ONLY WHEN I'M ON MY OWN

MORT W. // a southern gentleman, heavy on the southern, light on the gentleman.

[tsarchived-deactivated20150713]

Terra could sense the suspicion. She was, of course, naturally suspicious of everyone, but she sensed it coming from him. She wondered what it was about her that would evoke such a feeling. After all, she liked to think her façade of distraught human was beyond immaculate. Terra studied his features. He was handsome. But it was not the traditional kind of handsome. His features were sharp and defined. There was something timeless about his eyes and the way he held himself - despite the fact that he skipped from one shadow into the next he kept his movements precise and graceful. There was an air about him that Terra could only identify as… familiarity. She blurted out the question before she had time to think further, “Have we met before?” She narrowed her eyes at him, as if that would give her a clearer image and help her grasp the memory that hovered like a faint dream in the back of her mind. There was a small chance, of course. Terra had grown up in Barton Hollow, and although she had kept to herself as a child and young teenager, she had come around due to her parents’ professions.

Although Terra knew very well that she was to blame for the crash with her hastiness, she allowed him to feel responsible and pressed the topic no further. If he truly believed that this was merely a chance encounter, it was in every way beneficial for Terra. “I am all right,” she confirmed, taking note of the man’s southern accent. It had something musical to it, something easy going and, she could not think of a better word, alive. It reminded her of the movies. “Nobody got hurt,” she said matter-of-factly. Of course nobody got hurt - Terra was too skilled to ever fully crash into someone. Although they had clashed violently, Terra had kept absolute control of her movements and only staggered back slightly to give the impression of an unpracticed human.

[mortwilson-blog]

He watched her carefully as she looked him over, and then low, raspy chuckle when she asked if they knew each other. "Naw, don't think so." Mort replied. There was very little chance that they'd met; he's only moved here two decades ago, and hadn't been outside of his apartment for at least ten of those years. Though, she was human, and she sounded like she'd grown up here, or at least in the area. There was a chance that she might've seen him during that time. But unless she'd been hanging around the bars and clubs, or the University, it was more likely that they just knew each other's type.

Mort let his gaze travel to size her up. She was alright, sure enough. She was tougher than she looked, then, as he was sure he'd have hurt her. Either way, nothing to worry over. "That's good." He said distractedly, mulling over the possibilities in his head. "Worried I might've knocked into you a bit hard, but you do seem alright." He narrowed his eyes as he looked her over again. She seemed alright. Damn, that seemed wrong to him. Mort chewed at the inside of his cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood and trying to figure out why she hadn't been injured. There was something awfully controlled in her movements. He let out a sigh and readjusted his rolled-sleeves. "Well, 's long as you're alright, I think I'll be goin'." Either she'd stop him or she wouldn't.

[bartonhollowrpg]

[mortwilson-blog]

“People can’t be pure—we’re flawed to the very core. The Ideal Person is a trick, and the idea of ‘innate human goodness’? That’s the biggest trick of all.”

Name → Mortimer Wilson “Dead Sea; Desire” 

Age → Thirty-Seven

Species → Southern Vampire

Occupation → Author & Philosopher

Specialization → Guest Lecturer @ BHU

Neighborhood → 763 Gothic Suburbia Lane

Personality; 

+ Charming, Decisive, Independent, Intelligent

- Arrogant, Emotionally Clueless, Fair-Weather Friend, Obsessive

Mortimer’s Past; 

Mort couldn’t have been born to one of those mothers who named their bouncing baby boys after Governors and Presidents, oh no. He fell into the life of one Ms. Naomi Wilson, who named him for his missing birth farther in some sort of sick vengeance. She was what someone these days would call “white trash”, but that phrase wasn’t exactly tossed about in public during the ’50s. Nonetheless, it would’ve been an accurate statement to make, all things considered. She was the daughter of some moderately well-off people from England who had been enthralled by the wide open feeling of the American South. Of course, after the move there and the birth of their daughter on American soil, they began to realize just how little they actually liked the American South, and when Naomi was only sixteen, they moved back to England without her. Mort had never been able to get the story straight of why they left her behind, but from everything he’s put together, he’s fairly sure that she had kicked up a fight about being made to leave the only home she had even known—not that it makes her parents abandoning her any less awful, but in his mind, it did help do a bit of explaining. His mother always had been a stubborn one.

