Rodney Killick has a look one could be sure was influenced by three particular pleasures: women, gambling and alcohol. Many on the street could probably describe him as just another shady-looking man, what with his suspiciously deep, smouldering eyes and gaunt features. However, this tall young man, lean and slender with a head of ashen blond hair and periwinkle eyes could never possibly do such things. See, one would expect men dabbled in those experiences to be worn down by years of it but in his case, he appeared as untouched and unharmed by their particularly nasty side effects. Next, you would probably ask this fellow how old he is, and he'd gladly reply, "Thirty." One thing he leaves out is that he's been thirty for a hundred fifty seven years.
Over time, he's grown accustomed to the unusual nature of his circumstances. Expressiveness, a skill he's learned to manipulate to his own advantage, has helped him get this far in the world. He's learned how to hide his emotions away from his face and body language, and to charm people into thinking differently about things. It serves as his only solace, to communicate what he wants to say to someone, whether it's lies or truth. Unfortunately, it has confined him to a lonely existence, not knowing love or friendship or any of those warm, fuzzy feelings you get around people, which has dulled him considerably, due to his want not to get too close to people. Consequently, he doesn't know how to act once presented with situations like conversing with a room of friendly people or a hug or an offer of friendship. Once he feels he's gotten too close, he's afraid of compromising the other, and coldly rebuffs, often leaving people dejected and hurt, and more than often leaving them despising him. Underneath this cover of coldness, there is a genuinely concerned man wanting to rip out of the shell and explain everything, but his inhuman qualities and great lust for blood as sustenance leave him no choice.
His daily apparel consists of anything one can find in a regular man's closet. He has a particular preference for cottony soft t-shirts, and will often be spotted wearing them underneath jackets, or with a jacket slung over one shoulder. There's a sanity he can derive from conformity, although it clashes with his own ideas, again he is left with no other choice. Clothing of this era is a little alien to him, but he's gotten used to the considerably fewer layers of intricate clothing he's had to deal with back in his heyday.
Before his years of torturous waiting for Death to come knocking on his door, he was once from Coventry, working and living out what he thought would be his life. His mother had named him Robert Nicholas, and took her surname, Barnes, at birth. There was no father present on the afternoon of the 15th of September, 1824. He was an Ehrensvärd, she claims, and he had ran out on her because of his duty to protect the name of his family. His poor mother, still in love with the strapping man who lived not too far from the North Sea, was completely inconsolable after seeing her newborn son for the first time. For the first few moments of his life, he'd never known the love of parents, and instead had to substitute it with the love of the midwife present. How she cooed over him like her own son, but alas she had to return the newborn to his mother again. What a sight it must have been.
His mother's refusal to look at him had been further reinforced by each year he'd grown up. More and more each day, he grew up to look like the man he should've been calling 'father', and more and more each day his mother grew deep in her depression. Then she fell in love again and married when he was ten. He was glad to see some improvement, but he was no longer surprised at her not being able to look at him, nor hold him in his arms when his sorrows overwhelmed him.
His stepfather, George Killick, was a jolly, caring man; perfect to nurse the broken heart his mother had to put back together for her son. Rodney had not been a sullen boy before this at all. In fact, he'd managed perfectly well without his parents. He'd raised himself. It was only when George came along that he'd truly been able to find something he couldn't do, and improve on himself from there with the help of this man's guidance. George had taught him most of the basic things Rodney knew, and instilled in him a sense of morality to avoid him from deviating from the bright future he could have. Rodney took his surname when he'd turned fifteen.
At sixteen, he began work manufacturing sewing machines. He helped his stepfather make enough to support his ailing mother, who lay in bed unable to get up because of her frail state. Rodney, by this time, was a well-mannered, well-read, and quite advantageously well-liked, having friends much more financially advantageous than him. While he worked, he wished for the day that he would have a residence to call his own, to own expanses of land, to read book after book, and to feel the comfort of financial stability. At the end of the day, his daydreams would be miles away from his reach. So he worked harder and harder, not minding the difficulty of the work, and no matter how low the wages might've been. Years passed, and his mother never seemed to get better, no matter how much he'd gone to the apothecary and gotten her medicine. She suffered on her deathbed, took his hand and said her last words: her regrets that she never got to express how much she loved her son. Right now, you would've thought it'd be typical -- it's on the soaps all the time. Rodney broke down, but only on the inside. As his mother passed, his face remained unfazed by her confession.
Not long after his mother died, he decided to make a life of his own. He moved away when he was nearing his eighteenth birthday, finding work in Stow-on-the-Wold tending to horses. After that did not exactly turn out as great as he planned, he managed to get a job as a valet at a wealthy barrister's home in Bristol. It was in Bristol that he met Meredith Taylor, who was eventually the mother of his three children. After the elderly barrister died, he was left searching for work again, and had to leave behind his young family to support them. He would write to them as often as he could. The only thing he had that reminded him of them were daguerreotypes of his children and wife and some of himself, that his kind master agreed to pay for. What he wouldn't expect, on the 6th of December, 1854, was an encounter with Jonas Ehrensvärd, his own biological father. How could he have believed this fact? The man looked like he was nowhere out of his mid-twenties. He did have the same eyes, the same hair, the same face, but he remained skeptical. He would soon be proven wrong.
The snow where he had collapsed that night soaked streams of blood down into the layers of earth. The next morning, the man was still there, staring down at him, but Rodney could not bear to stare into the daylight.
He's had his share of wars and view of the evolving world around him. He watched his wife and children grow from afar, unable to touch them again for fear of harming them. He continued to write, and send them money, making sure they lived properly. He watched as his children begat children, who begat children, who begat children, and so on. Over the years, he found it increasingly difficult to falsify his information, but each time he successfully did, he found himself comforted by the masking of his true nature in the crowd. His 'eating habits' have changed, and instead takes to packs of refrigerated blood he has thanks to a friend from a blood bank, or the occasional regular human food (which he had gotten quite used to over the years).
