Count Ignat
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Name: Ignat Epithets: Twelfth of his line, Descendant of the great Dracul, Childe of the Dread Voivode Natalya... And to his friends, Iggy! Age: Quite old, he'll assure you. Gender: Male Species: Kindred Nature/Demeanor: Child/Gallant Sect: Autarkis, obeys Camarilla law Occupation: Honestly he does jack-all Favorite Color: A vampire ought to wear black, don't you think? Favorite Food: Vlood :} Likes: Showtunes, Fancy vampire parties Dislikes: Septic odors, Owls, Suspicious rats Best Traits: Haha funy Worst Traits: Out of touch with reality |
Appearance
Iggy is short, fat, and pasty. Up close, one can sometimes see little purple veins through his skin, depending on whether or not he's powdered his face. He's got lots of pointy little teeth of varying lengths. His ears are long, pointy, and expressive, with an up-down range of motion of around 45 degrees.
It's somewhat unclear at any given time how normal Ignat himself thinks he looks. He is self-aware enough to hide from mortals' sight (which is good, because otherwise the Camarilla would sic its hounds on him), but he never reacts to his reflection as if looking at something ugly or strange. By his own logic he is a Tzimisce, yes, but he claims to follow the "Old Ways". He never claims or implies that his appearance is the result of Fleshcrafting.
His voice is fairly distinctive. Think "Jay Sherman, with a fake, vaguely Transylvanian accent", an accent which tends to slip, or even drop completely if he's flustered or otherwise distracted.
Mama Natasha
Once upon a time there was a little boy born to a big family. He was always softer and meeker than other boys, so the pressure was on to toughen up, make a steady living, and honor his family. Two out of three isn’t too bad, is it? Until he was laid off and struggled to find work, so that’s one out of three. Or maybe zero out of three; it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was unlikely to give his parents any grandchildren.
So what was left? A wimpy, balding, wife-less, child-less, Broadway-humming salary-man that had put his own dreams and desires aside for nothing. In the end, all it earned him was the attention of a vampire. One who wanted an errand-boy, and decided he wouldn't be missed.
Enter, a particularly unpleasant Nosferatu named Natalya. Despite being an 11th generation Kindred, she is very old, and very, very deadly. She was a creature raised up from a life of serfdom, suffering hunger and cold, and the insurmountable violence of a world which saw her more as property than a person. To her, vampirism was a gift, and a soul was a small price to pay.
She never had much sympathy for mournful, mewling little fledglings.
This fledgling's education was far more brutal than it needed to be. In hindsight, even Natalya can concede this much. He was not her first childe, and she did not want to suffer the haughtiness and independence so typical of Neonates. Blood-bonds, however, are deeply annoying.
Instead, she thought to instill in him a fear and respect for her that he'd not soon forget. He was a man, not a boy, she reasoned. To live to manhood is to know suffering. To know suffering is to learn to endure it. For this assumption she was left with a gibbering wreck of her own creation, and an obligation to integrate him into Kindred society. Perhaps she should have gone with a blood-bound ghoul after all.
The Blood of Dracul
Unable to face reality, the fledgling cloaked himself in fantasy. His old name, his old self didn't matter, it didn't even exist. He became Count Ignat! Spoken, of course, with the most exaggerated accent one can muster.
The Great Ignat could commune with beasts as if he were one of them, slip away into the shadows as if he were naught but a puff of fog, and his senses had sharpened such that he could hear rats thundering about like elephants. His body was a finely tuned machine, built to seek out warm bodies to slake his thirst…
He was a creature of the night, a Strigoi, a vampire!
His sire still frightened him so terribly that he felt like a fish drowning on dry land whenever she was near, but it was high time for him to go off on his own anyway. Let the ancient witch keep to her crypt. A count deserved his own manse. Yes, a glorious manse, with beasts at his command and brides to attend him.
Never mind that his glorious manse was a dilapidated house, the beasts at his command were the local stray doggies, and he had at most a bride, singular. An ordinary lady to buy pretty dresses for, brush her hair like a doll, and not so much as kiss on the lips.
Styling himself as a gentleman, or what he imagined a gentleman to be, he rejected the vision of vampirism his sire offered. Count Ignat found joy in what he'd become, and most of all, a relief that he never dared hope for. Each childish wish, each daydream, each fantasy of stepping out of his life and onto the stage, all of it was his reality. Every word he spoke was the truth.
Connections
August — "Clan Nosferatu, the poor souls... Can they be blamed for their jealousy and scorn?"
Chiyo — (I-I guess there are worse ways for a girl to say "No"...)