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. He was shocked and I took advantage of this. With my other hand I punched him in the face and then the stomach. He bent over in pain until I brought my knee up . He fell to the floor, winded and hurt.
I stared down at my mother for a few minutes until his fist plunged towards my face. Hitting me above the left eye. My skin was ripped open…..a scar I still have today that haunts me. He grabbed both my shoulders and hurled me into the fire place. My back smashing against the mantle piece. My body slowly slumped down. He ran towards me until he stopped.. He grunted….he screamed. Clutching the object that penetrated him. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room. His shattered body fell to the floor. His life flowed out of his empty shell.
I stared in awe at my hand. The red hot poker had burnt my right hand. I stood….I stared. I had killed the weak old fool that had ruled my life. I was free from the pain… only to be haunted. I moved over to my mother. I unbound her and helped her to her feet. My soul was shattered and my heart broken by her harsh words.
"You fool. Your insane. Look what you have done! I wish you were never born you complete waste of space. Get out of my house now! Its all your fault. I Hate you. If you dare step foot again in this house ill kill you !"
How could she do to this to me. My own mother. I loved her. She was my life. My Guide…my mother. I was only trying to protect her. I saved her from her beating… I had freed her. I did it for her. I didn’t know how to live. I was driven insane. My conscious raged a long and hard war with my heart. My ethic views were conflicted. I was conflicted. I was… undone. I had only done if out of love… I wanted to be accepted….to be valued. To be Loved. But I am condemned.
The next month of my life was spent in the streets. A beggar…a fool. The man that every one laughed at. My mind a mess. Indeed I was a lunatic. This was until I met her. I met her on a long cold night, unknown to me she was a Vampire. She picked me up and whispered into my ear of a better life. This was until when she plunged her teeth into my neck.
My Malkavian mistress showed me how to harness the strength, the power and the gifts that I had gained. For the next few months she was my mentor….my hope… my path to redemption. When I was ready I returned back to the house of horror were I found the bitch. The pitiful whore stood and stared at me.
"How dare you return here. I have no love for you. I hate you get out of here now or I will…"
Her words felt like sun light beating down upon naked skin. I opened my mouth. My fangs exposed to her. Terror filled her face. My right hand gracefully moved forward. Gripping her neck with all my strength I lifted her from the ground. My grasp tightened and with a loud crack her fragile neck broke….in my hands. I thrust my other hand deep into her chest tearing through her delicate flesh. I retracted my hand….in my hand.. I held her heart. For a few moments it kept beating… blood spurting over me. My mothers life seeped onto my hand. Her head laid limp to one side. Her face looked innocent. Gentle and kind. Free from her troubled life.
My sister walked into the room. Tears rushed from here eyes, striking me down. I dropped the lifeless corpse to the floor. I walked over to my sister and knelt next to her. I whispered into her ear. Reassuring her before I let the voice inside my head take over. I bit my fangs into her neck. I defiled her… cursing her to a existence like my own.
I took her to my mistress… my guide…my mentor and my lover. My mistress asked me about the incident….At first I felt proud…. Strong and victorious. These petty emotions soon left my head… The mind and voice of my mother filled my head. She had broken me… she had remade me… she had made me the way I am. It was her fault. It was her gift that led to this tragedy. I did what I had to do. I staked her…my mistress. Staked through the heart and left to die.
That night I slept in a dark ally. I awoke and my sister was no longer with me. I spent a long time traveling to find myself.
I am Mark Archer. This is what I am. I am a man of the devil. A damned corpse with nothing. I have no soul and I have no opportunity for redemption. It is my fault. I killed them. I was alone… and now I am… what am I? I am the fire. I had a beautiful and kind mother. A innocent young sister. But in the flash of a second I had destroyed my family. I had defiled and cursed my sister.. I had slain my mistress and lover. I had become the devil. The hand of wrath. I loved them….
Forgive me….. Sister….I love you. I live my unlife for you. I bear the torment, the sorrow, the burden just so I can be with you again. For I could just walk into the sunlight….and release my tortured body. The voices would be gone…. I would be gone.