Stubborn as she was, she lacked the class and tact to end up getting much of a job, and she hadn’t been in America by herself for all that long before she came to guess that prostitution might be the best option she had at hand. Years later, when she was in her twenties and pregnant, she moved on to working at a laundromat, and from there on out she had a more stable existence. That isn’t to say that Mort’s childhood was an easy one, though. He and her lived in a series of slums and dilapidated apartment buildings in Corpus Christi, rarely with much to eat, and as such, Mort grew up tall and slender. Though Naomi wasn’t the most intelligent woman, she did understand the importance of school in life, and especially to a child’s life. Mort started public school a few years late, but he was naturally quite clever and caught up easily to his peers. After school and work were done, the two would sit on the floor of their bedroom and he would tell her what he learned in school that day, explaining any concepts she didn’t understand. By the time he reached high-school he was wickedly smart, and stronger than most of the boys his height and age from his weekends spent doing physical labour to help supplement the household income, despite his still-lanky appearance. 

When he was in his Junior year, Naomi had got the idea in her mind that they should move to a proper apartment, instead of the fallen-apart mess of the place they lived in. She had never had any ideas or fantasies about who she was before this, but something in seeing her only son look so pale and thin had caused a stir within her. She increased her shifts at the laundromat, and got a second job working as a waitress at a local cafe. With her gone all the time, their little learning sessions became a thing of the past, and Mort started hanging around school later and later after class was let out. It didn’t take much guessing on the part of his teachers to find out what was going on. One of them, his history teacher, took it upon himself to help Mort, and the two of them would go to the local library and do research into whatever subject he was interested in that week. This odd arrangement continued on until Mort graduated from high-school, though his teacher did write him a moving reference letter for University. Around this time, Naomi had finally saved up enough and she moved into a beautiful apartment in the downtown of Corpus Christi. Mort remained at home for a few more months before receiving a full scholarship to the University of Texas at Austin, and so he and his mother parted ways for the first time. 

He ended up majoring in Philosophy after giving both English and Law a try, and in his new field, he excelled. After he finished his B.A. he returned home to see his mother, and was overjoyed to find that she had gotten married, and was living far more comfortably than ever before. After spending a few months with them, Mort decided that he should move on and begin his own life, and so he decided to return to University to get his Master’s Degree. He lived in Austin during this time, and travelled occasionally to see his mother, also stopping in New Orleans and passing through Barton Hollow from time to time. The town had a sort of odd quality that attracted him, but he was always pulled back to sunny city-life at his University, so he never really gave the town much thought. However, after he finished his Master’s, he decided to find a place of his own to settle down and work on the book he’d begun during his final year of school, and Barton Hollow seemed as though it would be atmospheric enough to provide him with inspiration. 

He moved in during the winter of 1986, and buckled down in his small apartment in Graffiti Corner to write his book. Over the course of the next few months, the oppressive humidity and the stress of his book would turn him into something of a shut-in. Slowly, he started to retreat from the outside world. In the first year it wasn’t all that bad—he still left to shop and smoke and stop by Fever Dream or Club Dionysus—but as his research for his book became more intense, and his sleeping schedule became more erratic, he stopped leaving the apartment. It got to the point where, when he finished his book in 1999, he hadn’t left his building in months. He took his first steps outside to mail the manuscript off to a number of publishers, and then he just kept walking. He was deeply lost in the swamps before he noticed, and then he spent hours desperately trying to find his way out, before he finally noticed a figure in the distance.

She was careful, she was cautious, and she had been living in the swamps to avoid others. But then, there Mort was, moving towards her and coated from tip to toe in muck and swamp plants. Normally, she wouldn’t have gone through with it. Normally, she wouldn’t have even considered going for a human—but all she’d had for months on end was animal blood, and that wasn’t enough to nourish her. She was thirsty and desperate for something more, and there he was, miles from town and moving steadily closer to her, and trying desperately to get her attention. And so she decided that, just this once, she’d push aside what she knew of humans and their toxicity and have a drink. Mort was just happy she’d turned around and started walked to meet him, and didn’t even question when she asked him to lean in so she ‘could hear him better’. He was out of breath and glad to stop, and as he leaned down and forwards, she grabbed him. Any strength he had once had during his adolescence had petered off during his stint as a recluse, and even had he been at his fittest, he still would’ve had no hope of fighting her off—though, after the initial seconds, he didn’t want to. 

She drank him dry, and the whole time his mind was reeling, his fingers clutching at her shoulders to keep him upright as his knees nearly buckled from the intensity of the feelings coursing through him. The fight to keep himself upright grew harder as he began to feel woozy, and then properly sick. Within minutes he was limply leaning against her, and in a few more he was lying at the base of a tree, drained and dead. She was considering moving him when the outcome of her gamble hit, and she staggered off to live out her last moments on the small bank opposite where Mort’s body lay. The good thing about nature, however, is that it is inhabited, and a rabbit running from a bobcat made an incredible leap over his corpse soon after. Mort woke half-sunken into the swampland, and had to dig himself out and find his way back to town before he could even think about what had happened to him. 

