( Álvaro Morte / Cis Male / He,Him ) — Vincent De La Huerta has been living in Port Leiry for 2 Years. They currently work as a Owner of the Temple of Divine Will, and are 50 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a VAMPIRE or if they’re connected to REARDON. They tend to be quite DECEITFUL and FANATICAL, but can also be ELEGANT and JUBILANT.
Name: Vincent De La Huerta
Occupation: Former Priest, Owner of Temple of Divine Will | Age: 50
Sexuality: Demi. "The Lord's eternal love is neither exclusive nor discriminatory."
Species: Vampire | Clan?: Reardon | Hometown: Potes, Spain
Relationship Status: Single, Vincent's heart is reserved for God/The Lord with little exception | Personality Traits: Devoted, Punctual, Deceitful, Fanatical, Elegant, Jubilant, Tidy, Gluttonous
TW: MENTIONS OF ILLNESS, ADDICTION, ADULTERY, RELIGOUS DELUSIONS/TRAUMA AND GENERAL BAD VIBES
Vincent was born meek.
He was a sickly child who more often than not found himself bedridden under hospital care. The facilities were never the same, gradually declining in quality as the years went by. Doctors, nurses came and went before he bothered to remember their names. Even Vincent’s home life deteriorated with time. Though ,in retrospect, it was only natural for a house built on deceit collapsed in on itself.
His father, Francis de la Huerta, painted himself as a charismatic community leader who cured his own gambling addiction through sheer goodwill alone. That was until Francis lost everything. What was initially disguised as business trips turned out to be secret hedonistic pilgrimages, partaking in pleasures beyond their tax bracket which all culminated in one horse race bet gone wrong. Scandal spread like wildfire. The metaphorical flames turning Vincent’s life to ash only grew when his mother, Clara de la Huerta's sins came to light: Adultery. Just as Francis crawled home destitute, Clara already had her bags packed and eloped with their elderly neighbor, Mr.Benito, riding off to the sunset in a red convertible with plans to blow away Benito’s retirement pension till kingdom come.
When Vincent reached adulthood, it only made sense for him to follow the only constant comfort in his life, The Lord. The cross over every bed he’s been bound to. Once shiny rosary beads turned dull after constant touch. Mantras to Mother Mary in times of sickness. There were no other prospects, no other life direction for Vincent. Priesthood was His calling.
Vincent trusted that The Lord would provide all he needed, guide his hand to do the work which must be done. And He did.
After Vincent’s childhood home foreclosed and he was swiftly evicted, the local church became his home. When the medical expenses and Francis’ debts began to weigh heavy on Vincent’s shoulders, The Lord provided relief. Donations and other indulgences swiftly exchanged under the table. But why stop there? Why settle for meekness when The Lord provided so many wonderful opportunities, so much power. How could he possibly deny Him? Money laundering, drug trafficking, arms smuggling, debt collection, bribery– twenty-two years of good business. The Lord was good to Vincent.
But faith is not without mystery, not without obstacle. With local authorities too hostile for bribery breathing down his neck, it was time for Vincent to expand operations and go about a new holy mission, preferably one outside Spain or any other nearby European country that can easily hold him accountable. Just as he considered North America, The Lord gave Vincent approval through yet another perfect gift: He who defies death. His angel. His sire.
Just as He visited Paul, His Angel presented the Temple of Divine Will, a rustic place in dire need of repair.
Come to Port Leiry. Build my church. Continue the Lord’s work with me.
Of course, Vincent was skeptical of this prospect. But all of his doubts were casted away. Upon first encounter, Vincent was immediately entranced, torn between fear and awe as he was blinded by His Angel’s light. Porcelain smooth skin twinkling underneath the moonlight like a sand of stars, pearly fox teeth grinning with infectious youthful radiance. Only then did Vincent understand that God had not gifted him a man but an angel.
In the nights Vincent was distracted by his holiness, a rat festered the pews of his church, a snitch who brought all of his crimes to light. Vincent’s faith was tested once more; three days behind bars spent mostly on his knees in isolation and prayer. Just as Vincent began to lose hope, his angel of the night appeared before him once more in crimson splendor.
Come to me. Embrace me. Become me.
