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Isiah Garronde

297 views · located in Eastern Wing City

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by XavierDantius32

Groups

An up and coming family that seeks to spread its influence. As individuals they have their own goals and desires for the family and Wing City, but as a group, power is the name of the game.

Description

Isiah is as old as the woods. He's been around a good while, straying across the globe like a dog without a master. But he doesn't look it. Isiah has the haughty looks of a twenty year old, with hooded brows, and a sharp, pointed nose. His lips are thin and drawn, like a knife-slash in his pale face, the tips twitching upwards in an almost permanent smirk of derision.

Even on a normal person, Isiah's deep liquid eyes would be striking. Combined with his sharp face, and pale complexion, anyone to even catch a glance of him will be drawn to the mysterious purple pools, the dark spot of the pupil appearing larger than normal.

Careful inspection of Isiah's physique would reveal him to be deceptively muscled, his lean build belaying any hint at the massive strength and speed he wields.

Isiah is a man of good taste, and his clothing reflects this. His charcoal-gray suits are well tailored, coupled with a pair of smart leather shoes, make him look like a normal business man.

Equipment

Isiah is not strictly human. His physiology is vastly different from that of a human. He has two stomachs, one designed expressly to digest blood. His bones are stronger, and he possesses more muscle tissue than the average human. The effect of this is obvious. Isiah is faster and stronger than most humans. His deep purple eyes give him excellent night vision, and his nails are as sharp as any razor. These abnormalities make him especially good at hunting, and fighting in general.

Isiah has the ability to heal wounds in a matter of minutes, which also contributes to his considerable longevity. A downside to all these abilities is that Isiah cannot step in sunlight during the day, or his flesh will burn and blister, leading eventually to death. No matter what, six hours in sunlight will render him dead.

Other than this, the only way to kill Isiah for good, is to destroy his brain or heart.

Along with his other abnormalities, Isiah is possessed by the Red Thirst. This is a key aspect of his species and comes upon him for four days every month, where he is filled with the desire to kill and drink the blood of a human. With his “gifts” He is amazingly good at this. It does not matter what sex or race the human is, so long as the life blood pumps through his veins.

Isiah's love in life is music. When the thirst has not consumed him, he can often be found (by night) curled up in the corner of a bar, a glass of scotch by his side, with his violin nestled in the crook of his neck. This instrument is a Stradivarius, acquired sometime in the 16th century by Isiah during his journeys across Europe.

So begins...

Isiah Garronde's Story

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Isiah Garronde let the night air play upon his pale features as he prowled through the gardens, enjoying the weight of the fiddle case over his shoulder. It had been a while since he'd left his mouldering flat in a high-rise in the north part of the city.

He paused, his long fingers reaching out to pull down the stalk of a crimson rose, a smile flashing across his face as the rich scent filled his nostrils. With a brief flick of his fingers he severed the flower from its stalk and slipped it into his button hole.

Isiah shrugged his shoulders, settling the weight of his ornate revolver between his shoulders and continued down the path, moving as silently as a prowling cat. He arrived at a small clearing and settled down on a hickory stump, pulling his fiddle and bow from its case.

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Isiah Garronde nestled the fiddle in the crook of his neck, a smile spreading across his pale face, eyes flashing. He worked the bow delicatly back and forth across the strings, drawing an eerie and mournful melody from the instrument. It was an old song, one that had been played for centuries by those of his kind. It was a lament for the dead.

Isiah's ears pricked up, and he set aside the fiddle, getting to his feet. He reached behind his back and the silver revolver dropped into his hand. He circled the clearing, his steps silent on the leaf-strewn ground.

"Who is there? Reveal yourself." His tone was soft and lilting, with the faint hint of someone from the deep-south, but overlayed with class and breeding, almost oozing charm and compassion.

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Isiah Garronde 's expression almost paused, half-way between a scowl and a smile, fixing his big, baleful eyes upon the small child, his hand returning the revolver to its holster.

"Little one, I am an anethema to your kind. Homosexual or Heterosexual are meaningless terms to me. My love is held by... other things." Pistol safely stowed in the small of his back, Isiah returned to his fiddle and bow, a true smile crossing his face.

He crooked his jaw into the instrument, settling the bow on the strings. "Do you like music, little one?" Even as the words died away, Isiah began to play a jaunty tune, humming the words under his breath. The tune was rather apt, he thought. The Devil came down to Georgia. Although free of his thirst, Isiah was definitly the Devil.