Initially, once he’d realized, he was terrified. After all, he had died, and most people don’t have to face the aftermath of their own mortality. However, once he was able to push past that, he was able to see it as a sort of positive. He was dead, but still able to move and think as if he wasn’t, and certainly that should be something to be grateful for. Mort had been at the periphery of media long enough to have garnered a basic understanding of the vampire mythos, and so even though things such as the hunger and the new skills and weaknesses were shocking whenever he discovered them, he was able to rationalize them soon after. He slowly learned how to find people to feed off of, though the supernaturals were naturally wary of him. Despite this, he did manage to develop some routine, up to and including having his book published.

Currently in Barton Hollow; 

Lazy, and also still something of a recluse, Mort doesn’t feed very often. It could be that this adds to his surly attitude and malnourished appearance, or that might just be holdover due to the fact that he was turned after coming out of a major reclusive episode. He is not a person that is easy to be friends with for the most part, though he is quite capable of being charming upon the first introduction. It’s once he gets talking, and starts being honest, that most people leave. 

Since the publication of his first book (A rather depressing volume entitled “Joke-Book" that dissected how humans were basically horrible and a huge, cosmic mistake), he has published a second (equally depressing volume about the nature of Good and Evil, called "Myself Yourself”) and has begun teaching lecture classes at Barton Hollow University. Though he hasn’t moved from his horrible apartment in Graffiti Corner, the interior has greatly improved from how it appeared during ‘87 through ‘99, and now actually features a bed and a couch. 

He does, however, have connections for a number of things—drugs and blood—and he is happy to offer his assistance as a respected member of the community who also happens to have a good deal of money…which is to say that he bribes people to do things they otherwise might not. It all works out, though, and even if his lifestyle isn’t what some would consider healthy, it’s stable. He’s been working on another book recently, along with teaching a few more classes, so he is keeping busy. Or at least, busy enough.

His Quirks;

Mort is a fidgeter; during conversation or idle moments he’ll tap his foot, adjust his tie, smooth his hair, or even turn over his box of cigarettes—though these days he can’t light them most times, and people tend to give him odd looks the second he pulls them out.

The only thing he’s really, properly afraid of is large bodies of water. He hates boats, and doesn’t even like taking baths. He’s tried to justify this to himself by saying that he died in a place with water, so it makes sense, but even so it’s not something he’s very comfortable with.

Perhaps as a side-effect of all of his new vampiric powers, Mort deals with problems of hypersensitivity, that mostly presents in odd allergic reactions, Chromesthesia, and mild Number Form. 

He doesn’t really discriminate between genders, in that he sees them all as equal, though he has little interest in sex. It’s not the sex so much as the relationship that he sees as coming with it. If he could be guaranteed sex without there needing to be emotion or ulterior motives to it, he’d be far more open, but as someone who’s studied philosophy and human behaviour, he’s able to notice very quickly when a sexual partner has become emotionally attached. 

Mort speaks with a distinct Texan accent, which has only faded slightly since his move to Barton Hollow. He doesn’t feel that there is too much of a vocal difference between him and those born and bred, but a number of locals have commented on it. It’s one of the things that marks him as someone who just Isn’t From There.

He’s very touch-oriented, but it’s more clinical than anything else. He likes to feel things in his own hands, though he does a fine job of understanding theoretical ideas. This applies to people, as well; he’s often got a hand on his shoulder, or at his neck or heart, and if he is within proximity of someone else he’s likely to put a hand on their shoulder or back. This tiny bit, this little connection he forms, is one of the few noticeable signs that he’s not as shut-down as he tries to appear.

He doesn’t believe in love, or at least, he doesn’t believe that love exists for him. Having never been in love—and he’s adamant that loving his mother doesn’t count—he’s skeptical of the idea of romance at the very least, and convinced that it’s some grand delusion shared by the masses to comfort themselves in their nights of gut-wrenching loneliness. In his opinion, we need to get used to the fact that we are, essentially, alone in this world. As he writes, “We’re born alone, we die alone, and though we go through the motions together as the overly populated pseudo-group we call society, we face our issues alone. The smart person is the one who accepts that living alone is our natural state, and that casting off the lies and trappings of propriety is the only way to gain some sense of freedom in this temporary physical expression of consciousness.”

Despite all that, he’s become somewhat obsessed with romantic comedies.

Mortimer’s Connections; 

Naomi Wilson:

Mort’s mother has since been able to ditch her white-trash beginnings and is now living quite comfortably as the wife of a Criminal Defence Lawyer. He’s more than happy for her—he’s over the moon. In his mind, she is the best example of doing whatever it takes to do the right thing, and she did, in his mind. Since moving away from home, he’s met a number of people who have frowned so heavily on both sex workers and teenage parents—both of which his mother was. As he’s reminded them, anyone, teenage or not, can be a good parent, same as anyone can be a terrible one. He does feel lucky that she was of the former camp. He hasn’t visited her since he was turned into a vampire, though they do talk on the phone somewhat frequently. 