[ This Message was edited by: Mark Archer on 2001-10-15 12:44 ]

((Woah...COOL story man :smile: ))

The window was half open. A breeze of air brushed past the curtains and filled the room with a cool aroma of peace. The sky looked like a deep black sea washing over the world, stars twinkled in the sky and the moon cut through the darkness, bringing just enough light into the room to make the prominent features visible. Shadows of the curtains danced across the room.
A table was in the middle of the room; the window in front of it, a door behind it and a bed to the right. The left hand side of the room was filled with objects that were barely visible in the darkness.
The table was made from wood and had four wooden chairs surrounding it. The bed; somebody was in the bed. The bed was soft. The silky sheets bringing comfort to the naked skin of the man as it clung to his moist body. Sweat was dripping from him, his mind tormented as the muscles in his body tightened and relaxed… his limbs moving uncontrollably. Grunting… he laid defenceless against his nightmares.
The man sat up gasping for air as his hands griped tightly to the sheets that were slowly sliding off him. His eyes began to open. He rubbed them slowly before sliding out of the bed. His hand reached to his left pressing a switch that brought light to the room. He reached down for his trousers that he put on with little effort. He walked towards the table where his shirt was.
The door to the apartment suddenly opened. His eyes darted to the newcomer. A young beautiful lady stood before him. Her hair was long and silky; a dark brown colour that flowed loosely down her shoulders. Her dress was a deep blue colour. It amplified her already magnificent tanned and firm smooth skin.
She walked slowly towards him, her lips parted elegantly as she began to speak in a calming voice, "I know why the dreams are returning to you …"
The man spoke in a tired and weak voice "I have faced her before."
The women’s eyes were staring right into his, penetrating his exterior as she continued to approach him until she was directly in front of him. She began to speak again only this time her voice was dark, slow and evil. "And she will defeat you again…"
The man looked in horror and confusion into the women’s eyes. He tried to speak but all he could say was a simple and slow what?
Her left hand gripped tightly around his throat as she forced him down onto the table. He tried to resist her, grabbing onto her wrist to try and break himself free from her tightening hold. His struggles were wasted; he was pinned down to the table. Her right hand was placed flat over his heart. She dug her nails slowly into his flesh and pulled her fingers together.
Blood was seeping slowly from the scratch marks. Her fingernails turned into claws as they ripped straight through the skin of his chest puncturing his heart. He screamed in agony as his life force poured from his wounds, covering her hand in his blood. Her face was emotionless, blank.
The women’s grip tightened around his neck as her eyes turned a deep blood red and blood trickled slowly from the corners. Blood was dripping from her nose. The tiny beads of blood moved swiftly down the features of her face and onto her lips. More blood oozed slowly from her ears. Her mouth opened swiftly and a violent gush of blood flowed free.
The blood fell from her face and landed on the mans chest. Where the blood met with his own it mixed and started to eat away at his flesh, muscle and bone like acid, forming small holes that were getting larger. His body clenched up in pain, he reached out his left hand to her face. He gripped onto her face as tightly as he could and pulled with all his remaining strength. The face was ripped off of the women’s head. Behind this false face was another.
This women’s face was pale, burnt and scarred. It told a story of agony and pain. She leaned forward so that her face was above his where she smiled a pure evil smile. "See anything you like brother?"
She growled. His neck bones began to shatter with a loud cracking noise. His heart beating in agony as she ripped her claws deeper inside of him. A single tear of blood ran down his face as he surrendered to her. Sunlight burst through the window hitting his body, causing it to ignite.
The sound of the cargo ships horn sounded loudly. Mark sat up abruptly. Confused and terrified his eyes darted around the small cargo hold of the ship. The floor was made from cold metallic plating that looked dark. The walls were a slightly more of a silver colour. There was a large door in the south side of the room. Wooden crates that stood about 6 feet tall were positioned in stacks around the hold
Mark was in a half sitting position in the northeast corner of the hold. His body was slowly relaxing as he realized that it was all just another one of his dreams that had started to haunt him again. The reason for the return of his dreams eluded him. Vision in his left eye suddenly became blurred. He rubbed it with the back of his left hand. It was blood. An old scar that he had gained a long time ago across his left eyebrow had reopened. He turned his left hand over so that he could see the palm. An old burning scar had also turned back into its former wound. He clenched his left hand into a fist causing him to wince in pain. He opened up his fist; the wound was healed back to its scarred state
Mark was wearing a worn and tattered deep red shirt and black trousers. His hair was ruffled and a thin layer of dirt covered his body. Around his neck was a gold necklace that had a small precious red gem attached to it. Apart from that and a ring he had no possessions to speak of.
He quickly left the ship unnoticed. He then set about his travels for a new life. His destination was the city of York.