After years of labor, how else would the Lord reward him but a place amongst the divine? Why would he deny an agent of heaven and not be loved in return?
And thus Vincent was reborn in ecstasy. Vincent’s first year of vampirism was spent in hiding, growing accustomed to a new body as he feasted on blood and flesh of sinners. However, Vincent can’t spend eternity roaming the temple halls. His appetite is restless and craves new flavors of carnage to indulge in with each passing night…
—
CURRENT WANTED CONNECTIONS
Meet His Maker : You are a very experienced, highly respected Reardon vampire. One of your business ventures involved seducing a corrupt priest by the name of Vincent de la Huerta into moving his business from Spain to America, ensuring him a church to operate from and a short leash to your clan after turning. You briefly left on another business trip, taking care of other matters and potentially expanding Reardon’s operations even further. Regardless of the final results, you’ve finally come home. Vincent waits for you, still as frantically devoted and annoyingly hungry as ever.
The shift from hunting wolves to hunting Vamps has made her a little more... comfortable ... in her continued endeavors to not show her whole ass to the Fellowship. Besides - werewolves aren't evil right? They just go crazy once a month. Hell, even before she was one, her body'd go crazy once a month. What's different now? Blood, hair in funny places, weird aches and swollen joints, crippling levels of emotional tumroil and self loathing, weird cravings? Karen Walton was 100% right with that stupid movie.
Vampires though, whew. Sure, there's gotta be nice ones, she's probably met them. But they brain-melt you, drink your blood, its weird. It's harder to chalk up to accident.
Or maybe Cleofe, in an effort to feel like something other than an absolute failure, is just making shit up to make herself feel better.
Case in point, she's chasing down a vampire right now who'd made a botched attempt to feed on a passerby, except she's the passerby, and while her tattoo's magic has fizzled out, a werewolf is still a bit bigger prey, and the vamp knew it almost immediately. But vamps are fast, faster than any hunter or werewolf, and she doesn't have the benefit of magical tracking, just her eyes and ears and nose- great in a pinch, but nowhere near as precise.
So imagine her surprise when the Vamp darts out of the alley, into the streets - and when she can't match speed, Cleofe gets a ribcage full of the business end of a front bumper, sending her rolling down the asphalt until she's on her back staring up at streetlights and low cloudcover.
"Oh wow..." she laments, and thinks of her old dog Tiddums, gone to soon thanks to a Chevy Impala when she was just a little kid. "I get you now, Tiddums." She groans, sitting up, holding her ribs as she tries to figure out if she has to pop something back into place.
The poor thing scatters into the alleyway, into Vincent's loving arms as he quickly hunches to meet their shorter height. "Shhh, shh. Hush, my child."
Reardon has eyes all over the city, many hands to extend to its kindred in need. Vincent is one of those many hands, gently combing the frantic creature's hair and fixing their attire. "I will clean the mess. Run home now. Go with God." One hasty Sign of the Cross for good measure and the child runs off into the night.
Vincent enters stage left. Hands neatly folded his back as it straightens. A sigh of disapproval as he looks down at the crumpled young woman. A mess indeed.
As a young fledgeling, Vincent still has much to learn about the supernatural landscape. But weren't hunters supposed to be intimidating? Could it be that this one is defected? That would explain the wet dog smell. Surely that band of aspiring Don Quixotes wouldn't bat an eyelash at a bad apple plucked out of their basket. He'd just be doing both parties a favor, but that's thinking too far ahead.
"Ah, ah, ah~" A polished black lever shoe plants itself on the woman's back with a thump, between her scapulas and square on the spine. "The Lord has not dismissed you yet."
Pressure is rapidly applied. Vincent leans in with each tsk of his tongue. He holds her down with his weight. One elbow comfortably rests on his knee as Vincent looms over her. "But The Lord is forgiving. Confess what matter compels you to bring harm to this child, whose hand oversees tonight's hunt and perhaps you shall be spared from judgement."
"Deuteronomy 24:26. 'Fathers shall not be put to death because of their children, nor shall children be put to death because of their fathers. Each one shall be put to death for his own sin.' "
Desperate was a nasty little word that described him all too well, and he knew it.
