Name: Quintus “Quin” Cassius Servatius Occupation: Courier, Drug-runner, professional coward Age: 1698 (Born 327AD, turned at 34) Sexuality: Pansexual (Demi-romantic) Species: Vampire Clan: Reardon Hometown: Burdigala, Rome (Modern Day Bordeaux, France) Relationship Status: Single, Widower if you squint Personality Traits: Resourceful, Methodical, Skittish, Paranoid, Awkward, Cutthroat
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
TW: familial abandonment, cannibalism, hallucinations, imprisonment, mutilation
001. You outgrow being worth your mother’s time quickly. You were never worth your father’s, the merits of being his most recent son, Quintus Cassius, fifth to hold his name, are lost on the half-mute, withdrawn thing you’ve grown into. He travels the Empire, bringing home bastards, all holding his name, dreaming of his dynasty. When he brings home the sixth, the fourth tells you that you’re lucky - your ten years of being the newest son is a lifetime of opportunity, next to his meager three. It’s a shame you squandered it by being you.
002. You leave the family politics to your brothers. There is nothing you want that could be gained, and they’re glad to have one less person to split it with. You learn trades, skills, using your family’s name to gain work with craftsmen who would never let you in otherwise. Words come easier away from home, and you settle into your skin, into your work, and into the bed of your latest mentor’s daughter. The last is a mistake, paid for at the altar, and something cracks within your skull as you force out your vows. You leave in the night, the first of many hasty retreats, something in you screaming and clawing to cut all ties and not look back.
003. You die terrified, on your back in some godsforsaken cave you mistook for a safe camp for the night, a hungry mouth in your chest chewing, chewing, chewing. Its skin is under your nails, it’s blood in your mouth from your poor attempts to fight it off, and you can’t help but swallow as you clear your throat to scream.You can’t run, can’t fight. You kicked at him with your bad leg and now you can’t even feel it. The last thing you see is its hungry eyes, your blood on its chin and bits of you hanging from its pointed teeth as it wraps a hand around your throat to silence you. There is no time to register the pain of your neck being crushed. The darkness feels like its only mercy.
004. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears even as it lays still in your chest. Every shadow has the creature, every smile has the remains of your chest stuck between the teeth. It’s in your reflection, sometimes, as you chase your own hunger, not knowing if it’s truly the blood or the meat you crave, only that you need it. Eventually, you parse out that it’s the blood that slides over your tongue the sweetest, and you finally have something worth savoring in your endless journey, with no destination but away.
005. Your journey brings you through your old town, and you can’t help but check. You expected her anger, her father’s violence, another crack within the skull to remind you why you started running. You did not expect the boy with your eyes, not the hungry, awful ones you see looking back at you in the river when you wash off the blood, but the ones you saw before, the wide, scared ones you’ve had all your life. He turns to call for his mother, and you’re gone before he can turn back, the purse you cut off of your last meal left behind. You never learn his name.
006. Every time you think about stopping, you see the creature’s face. Towns are for meals, perhaps an odd job or two for a roof over your head before you see too many weapons and run. You fall into something that isn’t quite love a few more times before the thudding in your skull becomes your most constant companion. Nothing lasts. It’s another century before you meet another creature like you, and the thought of it being the same as that creature leaves you rolling on the ground, clawing at each other's necks in a blind attempt to kill the unkillable. There's no thrill in fighting, it’s just terror and pain, but when the chips are down, you’re the one who breaks the other thing’s neck. You watch as it wrenches itself back into place, and your hand is in his ribs before he can move. You learn the word vampire, and the affliction that you and the creature share.
007. Wars are just an obligation. Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, you fight just long enough to get an opening to slip away. The sides don’t matter, borders are meaningless when they’re rewritten every decade, and you’ve never been very keen on the christo-hereticals, but times change and you must adapt. You steal more than you earn now, use what you have until it’s worn down to dust and then find a use for the dust. You’re caught, more than once, and learn there are fates worse than death. Immortality is worthless alone in a cell, rats make for a poor diet, and your escape is a mad dash and a blind hope that it’s dark enough outside to avoid burns.
008. There are more vampires every day, more witches, more werewolves, and humans have started to grow wise to the dangers that pass through their towns in the night. You learn your lesson about getting trapped, over and over again, and every new town brings new things to be wary about. You start to play to their egos, their fears, pointing hunters to witches and vampires to hunters, round and round, anything to keep the eyes from turning towards you as you continue to move forwards.
009. Modernity brings change, and more connections across the world make it easier and easier to be noticed. You’re not one for groups, but an offer of protection in exchange for work is the best you can get in these times, and Reardon is a group that you know well enough from the branches across the world. Your future is never secure, you still see the creature's eyes and the gore-filled grin, but there is work to do, and you’re tired of running. You’re tired of a lot of things.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
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