He scoffs at people who think living is difficult. Think about how much more difficult it is when you're dead.
Over time, he's grown accustomed to the unusual nature of his circumstances. Expressiveness, a skill he's learned to manipulate to his own advantage, has helped him get this far in the world. He's learned how to hide his emotions away from his face and body language, and to charm people into thinking differently about things. It serves as his only solace, to communicate what he wants to say to someone, whether it's lies or truth. Unfortunately, it has confined him to a lonely existence, not knowing love or friendship or any of those warm, fuzzy feelings you get around people, which has dulled him considerably, due to his want not to get too close to people. Consequently, he doesn't know how to act once presented with situations like conversing with a room of friendly people or a hug or an offer of friendship. Once he feels he's gotten too close, he's afraid of compromising the other, and coldly rebuffs, often leaving people dejected and hurt, and more than often leaving them despising him. Underneath this cover of coldness, there is a genuinely concerned man wanting to rip out of the shell and explain everything, but his inhuman qualities and great lust for blood as sustenance leave him no choice.
His daily apparel consists of anything one can find in a regular man's closet. He has a particular preference for cottony soft t-shirts, and will often be spotted wearing them underneath jackets, or with a jacket slung over one shoulder. There's a sanity he can derive from conformity, although it clashes with his own ideas, again he is left with no other choice. Clothing of this era is a little alien to him, but he's gotten used to the considerably fewer layers of intricate clothing he's had to deal with back in his heyday.
Before his years of torturous waiting for Death to come knocking on his door, he was once from Coventry, working and living out what he thought would be his life. His mother had named him Robert Nicholas, and took her surname, Barnes, at birth. There was no father present on the afternoon of the 15th of September, 1824. He was an Ehrensvärd, she claims, and he had ran out on her because of his duty to protect the name of his family. His poor mother, still in love with the strapping man who lived not too far from the North Sea, was completely inconsolable after seeing her newborn son for the first time. For the first few moments of his life, he'd never known the love of parents, and instead had to substitute it with the love of the midwife present. How she cooed over him like her own son, but alas she had to return the newborn to his mother again. What a sight it must have been.
His mother's refusal to look at him had been further reinforced by each year he'd grown up. More and more each day, he grew up to look like the man he should've been calling 'father', and more and more each day his mother grew deep in her depression. Then she fell in love again and married when he was ten. He was glad to see some improvement, but he was no longer surprised at her not being able to look at him, nor hold him in his arms when his sorrows overwhelmed him.
His stepfather, George Killick, was a jolly, caring man; perfect to nurse the broken heart his mother had to put back together for her son. Rodney had not been a sullen boy before this at all. In fact, he'd managed perfectly well without his parents. He'd raised himself. It was only when George came along that he'd truly been able to find something he couldn't do, and improve on himself from there with the help of this man's guidance. George had taught him most of the basic things Rodney knew, and instilled in him a sense of morality to avoid him from deviating from the bright future he could have. Rodney took his surname when he'd turned fifteen.
At sixteen, he began work manufacturing sewing machines. He helped his stepfather make enough to support his ailing mother, who lay in bed unable to get up because of her frail state. Rodney, by this time, was a well-mannered, well-read, and quite advantageously well-liked, having friends much more financially advantageous than him. While he worked, he wished for the day that he would have a residence to call his own, to own expanses of land, to read book after book, and to feel the comfort of financial stability. At the end of the day, his daydreams would be miles away from his reach. So he worked harder and harder, not minding the difficulty of the work, and no matter how low the wages might've been. Years passed, and his mother never seemed to get better, no matter how much he'd gone to the apothecary and gotten her medicine. She suffered on her deathbed, took his hand and said her last words: her regrets that she never got to express how much she loved her son. Right now, you would've thought it'd be typical -- it's on the soaps all the time. Rodney broke down, but only on the inside. As his mother passed, his face remained unfazed by her confession.
Not long after his mother died, he decided to make a life of his own. He moved away when he was nearing his eighteenth birthday, finding work in Stow-on-the-Wold tending to horses. After that did not exactly turn out as great as he planned, he managed to get a job as a valet at a wealthy barrister's home in Bristol. It was in Bristol that he met Meredith Taylor, who was eventually the mother of his three children. After the elderly barrister died, he was left searching for work again, and had to leave behind his young family to support them. He would write to them as often as he could. The only thing he had that reminded him of them were daguerreotypes of his children and wife and some of himself, that his kind master agreed to pay for. What he wouldn't expect, on the 6th of December, 1854, was an encounter with Jonas Ehrensvärd, his own biological father. How could he have believed this fact? The man looked like he was nowhere out of his mid-twenties. He did have the same eyes, the same hair, the same face, but he remained skeptical. He would soon be proven wrong.
The snow where he had collapsed that night soaked streams of blood down into the layers of earth. The next morning, the man was still there, staring down at him, but Rodney could not bear to stare into the daylight.
He's had his share of wars and view of the evolving world around him. He watched his wife and children grow from afar, unable to touch them again for fear of harming them. He continued to write, and send them money, making sure they lived properly. He watched as his children begat children, who begat children, who begat children, and so on. Over the years, he found it increasingly difficult to falsify his information, but each time he successfully did, he found himself comforted by the masking of his true nature in the crowd. His 'eating habits' have changed, and instead takes to packs of refrigerated blood he has thanks to a friend from a blood bank, or the occasional regular human food (which he had gotten quite used to over the years).
He scoffs at people who think living is difficult. Think about how much more difficult it is when you're dead.