An Introduction
This is the RP Blog for Samael Montez
CW (Images): Religion/Religious Imagery, Hooks, Blood(?), Fire
MAIN Blog is @petyabeloruski
Asks are directed to Samael, but can be directed towards the Mod too
Under 18 Do Not Interact with this Blog!
More information on Samael is in the pinned post on my Main Blog (mentioned above) and subsequent posts
Vidi Omnia.
Hi, this is a Public Service Announcement, or an addendum–
IT'S SAMAEL TIME
FIRST, Samael was born as Fidel Alemán Montez, in 10th of August 1830, and two things: 1.1 Why did he change his name? He didn't and we'll get back to this. 1.2 That makes him 69 Years old in 1899, is that an error? No it's not actually- He looks like 25-31 Years old and that's on purpose, and it's a part of his story.
Look at him :) by @cherbee
SECOND, Samael stands at 203cm, or 6'8" If you will, in Imperial(ism) units. In my conception, he is built like- Ah, and CW: Images of Men, just under the cut
He's got all this
Standing at 6'8", a dark brown complexion and tanned olive skin, bright unsettling green eyes, neck-length black hair, he has a little gap between his upper front teeth and faintly sharp canines, he also has a trimmed black moustache and soul patch flanked by mutton chops and surrounded by a light subtle but prickly stubble, and hair going from his chest down to his lowest stomach. He has a Roman nose with an outwardly bridge and a bulbous nose-tip, his lips are full, M-Shaped, downturned at the creases as a default expression, and shows dimples when he occasionally smiles. His voice is deep, gravelly, rough with a sizzling caliber, his English is weighted by a very heavy accent and his French and Italian are too.
He is an overwhelming mountain of muscle made of sculpted, hard surface. A large, full chest pectorals. With a cinched, small waist, broad shoulders and boulder-like deltoids and a steady round rear. Bullets may sometimes stun him for a few seconds, as the flattened bullet is pushed out and the wound closes itself. A large barrage of strong firepower—such as shotgun shells and cannons—can incapacitate him, and he is wrongly taken “for dead” and buried. But a few days, or weeks, or months pass, and he emerges from the dirt, his fingers bruised, broken and bloodied after digging out the dirt from his way, before recovering
....Anyway, aside from that another CW: Talking about SCARS!!! He's got a whole bunch of scars, on his arms, on his neck, two notable scars on his face. Most notably, a whole lot of old scars just all over his back. Not scratches, no... A whip that- viciously, and often. We'll also get back to this.
THIRD, He dresses himself like as shown below
He is dressed in old clothing; a black chaqueta with soft white embroidery around the cuffs and lapels, an off-white ruffled wing-collared shirt with ruffles around the chest and cuffs, a carmine silk stock cravat, a dark grey waistcoat with white embroidered motifs and gold pocket watch chains over the waistcoat front at the abdomen, black trousers with silver buttons and symbols to the sides tucked into calf-high black leather boots, a carmine detailed girdle, and fingerless gloves, a long black cloak with subtly embroidered motifs symbols and patterns and white fringes and silver spurs. Sometimes he uses a pair of old spectacles inside the pockets of his chaqueta to read certain things. Sometimes, he will remove the cravat and chaqueta to roll up his sleeves for work, sometimes he will remove the waistcoat and the gloves as well, revealing the suspenders beneath.
His good ol' hat. Iconic and inseparable from him.
FOURTH, In terms of weaponry, he uses the following items:
The iconic Piece: an old rusted rapier christened as "Faustina", which he keeps in a scabbard attached to bis Belt, to unsheath in combat, and so masterfully maneuvers with use in battle as well, capable of splitting and slicing through most things smoothly.
He carries two Double-Action Revolvers in his holsters like the one seen above, named Castigo and Justicia respectively, but with a frame turned into ebony after the steel was burnt, and a grip made of his own carved bones, after he returned from death and looked into the ditch from which he dug out of, and gathered his own remains. With 10-Inch barrels, Iron Sights, and a specific type of reinforced titanium bullet casings and minié balls– the recoil is enough to break the average person's wrist.
He also has a double-barrelled shotgun aptly baptized "La Sangrienta"; non-sawed, long barrels, whole stock, mahogany wood. It is capable of irreversible damage, taking down multiple persons at once with blown off limbs and even 3rd Degree Burns, when Samael breaks open the barrel, the shells are sizzling hot as steam rises from within.
...
FIFTH, His horse is a very tall, female Hungarian Half-bred, a Piebald Tobiano one which he named Luminosa.
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SIXTH, His Lore, and things are gonna get serious so... You are advised.
