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Agoston Szabo

It's funny what five-hundred years from home will do to a person.

0 · 238 views · located in The Infinite Void

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by abedlamsun

Description

Agoston Szabo is of an average height (around five feet and eleven inches), a medium build, and primarily unremarkable. The man's skin is pale, a sickly pale that cannot be readily explained away by simply remaining indoors for too long. Szabo takes great pains to hide this by applying stage make-up to any portion of his skin which would be exposed, a long process that he detests for its diminishing of his masculinity and a waste of time. He keeps his hair cropped short, exposing his forehead but concealing the tips of his ears. Agoston wears contacts with irises of a dark brown, effectively hiding the unusual tint and focus of his eyes. While not incredibly handsome, he appears young, around his mid-twenties. Often, he wears relatively normal clothing: a casual button-up shirt, dark trousers, a mediocre pair of dress shoes, and sometimes a tie.

His appearance is not reflected in mirrors or reflective surfaces.

Personality

Five centuries of life have given Szabo much experience in acting, and he normally chooses the facade of a relatively normal member of the current society. Presently, he is a moderate-leaning individual, neither too friendly nor too antagonistic, but sociable enough that he can meet his own, true ends. Though no genius, life experience has made him seem much more intelligent than most, though he often goes to great pains to pretend to be more ignorant than he actually is.

Agoston's actual motivations lie in luring people into a trap, so as to be able to feed on them. He has no compunctions about which victims he takes, though there are certain vintages that he prefers more: primarily, young and healthy women. He uses whichever methods he feels would be best, and his bestial nature enjoys a hunt. Szabo also feels indifferent as to whether his victim survives or dies after his feeding, and the outcome is often the latter. The creature is also incredibly interested in anything that would enhance his natural abilities.

Equipment

Though Agoston has, over his lifetime, learned to use many weapons proficiently, he has chosen to focus primarily on hand-to-hand combat; the vampire prefers to keep a low profile, so his hunts are not interrupted. Beyond that, he has several of the natural abilities most others of his race do.

Abilities
Inhuman Strength: Agoston, as a middle-aged vampire, is quite capable of lifting a five-hundred pound mass with a single arm.
Inhuman Speed: With some effort, Szabo is able to move at a speed that he seems to trail and blur in a normal human line of sight.
Enhanced Sight: Agoston is able to focus his gaze to see details many humans would miss, as well as the heat signature of a body's circulatory system.
Camouflage: For a short time, (3 turns), Agoston can disappear from the normal human wavelength. Infrared and x-ray detection are both possible.
Resistance to Injury: Wounds that are not inflicted on the brain or heart cause Szabo much less pain than a normal individual.
Gradual Regeneration: Wounds that are not inflicted on the brain, heart, or remove a limb are healed at a faster pace, depending on the severity of the wound.

Weaknesses
As with any vampire, Agoston is also susceptible to injury and 'death' (though he is technically dead.) Namely, severe cranial wounds and brain damage can kill him, as well as piercing the heart with a sharp object (certain cylindrical rounds provide the same effect.) He is also extremely susceptible to damage by fire, and goes to great lengths to ignore it. He cannot consume food or drink, without becoming violently sick afterward. Szabo cannot stand to be in the presence of crucifixes: his proximity to one varies the effect from a distinct discomfort, to an actual burning sensation. Sunlight causes his instant death and decomposition.

History

In the early 16th century, a man who calls himself, now, Agoston Szabo was born to a wealthy Hungarian family. This family owned a relatively large fief, and the man himself came into possession of it after his father died during a conflict with a neighboring fiefdom. Seeking an alliance, the noble entered himself into the vassalage of a powerful baron, who had many peculiar tendencies and habits that were often commented on. Upon entering into the Baron's service, Szabo found that, in fact, the noble was a vampire. In a bid to unite the local fiefdoms under his control, the Baron turned his various vassals, and Agoston was no exception. Though Szabo, at first, rejected his vampiric nature, he soon came to embrace it just as strongly as the Baron. The Baron's conspiracy, however, soon crumbled.