It was enough to make him feel guilty for while. The longing ached from the center of his being, but faded back with the memory of every familiar face that had locked eyes with him so knowingly at the gala. He wasn’t a stranger to shame, but this hadn’t come with the gratification that he’d come to anticipate. The desire for companionship in the only form he could comfortably find didn’t go away, just… built up and burned inside him.
By now, though, it had petered out enough that it couldn’t compete with the overwhelming need to be needed. He hadn’t been by the Infamy before, but he had hoped a new location would lessen the chance of repeating former mistakes.
It was too loud for his taste, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t sit through long enough to at least try and hook someone’s interest. He was… perhaps a bit of a standout in a place like this, with his slacks and vest and long sleeves buttoned, but he knew from experience it was often far from a turnoff to look a little stuffy.
He kept a careful eye on his surroundings as he sat at the bar, sipping on a gin & tonic. Eyeing potential people of interest, but with the awareness that he was looking to attract someone’s attention. Most nights, he wouldn’t be opposed to sparking things himself, but tonight he just wanted to be seen and wanted by someone. Anyone.
Just play it cool. Glance around and see whose eye you catch, like— bingo. Now, just wait for the approach.
Eyes are curious things. Precious little appetizers the size of grapes, soft as hard-boiled eggs and slippery as butter. The most fragile of organs only second to the brain yet equally as vital. Witnesses to the world. Windows to the soul. This set is a curious pair, wanting and yearning, scanning across a sea of faces. Infamy's bright lights obscure all color. Vincent can't tell if his eyes are green or blue, whether to expect the taste of matcha or earl grey. Yet his mouth waters all the same.
Neither of them should be here. Both of them out of place as Vincent dawns a modest dark V-neck and pants amongst a crowd of flaunting peacocks dressed in finer brands. Beyond attire, perusing nightlife beyond Reardon's reach is ill-advised. Vincent rarely picks his meals; almost all of every pound of flesh is brought to Vincent by the will of God or the word of Kali.
Surely neither divine authority would disapprove an expansion of pallet once the usual conditions are met, once they are alone and Vincent catches him enacting debauchery. Only then will his communion be just. Only then will his appetite be satiated.
Needy for attention, the shy man waits for approval. However Vincent is an old fashioned man. He refuses to flirt out right. That's beneath him. Vincent instead imitates the quiet yearning from ages past, the sensual desperation immortalized in romantic scripture and paintings alike. He softly smiles from a darker corner of the room just a ways away from the bar. Vincent leans forward. One hand hover above the heart, fingers teasing the fabric over his chest before pulling away to make a repeating hook motion.
Port Leiry is one of those places that seems to change every time she leaves, yet remains entirely the same in many ways. On the surface, details morph and faces shift, but the horror that lies underneath is ever present. It's partially why Leone established the city as her home. When she heard about the Conclave being held here, she considered it a lucky coincidence. Her fingers drum along the marble-carved bar as she flags down one of the compelled servers. "An old-fashioned if you please, don't skimp on the bourbon." She smooths a hand down the human's face and pats it gently. "Drop a little of your own blood in there before you bring it back. From your wrist is fine." As she watches the server walk away to fetch her drink, she meets the eye of the person next to her. "Oh, don't give me that look. They regenerate the stuff."
"Oh! Goodness gracious, no no no. Haha!" Vincent's brows shoot up in surprise upon being called out. "Lo siento, forgive my staring. I hold no judgement in my heart!"
Vincent is absolutely judging. Just not the way Leone probably thinks he is.
This is not a means of human morals or ethics. They both walk amongst angels; the same rules simply don't apply to them. It would be wrong for Vincent to judge solely based on partaking in the bread and wine gifted to all of their kind. What can Vincent can judge is sloth. There are human feeding stations just a brisk walk away and plenty of ill-will hunters to rip apart that no one would miss. (Vincent could name one particular Brotherhood pest he'd like to devour and leave no crumbs.) Shedding the bartender's blood is simply wasteful. Down right lazy, even.
"Its just...Hm." Vincent hesitates before taking a deep breath and scooting his bar stool a little closer to hers. He can't help himself; he loves to talk. "I personally can't find myself being satisfied with just a couple drops. I'm very much an all or nothing kind of man; I simply must have the full course meal. Your restraint is fascinating."
who: open to all!
when: throughout the evening up until midnight!
