Pray.


..Because there's no way out.




Christian Angelus Mourdou. There was power in that name; running undercurrents of an unspeakable evil coursing through black-blooded veins. He was a proud man, a man of bloody morals and shattered naivety, but a strength that belied knowledge of things yet to be learned.

There wasn’t much about him that you haven’t seen. Six foot four, muscled athletically (he never strived to have his biceps bigger than his head), a strong jaw and a wolfish smile. Long, blonde locks that varied in length depending on his mood, either shoulder length or a little below broad expanse of shoulder blade. Dark slate gray was the colour his mother had picked for his gaze, a strong and solemn colour, a warrior’s colour. A few tell-tale scars here and there, picked up in life through carelessness and restlessness, take your pick. An inverted anarchy symbol was inked on the underside of right wrist, a betraying mark of the vampire clan Brujah. Another tattoo was found on the right shoulder blade, an enlarged Kanji symbol for ‘incarnate evil’.

Christian was the son of a Frenchwoman settling anew in the Americas, New Orleans to be exact, and of a Mohawk Indian named Night Cry. The two couldn’t marry; both races looked down upon such things. So, little Christian was caught in the crossfire. His mother was killed in an attack on the settlement, so he was to live with his father. The other children didn’t treat him like an oddity, but more like a curiosity. He was strong and fast, a trait his father claimed that the boy got from him. He played games well, but as he grew older, he became more distant than usual. His father died in a war between the Mohawks and the burgeoning population of the Americas, and Christian took advantage of his supposed “white man looks” and set sail for England. There he taught himself the way of the educated: reading, writing, history, and so on. He became world-wise, having seen two points of view from either side. But here, he also fell to his greatest misfortune. Never having been one to commit to women, this new world offered a thing of great invention (at least to him): prostitution. He never knew women would never ask for anything more than your money! A wrong alleyway at the wrong time led him to be what he is today, a kiss of eternal life and never-ending death from a comely lady (who, in turn, was removed of her own head several years later). Christian saw the world in a whole new light, and with Brujah blood flowing through him, he had a power and strength he had never known the likes of. Women came and went (some stayed underground), and Christian never much cared. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Or kill it without anyone caring, for that matter.

Preternaturally cruel and supernaturally talented with the ways of torture and life taking, Christian isn’t exactly the life of the party. The pretty ones don’t always hide a life of pain and abuse; his eyes tell you the story of all he’s killed, and those yet to die. But he isn’t all blood and brute, however. His strength hides an uncanny trait to protect those he loves and cares about, namely, the tattoo artist with a heart wrenching smile.

Don’t be fooled by the wolfish smile and the deft hands. His lungful of cancer may prove to be the last breath of air you take.

I’m not the sort of person who falls in and quickly out of love. But to you I gave my affections right from the start.








(Long term SL wanted! Anything goes, just IM or e-mail me.)

(I'll say it once. Don't steal my stuff. It won't be pretty when I find out, and I will find out. It's cheap, and pathetic. SLs wanted, just IM/e-mail me. Be mature and respectful. Consent only needed for limb and life threatening things, otherwise, have a ball; but at least inform me of what you're planning, alright? All writing is mine. Have fun playing!)

Le Pacte des Loup.