Having been stripped of both fiefdom and power, Agoston wandered around as an outcast, learning to hide his peculiar nature from the then-superstitious people of Europe. When liberalism began to spread in the continent, Szabo made use of his talents and two centuries of life experience, establishing several businesses over multiple 'lifetimes' from the 18th to the 20th century. As information became easier to get a hold of, and investigations on suspicious persons made easier, Agoston soon dropped out of the public view, dedicating himself to travelling, seeking power for himself, and enjoying as many hunts as his bestial nature calls him to.

So begins...

Agoston Szabo's Story

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Agoston Szabo kept his lips pressed together as he walked in, arms raised above his head. It was a stretch, a carefully practiced motion with the right stiffness, the right tics, to convey that he was coming in from a long day. A loosed tie hung from his shirt, before he groaned with another lurch upward, bringing his hands down into his pockets after. His eyes had closed to slits during the motion, but he still took in the entire bar.

The first plan for the night was walking up to the bar counter, leaning against the surface on one elbow. It was a casual motion. He looked over his shoulder, looking at the shelves of alcohol, and fighting back a shudder, a sick feeling in his stomach. His attenuated gaze noted that, in this lighting, even the reflections of other patrons came out as a blur. That was satisfactory.

"Hey," he called out. The voice had barely any inflection at all, just a basic rendering of English that fit closest to how each letter was supposed to be pronounced. "Anyone here serving drinks?"

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Agoston Szabo didn't mind a bit when no one responded to him, merely a single robotic claw raising in reply. That provided the perfect excuse. The man walked up to a table, pulling out the chair and sitting, bringing both legs up onto the chair across from him. He lounged, reclining gently against the back of his seat, lips held tightly in a smile; a tense-looking motion. It made sense, he had just gotten off his stressful shift at work, hadn't he?

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Agoston Szabo gave an enormous stretch, his face contorting as his eyes closed tightly, lips pressing together in front of a muffled, long groan. The chair he sat in tilted back slightly, the one on which his feet rested, pushed forward. He brought his shoes down from that other seat, leaning forward with his elbows against the table. The man's shoulders slowly slackened down from their tensed position, and he let out a long, tired sigh.

"Finally," he muttered. "I can relax a little bit."

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Agoston Szabo turned his head slightly, the warm scent of copper and plasma filling a single flared nostril. There was a long, painful moment where he resisted the urge to fly up, blurring toward the bleeding figure dragged into the bar. A groan was stifled as he remained in his position, shoulders tensing and then untensing. He wouldn't give himself away that easy, even for such a delectable scent. It angered him, though, to have to pass up a pure virgin's blood.

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Agoston Szabo leaned forward, bringing his hand to his back pocket. A moment of shifting produced, grasped between his fingers, a hankerchief. He unfolded it, and put it over his nose, miming the motions of wiping his nose and blowing it. The scents were getting to him.

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Agoston Szabo finished his mimickry of wiping his nose, looking around the bar as he folded the handkerchief, placing it back in the rear pocket of his trousers. He didn't feel the cold, he was dead; however, he looked very much alive with the cosmetics he chose to wear, so as not to call any attention to himself. With a slight effort, he drew in a breath, blowing it out and watching it come out as a thin pocket of mist.

Well, it had gotten colder in here, hadn't it? He began to feign a shiver, wrapping his arms against his chest and rubbing slightly with his forearms.

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Agoston Szabo looked at the squidman, holding back a chuckle as he was reminded of the works of Lovecraft. What a fascinating man that author had been -- and such a terrible one at that. Forgetting the writer's opinion on race, a lot of his views, in Szabo's mind, were quite correct. Still, though, he mocked the motion of shiverring against the growing cold.

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Agoston Szabo would be able to move, but he decided against it -- it would be suspicious now if he did. His forearms froze as he stared forward, lips opened just enough to keep his grotesque incisors from being exposed. With that, he ceased the small muscular movements that kept the frost at bay, and was encased in ice.