She skulks around the corner and presses her back against the wall as she watches a handful of Mariposas and at least one Kanoute Vampire run past. The Vampire could have probably sniffed her out if the room weren't so full of other wolves and more, and Millie's short stature comes in clutch again.
No matter though, because she's got the pretty little thing she swiped; a tiny little hair piece one of the Mariposas had been showing his friend. A piece of her feels, for the moment, reflexively bad for taking it, but, well, maybe this'll be enough of a grab to pay off that sexy Dracula woman.
She eyes the tines of the hairpin, and the intricate carving, and runs her fingers along the tiny thing for a moment, then, wonders if maybe she should give it to Jeanette.
Millie goes to scratch an itch on her face just then, only to find her shirt's... bigger than she remembers it being. She rolls the sleeve up, then rolls it up some more, then some more, then even more. "What the... oh fuuuuu—
And just like that, there's a weird siezing feeling in all of her muscles and bones, but it's squishy, squeamish, not like the twisting agony of the turn.
There's a whisp of smoke and spectral butterflies then, fluttering from over a pile of stylish clothes and cute bat boots.
'Should we?' A voice rings out. The Mariposa witches and their vampire friend arrive then, picking the little hairpin out of the wad of clothes, laughing to eachother as they go back to their table. 'Naw, she'll figure it out.'
There's a minute where she's not sure where she is, but it only takes a second to crawl out of the mound of her clothes and see herself reflected in the polish of her massive boot. "Oh, fuckoff!" she squeaks.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?", Vincent clicks his tongue with a smirk as he approached. "Pobre Ranita~"
Poor Little Frog. That's what she gets for associating herself too closely with unholy witchcraft. "There's no princesa to kiss you better here. Just little ol' me."
Of course Vincent saw the entire fiasco during his patrol across the venue. How could he not? Its hard to miss a large smoke explosion in what was literally advertised as a black-tie event. And of course Vincent didn't intervene. He thought it was funny; the entire magic show gave Vincent a good chuckle. Though, Vincent wasn't sure which was funnier: the three brujas' cartoonish cackling amongst themselves or the pathetic amphibian's squeal of terror at her plight.
"You know, I've always had a soft spot for frogs." Vincent can't help but monologue as he crouches down, leaning in to level his face and stare into her beady eyes. "I use to play with frogs as a boy. Trap frogs. Throw frogs. Dissect frogs. But I am grown now. I have matured, learned better..."
"I would never make the mistake of wasting perfectly good food." There's a dangerous, hungry glint to the vampire's eye. "Especially not once in a life time delicacies." Like magic-spiced wolf frog legs.
"Colossians 3:12. 'Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.' "
The Supernatural Conclave/Gala: Vincent is a humble man who dares not outshine his superiors (no less his wonderful Gift From God). Following the dress code to exactness, Vincent arrives dressed in an all black felt suit and shirt with his hair slicked back. An attire that gives Vincent an elegant silhouette whilst allowing him to blend into a crowd, disappear into the background.
Because if there is work to be conducted by his hand, it will be in the shadows and away from the lime light. Velle est posse. God bless Clan Reardon.
Gael’s jaw still aches from the day’s grind—contracts unraveled, a shipment impounded at the dock, some neon-bright idiot who thought skimming off Reardon’s cut was a clever experiment in survival. He tore through the mess like an angry dog with a chew toy, but the tension never left his muscles; it only thrummed tighter, a violin string begging to snap. What he needs now is something living between his teeth, something that will give and shudder and remind him that this empire of ledgers and ledgers’ blood is still, at its heart, a hunger. Vincent—sweet, devout Vincent—has always been the safest place for Gael to bury that bite. So he comes to the temple like a wolf prowling home, mouth slick with the memory of bone.
Gael doesn’t believe in God— not on the good days, certainly not on nights like this— but he respects what faith can do to people, how devotion can be rendered into coin and leverage. Vincent has it in with whatever higher power he worships, and Gael has no intention of clogging that revenue stream; a new Reardon branch stays solvent on prayer and contraband alike. His presence in the temple, then, is less about salvation and more about possession: Vincent is his fledgling, his to guide, his to keep, his to be a living worry-stone to grind the day’s anger smooth. He needs a place where chewing through problems can become something gentler, almost prayerful. Incense and candlewax offer that illusion. Tilt your head, let moonlight kiss Vincent’s profile, and—just for a heartbeat—he could be Adrian.