Born in the 10th of August, 1830, Fidel Enrique Alemán Montez is the only son of Hortensia Alemán and Romano Montez—A Mayan heritage Guatemalan seamstress lady that used to be a prostitute born in 1810, and a Romani-Mexican carpenter that would work from joinery to joinery born in 1800, respectively. By the time Fidel (Samael) was born, they were part of this big group without a permanent place to stay- they were a big bunch of people from all places, all together going from place to place in wagons, carts, coaches in a big caravan—"Witch doctors", dancers, peasants, former soldiers—good people who fought on Vicente Guerrero's side when reactionaries tried to remove him—and jesters, Circus people, a Priest, and many more
His father Romano met Hortensia when she was still a prostitute. He never requested her services, and instead would just talk to her about daily things. They became mere friends- he was 28, and she was 18. At the forcing hand of their families- also part of the caravans- they married a year later, both awkward and uncomfortable about being married since they were only friends... But they grew into it, and fell in love. And so, Fidel was made.
Fidel was an impossible child. Born at 7 months rather than 9, the caravan was caught at the worst possible moment. Romano was beaten upside the head, and Hortensia ran as far as she could, like he told her, and locked herself in a barn, where she would give birth to her child, among bales of hay and a manger. The pale, blue-skinned little child wouldn't breathe, wouldn't move, Hortensia was distraught, as she removed the umbilical cord with her teeth alone. Later that night, the priest told her the boy was dead, but she refused to give him, holding him tightly to her bosom as she sat in the back of the moving wagon, her features lit by an oil lamp– Romano was back too, since the caravan managed to gather their coins, bits and bobs to bail him out… Until the boy moved, he made a short rattling breath, and a loud cry of life escaped him. Fidel was always a sort of sensitive child- he laughed, he cried, of course, and there were times that he looked someone in the eye and knew things about them, somehow. He loves books and learning autonomously, and loved it even more when he could share his newfound knowledge with someone willing to lend their ear and their time. He was a light for the people of the caravan. Even when they disagreed on most things, they could agree that Fidel and the other children were worth raising, to prepare for a better, merciful future...
They went from Coahuila, Guerrero, all the way down to Colombia and Bolivia and back, little Fidel himself was actually born in Guatemala. In 1841, the group had suffered a relentless attack from the Valcastro-Fuegos Gang while trying to cross into what was once Alta California, and lost 7 People. The group's leader, an old illiterate white-bearded man César Callejos, visited a saloon and came across an armed young man- a guard for a landowner. The guard promised Callejos to vouch for him to the rich Belisario Pavón and his meek, cowardly but no less dastardly accountant Federico Taborga, which promised him and the bunch permanent residence and a source of revenue... And so was signed an unequal contract, unbeknownst to them. Fidel had his nose measured, the shape of his nose's bridge, the distance between his eyebrows, the fullness of the cheekbones, sharpness of the jaw- after which, due to his "better appeal" Fidel would be given House Duty, serving the tables and cleaning dishes and brooming the place with his Mother beside him, and a few others. Men, women and children worked fields from sunrise to sunset, sunrise after sunrise and sunset after sunset- a thousand dawns over.
The sound of a whip was just as common as birds singing. Sunrise, three cracks of the whip. By lunchtime, they'd stop, only to start again once lunch was over. Crack after crack after crack until the sun sets.
And then, the Americans came. They took the lands and turned it into "Nevada" after conquest. As for the group? Casualties of the war, most of them, including Hortensia– or so they thought, when she was only passed out. Fidel and Romano, with their bags and satchels, left hurriedly upon a wagon down quickly to the river. But then, trying to cross the river back to Mexico atop a rope-bound wooden riverboat, Romano was shot by American soldiers... And then, there was only Fidel. A kid, scared and alone, with tattered clothes, splatters of blood on his shirt and scars on his face made by shards.
...But then, he turned 20. Twenty, sickly, frail, dying of scurvy and ravaged by tuberculosis. He heard something. Whatever it was, it spoke directly to him, and he did not understand what it said, but he felt the words.
He changed. For three agonizing days, he changed, and he healed. From a boney, frail young man to a tall, strong man with a broad, sturdy frame to withstand almost anything. His basest earthly desire of libido was relegated to nothing, as a measure to prevent him from ever deviating from his mission. His name was taken, and so he became Samael.
Unto him was trusted a mission—To find, judge and punish They who hurt and who sin without a second thought. With as simple as a look in the eye, Samael would know everything that person has ever seen, done, said, thought from birth to the moment they met, unbeknownst to the subject of his gaze. In 1855, he turned 25... And didn't turn a single day older after that- Not in appearance, at least.
By the 1860's, he had already turned into a legend in Mexico, pretty much. A story a frustrated mother could tell their child to get them in line, "Listen to me, my child, or else The Man might come around and get you!"... Only for Samael to appear, and stun the adults into silence. Never again would they use him as a scare story for children. He is not the Boogeyman, and they'd remember that.