[ This Message was edited by: Mark Archer on 2001-10-15 12:43 ]

[ This Message was edited by: Mark Archer on 2001-10-15 14:55 ]

Mark had arrived in the city of York after a long journey by night. To his surprise he had found his way successfully to the city without any confrontations or "incidents".
He was still a mess and in need of some new clothes and a good meal and of course a safe haven. After a few hours of walking the quiet streets of York that were barely illuminated by street lamps he stumbled across a building that appeared to be abandoned in one of the more run down areas of the city.
The building was made from the red bricks that seemed to have been used in the construction of all the buildings in this area. Gang graffiti covered the worn walls and shattered windows were spread evenly around this four story tall building. The roof was made from black slate and looked as though it had fallen victim to many storms.
The main entrance to the building was a pair of wooden doors that looked like they belonged to a medieval castle. A grey stone set of steps led up from the street and to the entrance. Metal rails that were meant to offer support were bent and crushed from the relentless wearing this building had received.
The sky flashed violently moments before a loud roaring noise perused it. Looking up into the sky Mark knew it would not be long before a storm approached. Rain was dripping from the heavy clouds above that obstructed the light emanating from the moon
With nowhere else to go Mark walked at a fast pace as he climbed up the steps and pushed the doors aside to the building with little effort. He was now standing in a room that appeared to be a reception. The walls were worn and constructed from yellow bricks that crumbled to the touch. Chipped stone slabs lined the floor and the only form of furniture in the room was a small wooden desk in the centre of the room that had survived the desiccation. The room was illuminated as another bolt of lightning shot across the sky. This time the accompanying thunder followed sooner. The rain was coming down faster and harder. As it hit the roof of the building it created a soothing rhythm that reminded him of the sound of a beating heart.
Searching through some rubble around the desk Mark found a weapon that resembled a machete. Picking it up in his right hand he noticed that the blade was coated in a thin layer of old blood. Looking around the rest of the reception he noticed there were several doors leading to other parts of the buildings. There was a small amount of light breaking through the gap of one of the doors.
The handle to the door was stiff but with an effortless twist the handle broke free and the door swung open as he stepped in. The door led to a long and thin straight corridor. Mark travelled carefully down the corridor as it was lined with broken bottles, boxes and other junk. The light was getting brighter and he could make out a door at the end of the corridor.
He stepped through the door and into a smaller room about three quarters the size of the reception. While still made from the same materials the harsh stone floor was covered in a soft purple rug. A pile of boxes, with a white cotton cloth covering them, formed the function of a table to the right side of the room. Upon this makeshift table were a brass lamp and two plasma bags that contained some old and warm blood.
Directly in front of Mark was the figure of a man with a very similar build to himself. He was wearing a long leather trench coat that draped down over his body and ended just above his knees. Underneath this he was wearing a surprisingly clean white shirt considering he was in the middle of a worn dusty room. He wore a pair of leather trousers that clung tightly to his legs. His hair was short and spiky with a few blond highlights at the front of his black hair. His skin was pale and an innocent look filled his face as he recited poetry. In one hand was the book that was the source of his poetry and in the other a pen that he was using to make adjustments to his work
As Mark began to approach the man - keeping his right hand behind his back in an attempt to conceal his weapon - he stepped on a piece of scrap metal that made a loud crushing noise bellow his feet. Mark glanced down then raised his head and returned his gaze to the poet.
Startled by the noise the poet dropped his equipment and turned to face Mark. "What are you doing here?" spoke the poet who was trying to hide the fear from his voice. His accent was that of an upper class British citizen. When there was only about a feet of distance between them Mark stopped dead still and turned his head slowly to the right and examined the contents of the table before speaking in a steady and commanding voice " I need your money, your coat and your blood supply"
The poet’s soft blue eyes narrowed; “and you expect me to give them to you?” his tone barely concealing his fear.
“No… but now you mention it…”
“When I’m through with you you’ll need more then my coat”
Mark smiled widely as he tried not to laugh.
The poet’s eyes flashed a dark red as he growled like a wild dog. The man lashed out with his left fist trying to make contact with Mark’s face. Without taking his eyes off the table mark took a step to the side causing the man to almost fall over, as his fist hit nothing but air.
He tried to steady himself. Mark chuckled then smirked as he turned to face the frustrated poet. "You should be careful with that thing. You could end up hurting someone”
The poets face filled with anger as he struck out again, this time with his right hand. His hand made contact with the palm of Mark’s left hand, which quickly clenched around the incoming fist.
Mark shook his head slowly while sighing, a look of regret filling his eyes.
"You shouldn’t have done that." Mark spoke in a saddened tone of voice as he increased the pressure on the poets fist forcing him down onto his knees
A look of terror filled the face of the defenceless man on his knees and then a scream of agony left his mouth as he heard the cracking of his own hand bones. Slowly and elegantly Mark pulled his right hand from behind his back. The light from the lamp reflected from the blade blinding the poet temporarily. He placed the blade against the left cheek of the poet and applied enough pressure to just break the skin. A small amount of blood trickled from the wound and ran down his cheek. He was frozen still in fear.
Looming over the poet Mark stared into his eyes with a curious and inquisitive gaze that was reflected in his tone of voice. "Do you know what poets have in common with apples?"
The blade travelled down the cheek of the poet slicing its way through the fragile flesh until it rested still against his throat. Mark grinned and spoke in a matter of fact tone, " You can peel them both in one piece"
With that a single red tear ran down the corner of the poets face as he started to break down into wreck. His jaw was quivering and his body shaking. Murmuring sounds left his mouth. In one swift movement mark released his grip on the poets fist and planted a firm punch into his jaw knocking him unconscious and to the floor.
Walking over to the makeshift table Mark laid his weapon down perpendicular to the wall. He reached down and picked up both the plasma bags concealing them in his trouser pockets.
He kneeled beside the poet and removed the trench coat from him. Getting frustrated at how awkward it was to get both arms out of the jacket, but finally it was free from the body. Mark dressed himself in the trench coat. He noticed a revolver in a holster strapped around the poet’s waist. He frowned as he complained at what a state the world had come too with guns being used in England.
After emptying the revolver of its rounds he discarded it into a corner of the room then searched the pockets of the poet where he found some mint flavoured breath spray and about one-hundred pounds in loose change and notes.
Mark waited in the room with his sleeping friend. The sound of the rain beating down on the building had become fainter and Mark knew that he did not have long now until sunrise and he was still in search of a private haven.