He finds the vampire exactly where he expected: kneeling under the bruised light of the stained-glass window, lips fluttering through prayer. So devout it hurts.
'Gift from God,' Vincent calls him—every time—and every time it tugs a smile to Gael’s mouth. It’s so dramatic, the way the priest plays shepherd and lamb both. True blue, shining straight through the stained glass. Fascinating. “I’m here of my own volition, Vincent.” The words fall, and the ache in his jaw eases a fraction at the familiar give-and-take.
Gael flicks his gaze to look at his watch: silver hands like twin crescent knives. “Hour-and-thirty ’til mass, yes? Plenty of runway.” He strolls up the center aisle, knuckles grazing pew backs, and mounts the steps to the altar. Vincent rises to greet him, earnest as moonrise.
Gael looks past him, up at the crucifix: the carpenter-god fixed in eternal surrender. “We should give Him fangs,” he muses aloud. “A messiah that bites back— help keep the congregation awake.” His hand lands on Vincent’s shoulder—gentle, then not. Pressure. Down. Vincent folds automatically, linen pooling around his knees. Better. The view suits him.
Gael’s thumb slides beneath the priest’s jaw, tilting his face skyward. “No crates tonight. Ms. Shukla’s books are balanced, and Reardon can babysit himself until dawn. I’m here for some peace, candlelight, and you.”
He steps back, shadow dripping off his coat like ink. “So, Father,” he drawls, “what’s the sermon? Humility? Mercy? Or are we reprising brimstone classics?” Gael’s grin shows a hint of fang—just for Vincent.
Vincent can’t help but softly chuckle at Gael’s musings. Oh, Gael. How infectious his youthful enthusiasm can be.
The suggestion to give Christ fangs in some effort further compel loyalty through fear is exactly that: juvenile. It’s an aesthetic choice an idiot choir boy would make without the guiding hand of a congregation. But how could Vincent ever say no to his angel? "Our Lord is a compassionate leader, a lion that would never bear teeth at his own. If we are to give Christ fangs, they must be neatly tucked away, dangerous yet closely kept and hidden in plain sight. Reardon follows the image of Christ. Reardon cares for its own just as vigorously as it shelters them..."
Gael lays a hand on Vincent. He falls.
Back into the deepest depths of love. On his knees. In the presence of holiness.
Like a dove does Vincent preen under Gael's touch. Cooing a soft sigh, he closes his eyes to completely bask in Gael's glory. Gael said it himself: he's here for him. Vincent and Vincent alone. Vincent can give Gael candlelight; Vincent can give Gael peace. Anything and everything Gael desires, its all his. He just needs to ask. He just has to give time, attention. An hour is all Vincent needs. Their own private mass.
Vincent's eyes flutter open as Gael's shadow lovingly looms over him. "Tonight we revisit the seven sacraments. Obviously we don't have time for all seven," The holy man chuckles. God, he wishes they did. "Only one for now. The Sacrament of Holy Communion."
"Do you remember Saint Ignatius of Loyola? The Spanish theologist. One of the most influential figures in the 16th century, founder of the Jesuits. He said something rather curious once." Vincent's hands are just as curious, cautiously hovering over Gael's knees before advancing forward. His touch starts at the upper thigh. Then it slowly, gently treads downward. Vincent's eyes follow the path down to Gael's feet as he whispers.
"'I no longer take pleasure in perishable food or in the delights of this world,' He said. 'I want only God’s bread, which is the flesh of Jesus Christ, formed of the seed of David, and for drink I crave his blood, which is love that cannot perish.' "
"But quotation can only convey so much...You are more of a tactile learner, no?" Fingers rested on the tips of Gael's shoes, Vincent leans forward as they tilt their head upwards. His eyes mirror the glint reflecting Gael's fangs. Excitement. Anticipation. "I believe this sermon requires demonstration. May I be graced with your hand?"