In 1862, Using the power of his gaze unto an old daguerreotype, he found the whereabouts of his mother at last- she had stayed at an institution for those mentally recovering after running across a street, yelling that her son had not died, that he was still somewhere... By the morning he got there, she had already passed. The nurses and the headmaster let him bury her, in peace, comfort and quiet, and place beautiful hortensia flowers at her stone. Samael bid farewell.
He speaks perfect Ecclesiastical Latin, Spanish, English, French, Italian and even Enochian (post-transformation). In the old worn, brown leather satchel carried on him by a strap slung from shoulder to hip, inside is an old, hardback book made of crimson velvet of the Bible in Spanish, along with some medicine and other important items, and some coins.
Where range wars rage over the broad grazing field, both sides will often end up shot. Both ranches lose, but Samael wins. In the windy plain where the Schools are, where within the Nuns who claim to follow the light beat the knuckles of young Natives, nothing happens without Samael knowing of it. The boys and girls are freed. The Priests punished, as the Sisters watch, before renouncing their servitude to the same to Samael's face, and recite the entirety of 1 Corinthians 13 lest they have to walk from sea to sea and back barefooted, as he wiped the tears of each Sister, and each child.
Samael smokes often, sometimes cigars, sometimes cigarettes, and doesn't drink casually- only when the situation demands it such as good fortune, victory and opportunity, he will drink wine or champagne. He has a grim but realistically optimistic outlook. He still crosses himself, still kisses the cross of his necklace before prayer. His deep anger culminates in righteous, justified rage and long sermons and speeches. He knows all about the wrongs, but he also knows why and how to correct them, and he cannot do it alone. He could never, for the people make part of him too. He has a dry, straight-to-the-point, panfaced humor oftentimes, when he even has the energy to express it... He is tired, but energetic at the same time, because he must be. Some days, he barely has any energy to get up, or clean himself, or even eat. He is always grieving. But, with a few people, they get to see who he is under the byronic hero and the tragedy; a man who wanted to love any loving partner no matter who, to live at home no matter where, to die peacefully at one point rather than be close to his 200th Year of life. He has special interests; he loves history, geography, geopolitics, eschathology, religion, metaphysics, literature and so much more. He has read Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Alexandre Dumas, Tomás Aquinas, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, and wholly comprehended each rich text. He loves chess, backgammon, theater, and more.
By far, his favorite book of more recent times is "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
His wide-brimmed black sombrero he only removes when indoors, letting the old headwear hang by the string around his neck. He is most welcomed at the monastery of Las Benditas de los Saguaros, where he is given food, shelter, a warm bed and access to a hot shower. "It's Samael!" One Nun will shout, before her fellow Sisters rush beside fellow residents—the ailing, old, and the young and hale but without a place in life—to see him, to greet him, to thank him, to throw their flowers for him. Still, Samael carries his life with great humility, honesty even if too honest and sincerely, and directly, never dodging when unneeded. He will stay at soup kitchens not only to feast, but also to cook since he does cook very masterfully well, and to clean the place with a broom. He repairs roofs and leaks, he carves wood nicely, helps build and carry things from place to place and many other activities. He helps raise children as well, the best ways he knows how. He teaches them, talks to them, he understands them well and better than anyone else, for a child is not complicated nor as loaded as an adult. For that is how he understands and speaks to all of those of good soul he knows they have- never diminishes them, never talks down, always understands, and always tries to help. Sometimes, he will go to saloons- though only for a water break or for coffee and a meal. Sometimes also, he will play Poker not for making money but simply because the game itself is fun, Five Finger Fillet, Armwrestling and whatnot. As a Gunslinger, he knows his way around his revolvers, often flipping and rotating them on his finger; he does sometimes accept duels.
Samael has an oath of truth, which literally physically makes it impossible for him to ever lie unless under certain circumstances. His oath of poverty prevents him from accumulating too great an amount of wealth.
He has seen altars dedicated to him in homes, using wanted posters and painted tributes and portraits of Him due to lack of pictures. The Catholic Church has already recognized him, and even met him in secret, in spite of their reluctance to beatify him at popular request.
Samael once captured a traitor captain and dragged him out, by the hair, to face the people whom he hurt. Told them to form a line, and return the favor. Elderly ladies ask the captain what he did to her Son, the grieving father to ask what he did to his Daughter, where they went, and what he did it all for. He let the people judge the captain.
He has done the same for those who hold hate in their hearts and who spread that hate, he has done for the corrupt and greedy, all who have done wrong and permeate evil on earth. He may be fatal and brutal—extremely so—but never unjustly, never unwarranted, and to send forth the message that all racism, capitalism, homophobia; all that is reactionary, and all evils are reprehensible, and shall be snuffed out. He has welcomed and comforted prostitutes, the abused, the queer adolescent, the poor child who still weeps for a life where their Mother and Father don't fight so much.
... That's all folks!!! :D