Camilo Cruz:

Though he doesn’t know much about the other man, he does know that Camilo is a Hunter of sorts, and that makes him worth keeping track of. The phrase goes something like “keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” and with no one he could really call a friend, Mort does his best to keep tabs on his enemies—even the ones who have little to no knowledge of him. 

His face claim is Josh Stewart and he was written and is currently played by Zoey in EST. 

Song: Cry by That Handsome Devil (x)

[tsarchived-deactivated20150713]

Fall could not come soon enough. That was in Terra’s humble opinion anyway. The woman, who had spent the past fourteen years north, and only occasionally ventured south in the winter, was no longer used to the stifling heat. She did not complain, however, and patiently waited for the temperature drop. Needless to say, there wasn’t going to be a temperature drop – they were in Louisiana! The idea of eloping to Yellowknife for the following few months became increasingly attractive. She knew Ira would have a thing or two to say about that. After all, she had only just returned to Barton Hollow. He would not allow her to leave again, because he knew she may not come back. It was a valid argument, Terra thought bitterly. Everything she had returned to town for was accomplished, and she itched to hit the road again. It was a terrible longing, and Terra struggled to fight it.

In an attempt to distract herself, Terra had decided to visit downtown Barton Hollow. She sauntered along the main road, idly observing the people and occasionally admiring a display  or two. She was checking out the window of an antique shop, when in its reflection she noticed a strange fellow across the street. She watched him for as long as she could before she could no longer see him in the window. That’s when she turned. Terra had something, call it a sixth sense that urged her to follow up with the man and find out what he was up to. It wasn’t so much curiosity, but the intuitive hunter in her. In an attempt to cross his path accidentally, she hurried around a building to cut him off and – “Damn,” she cursed, not having expected to run into him so boldly. Terra liked subtler means of pursuing a person, and she didn’t think he’d be so fast. But she was not fazed by having run into him. Instead, she used it to her advantage and gave a charming smile, “That’s not a problem,” she said, “I should have paid attention.”

[mortwilson-blog]

Mort squinted down at the woman he'd run into, and lowered the hand on his face. There was something odd about her, something familiar, like a feeling, or a smell. Not that he'd met her before - then again, he'd hardly met anyone, outside of professors and students - but there was something in her mannerism that made him feel on edge. He felt it at the base of his spine, and his lower-arms, exposed by his rolled shirt-sleeves, were getting goosebumps despite the sweltering heat. He straightened his back a little bit, and gave her a good once-over. Nothing that should have triggered his alertness, exactly, and yet...

"I'm the one who ran into you." He replied. Even though he couldn't tell what exactly his intuition was getting at, he knew there was something more to her than just the surface. Mort could see the colours of her her voice like something he'd heard before, like a memory long forgotten. Dullish-green-gray and deep orange, depending on the tone of the word. It was a dark sound, not specifically because of her voice, but because of something he sensed deeper. He knew those colours, and knew the taste in his mouth - he'd sensed this sort of thing before, but the memory of when escaped him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone light. "Y'alright though, miss?"

[mortwilson-blog]

Mort hated the cold, but he hated the humidity as well. Dry heat was just about the only decent type of weather, if you were to ask him. The weather of Louisiana left him swimming in his own sweat, his shirt clinging to him like heated saran. Of course, this wasn't the worst if could've been; at some point in his life, he'd acquired to information that the hottest recorded temperature in Louisiana was 114°, and currently it was hovering around 87°. Either way, the heat left him feeling raw, and dried up, like the desiccated corpse he'd probably be save for his 'happy accident'. He'd only left his apartment for beer, and now he was seriously regretting his decision to do so.

He walked in the darkest shadows available on the sidewalk, his face contorted in something that was half sun-squint and half grimace. Mort wasn't a hurried individual - apparently it was a Southern trait - but he was moving even more slowly than usual as he tried to keep him eyes shielded so as not to succumb to the headache he could feel drumming just below the surface of his pain tolerance level. Any more light in his face and he'd be better off just impaling himself. He was so focused on keeping himself out of direct light that he didn't even notice that there was anyone else on the street until he'd accidentally knocked into them. What felt like a small bump to him was obviously much more, as when he looked up he saw he'd basically body-checked them. Mort ran the hand that had been shielding his eyes down his face in irritation, but he did offer his free hand to steady the other and let out a gruff "Sorry 'bout that."