Most admirable quality: "Quin is very neat and tidy, cleanliness is next to godhood. No amount of motel soap will wash out the cigarette stench but I can applaud a man for trying."
Most attractive physical feature: "Hm. Nice legs. Long and fit like frog legs."
Most annoying habit: "His fidgeting. With the constant tipping and tapping... He makes for a shitty church mouse, always making noise before skittering away."
Something they would like to do with them: "You know what? I'd love to have a go at cat and mouse with Quin. He runs, I chase and we both get to see how far those God given legs can get him."
WHO: @ofreardcns
WHERE/WHEN: Temple of Divine Will, 7 PM
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” - John 1:9
It’s important to remain humble. Well, as best as one so devastatingly deservingly blessed like himself could. To set an example. To set wool over a wolf’s eyes before kicking with hind legs. To remain next to godliness, in both spiritual and physical routine.
After awakening at sunset and rising from his chambers just as its light disappears, Vincent’s evenings always begin with prayer. He positions himself underneath the temple’s central stained glass window and closes his eyes. The sign of the cross: The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit. Then submission. That is the position Gael finds Vincent in. On his knees, finishing mantras as the heavy front doors open, the creaking moan of aged hinges and wood bellowing out.
Of course it’s Gael. Evening mass doesn’t start until 8:30; only Gael would invite himself into his house of God before all else. And Gael only comes this early when he feels guilty, burdened by the weight of his sins. So incredibly burdened that a blind man could hear it in the dragging of his feet. As the prodigal son dragged himself back home withered by the world, the wickedness beaten out of him and eyes pried open to see holiness. Yes, suffering is a necessity in exercising devotion. As is tenderness. Aftercare.
“Gael. My wonderful gift from God."
"Its good to see you.” Vincent stands on his feet and turns to greet him with a warm, gentle smile. His welcoming arms are outstretched, practically itching to pull him into an eternal embrace. “I hope the night has been kind thus far. What brings you home this evening?"
Though Vincent already knows the answer. But it is so much sweeter to hear it in Gael's voice, to watch his lips ever so slightly quiver upon being brought to confession. For now, Vincent plays dumb. He further inquires with the attentive tilt of his head. "Has Ms.Shukla sent you? Is there another shipment Reardon needs sheltered?"
As an experienced priest, Vincent is more than ready to provide Gael an attentive ear and a shoulder to cry on during his spiritual journey. He knows how unkind Gael's life has been, how much hurt has riddled Gael with so much discontent. And still faith is meant to be a mystery. Let Gael have his doubts. Vincent will be there to guide him back on the path before he strays too far from His light.
Even if Gael is no longer magically attuned, that doesn't mean his pioneering gifts should go to waste. Gael is the first person Vincent turns to if something goes amiss in his garden, often asking for insight on which fertilizers or mixtures are best fit for the temple's flora. Vincent will also regularly surprise Gael spoils from said garden. Sometimes it’s a new vase of flowers on his desk. Sometimes it’s a pretty sinner, a ripe harvest that's been loitering in its greenery for too long. Only the best for his sire.
The first months of vampirism were as much hell as they were heaven for Vincent. Sky highs followed by plummeting lows, Vincent was prone to blood frenzies and subsequent melancholy. But Vincent could trust his sire to always be there to calm and comfort him just in time. In retrospect, maybe his emotional dependence then reminded Gael of Adrian. Vincent hates that thought.
⚡️ How many of the ten commandments have you broken?
"Ahahaha! Aye, este hijo de puta- My darling angel, my blind buffoon, my sweet idiot child!"
"I walk amongst angels now."
"The Ten Commandments are rules laid for mankind set by God. Carved in stone upon lightning strike, delivered by Moses on foot. I am no longer a mere man. I have passed His tests and ascended into higher being. Worry not for me. Instead focus on your own path and He will one day bestow you a deserving gift as He has given I."
"My child. Does a babe off the tit not enjoy its first taste of food? Does a calf not feel victorious standing on its own four legs and walking alongside its mother? Does the young wolf not feel pride after completing its very first hunt, feeding itself and realizing its own truest potential?"
"Of course I enjoyed it. As I have enjoyed all gifts from God He has to planned for my life. Pleasure, pride, enjoyment-- however you word wish to word it, the feeling is only natural."