((Very nice posts man))

_________________
We live to die...and die to live...And whom so ever beleiveth in me...shall never die...and shall live in eternal life as the undead..

[url]http://www.geocities.com/soc_valek/entrance.html[/url]

[ This Message was edited by: Valek on 2001-10-15 18:34 ]

((thanks Valek :P

(( too nice man RELLY RELLY COOL )) :eek:

The night grew calm as the storm drew to an end and the streets of the city fell silent and grew brighter as morning approached. Stepping out of the building Mark glanced around. He decided to continue walking towards the city centre. The puddles of water that lined the street parted beneath his firm footsteps.
After a few minutes of walking down the street he came upon a shoddy Bed & Breakfast Hostel. The building was thin and tall; the exterior was painted in a creamy colour and was chipped revealing large patches of brickwork. An orange fluorescent light read Vacancies. Beneath the sign was a wooden door with a brass knob and a sign hanging against the inside of the window indicating the Hostel was open.
With a twist of the knob the door opened with a high-pitched squeak. The floor was coated in a rough navy blue carpet that had been worn-down. The same creamy white paint had been used to decorate the interior walls and ceilings. To the right was a door labelled ‘Breakfast Bar – Open from 7am to 11am’. Directly in front of him was a set of stairs that gave access to the other three floors of the building. To the left was a door with a ‘Staff Only’ Sign. Next to the door was a reception counter. The counter was basically a large rectangle cut into the wall where access could only be given via the Staff Only door.
Behind the desk was a bold man who was in his late forties. He was wearing a vest that attempted to conceal his beer belly. The state of the building was recreated in the appearance of its owner. The counter had unorganised piles of paper spread across it.
As Mark approached the counter the owner looked up at him and smiled. What teeth he still had were a deep yellow colour covered in a thick layer of dark plaque.
“Good eve’nin, Aint it a little late to be walking round the streets?” A stale smell left his mouth as he spoke. Mark nodded to him.
“Not the talkative type huh? My name is Fred, Fred Bonner.” His grin became even larger “ What can I do for ya”?
“I need a room”
“For how long sonny?”
“For as long as I need it” Marks voice and face were void of emotion
Fred frowned “Uh-huh. Well that will be Thirty Quid a week with payment in advance of each week.”
Reaching into his pocket Mark withdrew the money and handed it over.
“Your room is 2C, third door on the first floor. Sign ‘ere please”
After signing his name Fred handed over the key and wished him a good night and hoped he enjoyed his stay. Mark climbed the flight of stairs effortlessly to the first floor. He walked down the narrow corridor until he found the door with a plastic plaque with 2C engraved into it. He placed the key into the keyhole in the doorknob and unlocked the door. The door was a bit stiff but nonetheless it opened revealing the room of 2C.
The room was decorated in a fashion identical to the rest of the building. In the bottom left corner of the room was a door that was a dark oak colour. In the upper left corner was an old fashioned TV. The box was twice the size of the eight-inch screen and stood on a flimsy wooden cabinet. In the upper centre of the room facing the TV was a three-seater couch that was covered in a green and blue material with a criss-cross pattern. There were patches in the material that left the foam and wood exposed. The seats were worn and melded into a shape that comforted the previous owner.
Against the right hand sidewall was a bed reaching from one end of the small room to the other. The bedding was a bright red colour that stood out like a saw thumb among the rest of the dark blue and green colours of the room.
A single round light bulb hung from the ceiling with no shade or other form of decoration. The central wall had one large window in it. The frame was constructed from wood and had the same colour as the doors in the room. The top half of the window could be opened several inches before being stopped by the security latch. A set of thick plain sky-blue curtains hung either side of the window that were drawn closed.
