Fletcher is a quiet man, not shy or timid but thoughtful and strong, enjoying the silence.
He is often considered a recluse because he enjoys the wilderness and the solitude of long walks in the deep woods.
Fletcher is alert, insightful, and curious. He is able to concentrate and focus on developing complex ideas and skills.
Independent, innovative, and inventive, He can also become preoccupied with his thoughts and imaginary constructs.
He is sometimes detached, yet high-strung and intense. Fletcher has a tendency to become preoccupied with his visions and interpretations rather than reality.
He is fascinated by off-beat, esoteric subjects, especially those involving dark and disturbing elements.

Fletcher was born to an upper middle class family during the late 17th century. He lived an easy life, free of monetary worry and hardship and not policed by the social policies of the aristocracy. He was sent to the University of Oxford to receive his education and to begin his life as an architect for the upper class. Late on the eve of his graduation, through the drunken celebratory haze, a mysterious stranger accosted him for help from the murkiness of the night shrouded streets of London. The pain and grief in the woman's eyes alarmed him and his curious caring nature compelled him to follow her. He remembered vividly the flickering of the small lantern he had held aloft before him as the strange hauntingly beautiful woman clasped the fingers of his free hand delicately in her ice cold fingertips. The farther from the safety of his home she drew him the dimmer the light seemed to get until finally near the outskirts of the city the flickering ember of the wick puffed out completely. She led him on a strange and terrifying journey to the heart of darkness and he returned a changed man.... a dead man... a vampire.

He continued living in a most conventional way, designing his buildings indoors with heavy velvet curtains blocking the sun. He examined his works only after dark. The night became his kingdom and he watched through the veil of the darkness as the city slept reveling in its midnight beauty. he drank to sustain himself aware of vampire community but never partaking in their seemingly barbaric bloodletting ceremonies. Soon his life fell into mediocrity and monotony and he seemed to fold in on himself becoming increasingly detached from the world around him. His buildings littered the London sky-scape and yet the impact was meaningless. He began to feed sparingly beginning to whither becoming a shell of the illustrious artist he had once been, but who was there to care? He watched from the shadows as his family and friends grew old and weak, slowly one by one blinking out of existence, their memory only marked by the gravestones he kept forever spotless. Tendrils of his signature thorny black roses adorn the graves, curling around the base of each headstone as if in a mockery of protection.