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Isiah Garronde picked himself up from the hickory stump, laying down the bow and fiddle to face the woman, unfazed by the dragonfire roaring above his head. However innocent the woman looked to these mere mortals, Isiah saw through the disguise. It was all in the eyes. The look of a hunter. He'd seen it in the eyes of the mob that had forced him from his home in N'orleans. He'd seen it in the eyes of the Union major whose pistol he carried.

He squared up to her, shrugging out of his jacket, revealing the leather bindings of the holster. "Little one, is this... woman with you?"

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Isiah Garronde grinned at the thing, feeling the aura of it wash over him like the sea washes over a sunken ship. It was old. Older than him. Maybe even older than his late father, who was buried in a british cemetary, his head removed, and a stake in his heart. Time to up the ante.

He opened his eyes wide, as if to project the purple orbs out of his skull. Anyone with even a rudimentary sense of the supernatural would feel a wave of blood and violence, three hundred years of ripped out throats and severed arteries. Isiah's smile widened, revealing his razor sharp teeth.

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Isiah Garronde staggered back, blinking as he realed in the face of the fear and dread. Suddenly he was seven again, being driven from his father's house, with the self-riteous words of the preacher ringing in his ears, the flames licking around his skin. As the thing dissapeared, the pistol was in his hand, almost faster than it could blink, raising his arm to point it at the spot where it had been.

"Show yourself, creature. Fight me on equal terms. Is there no honour among your kind?"

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Isiah Garronde glared haughtily at the thing, and returned to his fiddle, placing the revolver on his knee, ready to use it if the thing returned. He picked up where he left off, spinning out the tale of Johnny's deal with the devil, humming the words under his breath, letting the southern drawl creep back into his voice.

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Isiah Garronde leant back on the hickory stump, finishing up his reel about the Devil and an ill-concieved fiddle contest, switching to a slower, softer tune. It was of his own composition, written upon a gaudy paddle-steamer called the Fevre dream, over a century ago.

Isiah kept his eyes open, watching Parson, and the comotion over the fallen dragon. He had come to the garden looking for peace, away from the bright lights of the city.

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Isiah Garronde grinned down at Parson from over the peeling frame of his fiddle. "I can tell--" As the corpse bearing woman entered the garden, he lept to his feet, the fiddle falling away from his shoulder, the moonlight flashing from the silver barrel of his pistol.

"Madame, put him down." He called in almost perfect french, the gun held loosely at his side, his deep eyes hunting for the dhampir. If it were to return now, the whole thing could kick off. Isiah had no desire to fire his pistol tonight.

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Isiah Garronde stepped across the clearing, the silver pistol hanging loose at his side, putting himself between the vampiress and the.. thing.

"Madame. I advise you to turn and start running. That.. thing feeds on our kind, and wears us like you wear that beautiful dress. Its off the leash now, and I don't know how long I can hold it back."

As the last words left his knife-slash lips, Isiah squared up to the Dhampir, taking a traditional gun-slinger's stance, the pistol clenched tightly at his side, ready to fire. His eyes blazed with purple fire, the primal call of the hunt upon him.

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Isiah Garronde did not take his eyes of the dhampir as he shook out the muscles of his neck and shoulders. "He is the... pet of that little boy yonder." As he spoke, Isiah indicated the hickory stump where his fiddle resided with a flick of his left hand.

"Now madame. Run! I don't understand it, but I know I can't kill it. I'll be able to buy you enough time to get out."

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Isiah Garronde grinned at the Dhampir, the pistol at his hip spitting fire. He'd seen the dissapearing trick before, and as the wave of dread washed over him, he pulled the trigger, firing three shots into the rapidly advancing Dhampir.

Before the report of the shots had died away, Isiah was moving, swift as a darting fox, off to Timo's left flank, firing another two shots at the rough footprints in the grass. "Come and get me, beast. See how a real hunter hunts."

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Isiah Garronde shrugged his shoulders as the pink tentacles erupted from the ground. He couldn't fight something that could move like that, so he wouldn't try. With one bullet left in his pistol, he lined the fore-sight up with the spot between Fleur's eyes. He wouldn't let her suffer death at the hands of that thing. The pistol cracked in the still night air, the bullet slicing its way through the air towards Fleur's head.