Mark sighed slowly and rubbed his forehead as he examined the room that had a minimalist approach to life. He walked towards the oak door that opened inwards and stepped inside. Directly in front of him was a toilet with a sink to the side and a bath that ran all the way down the wall. Above the sink was a mirror. Mark filled the sink with coldwater until it was almost full and placed the plasma bags into the water.
He slipped back out of the bathroom and walked over to the sofa. He removed his jacket and folded it over the back of the sofa before he sat down. A groan of relief left his mouth as his body relaxed into the sofa. Putting his hands behind his head he leant back and closed his eyes.
The room temperature was rising and the room was heating up. Sweat was dripping from the pours in his brow and face. The beads of sweat ran down the perfectly defined features of his face and onto his neck. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt in an attempt to cool himself down. The heat kept rising and he became uncomfortable, fidgeting around the sofa. His clothes were sticking tightly to his skin.
He ran the back of his right hand across his head to remove the sweat. His hand was sticking tightly to his face. With a sharp wrenching motion his hand was free. Skin was stuck to the back of his hand and left a trail back to his face like melted cheese. Grasping his face in horror he pulled both his hands away slowly from his face. The hands were covered in a mixture of flesh and blood.
He stood up quickly in horror and ran to the bathroom holding his hands in front of him in despair, covering his face. He stood in front of the sink and slowly lowered his hands from his face. The reflection cast in the mirror was not that of his own but that of his fathers face.
A Searing pain filled his heart and chest. He glanced down. A red-hot poker stood proud, impaling him through the heart. A look of agony filled his face as the burning heat emanating from poker ate away at his flesh, sizzling. He gripped tightly to the sink as his body began to convulse uncontrollably. Gasping for air as his throat filled with blood and his knees weakened, his arms trembling from supporting all his bodyweight. His body convulsed faster and harder until a torrent of blood forced its way free from his mouth.
“Hey big brother”
Steadying himself he looked up, seeing the image of his sister inside the mirror. Whipping the blood away from his mouth he tried to speak. The pain in his throat made it hard to talk and all he could manage to say was “Why?”
The glass in the mirror cracked loudly as her eyes flashed red and a menacing growl left her mouth as her arms smashed out of the mirror reaching for his throat.
His hands gripped tightly to the Sofa, his eyes opened wide as they darted around the room. It took him a few minutes before he had realized what was happening. He had fallen victim to another nightmare. He slowly released his grip from the sofa as he started to relax. A thin layer of blood remained on the material where his left hand had rested and blood trickled elegantly down his face from the wound in his left eyebrow.
He stood slowly and cautiously, still feeling dazed and confused he moved towards the bed. He unbuttoned his deep red shirt and discarded it to the side along with his trousers before sliding inside the covers of the bed. It was almost Dawn.

((Once again,really great man :smile: ))

_________________
We live to die...and die to live...And whom so ever beleiveth in me...shall never die...and shall live in eternal life as the undead..

[url]http://www.geocities.com/soc_valek/entrance.html[/url]

[ This Message was edited by: Valek on 2001-10-16 17:31 ]

Sorry I caught this one so late, but it gives a great read. Glad I got so much at once. Keep up the good work.

((Topping becouse i can and oh yea i may be having my inspiration for another chapter fineally :P

((God damnit man!!!!! Good stuff!