As the smoke curled away from the muzzle of his pistol, Isiah slid the pistol back into its holster, snatching up his jacket and fiddle, before dissapearing into the night.

The setting changes from wing-city-gardens-north to Gambit's Bar

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pushed open the door, brushing the dust off the front of his suit. He'd left his fiddle-case in his flat, and had walked the streets playing a mournful tune.

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Isiah Garronde Isiah Garronde's Portraitpushed open the door, brushing the dust off the front of his suit. He'd left his fiddle-case in his flat, and had walked the streets playing a mournful tune. The bar seemed like a good place to lounge, and share his music with the world.

A smile crossed Isiah's face as he set the bow to his fiddle. The last time he'd been in a bar, he'd offered a pretty young fiddler a deal. If she could play the fiddle better than him, he wouldn't tear out her throat and gorge on her blood. Thankfully, the red thirst was no longer upon him, and he could operate without violence. However, the silver revolver was still holstered at his back.

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Isiah Garronde settled himself in the far corner of the bar, ordering a tumbler of scotch from the nearest android. He put his fiddle into the crook of his neck and layed the bow across the strings. He began to play a jaunty and uplifting tune he'd picked up from a group of mid-western bounty hunters during the great depression. Even in all that darkness, people could still produce beauty. That was partly what amazed him about humanity.

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Isiah Garronde looked up from his fiddle, sipping at his scotch, a slow smile spreading across his face. "If you mean that truely repulsive dhampir, then yes, I have encountered it. Thankfully the beast did not get its tendrils on me."

He shivered at the memory, taking a healthy gulp from the scotch. Isiah picked up his fiddle once more, and returned to the tune, the fast-paced melody conjouring up images of wild horses, and the whooping cries of painted indians. A song of from the mists of time.

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Isiah Garronde grinned at Parson, pausing to adjust the fiddle under his chin. His eyes flashing, he took up a song he'd learned as he first took up the fiddle, in a broken bar on the banks of the Mississipi. It was a lilting, comforting melody, taught to him by a free-slave, who had carried the tune with his chains from Africa.

It was not a sad song, more reminiscent, laden with the fruit of the happiness to come. From all the hundreds of fiddle tunes Isiah had heard over the years, this was one of his favourites.

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Isiah Garronde chuckled at Rowen's comment, taking a final gulp from the scotch. He concluded the song with a flourish of his bow, before setting aside the instrument, and slipping out of his jacket, revealing the faded leather of the shoulder holster.

He set the jacket on the tabletop, partially covering the empty tumbler, before taking up the fiddle again. "Any requests?" Isiah called out to the bar in general, as he seated the fiddle in the crook of his neck.

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Isiah Garronde declined the cigarettr. Even though his rapid healing meant that he would never suffer the side-effects of smoking, he'd never found the practice particularly appealing. He set the bow to his fiddle once more, and paused for a second, contemplating what to play.

He turned his head, surveying the bar. It was quiet now, the patrons retiring to booths to talk softly, and a jaunty tune would be out of place. So Isiah began to play a soft ballad, singing quietly under his breath. The ballad had been composed by him and a female of his kind on some dusty plain in central Asia. It was a folk song, of the Lord of his kind, who would eventually return from his long sleep, and re-unite the lost ones.

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Isiah Garronde snorted and turned away from Lucian, letting the song die mid-flow. As a child of the deep south, Isiah had never cared for the artsy scratchings of those "prodigies" from Europe. It had style, but no soul. That was why he loved the blue-grass. Even if the musician was a talentless old man, rocking on his porch with a banjo on his lap, you could taste the soul of his music.

Flashing Parson a grin, Isiah started to pluck on the fiddle, raising a few disjointed notes, before dropping into a fast paced rythm. The tune was the underlay to an old sea-shanty he'd picked up from a retired naval officer in an inn on the road to New York.

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Isiah Garronde let a warm smile spread across his face, his fingers flashing across the strings, sending the shanty spirling on, a few words escaping from his lips as he burst into the refrain again. He'd missed the companionship of his distant cousins in his travels. He didn't stay in one place too long, travelling from town to town, stopping in the odd bar to listen and play.

As the shanty rose into the final chorus, Isiah pushed himself, his fingers becoming a blur as they flew across the strings.

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Isiah Garronde did that

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looked up at Stephanie, his smile broadening. "I belief the sailors on the Victory called it the

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