Sakura blinked and ran off down the hall towards her old room. Tela was a bit taller then she was, but she was sure that she could find something for her so she wouldn't have ot wear soaking wet clothing.
As she neared her room, she saw Ryo poking his head out the door and looking in the opposite direction. He then began sneaking out. "Ryo!!" she said from right behind him. He jumped.
Name: James William Bliss
Gender: Male
Age: 169 Years Old
Apparent Age: (Born in 1836) 24 Years Old
Place of Birth: Feudal+ Japan
Species: Angel/Demon
Coven: Netrual
Appearance: Bliss, as people call him, has auburn hair, which is usually cut three inches long and messy. He has large blue-green eyes that draw you in. His height is six feet tall. His weight is 161 lbs. and he is well built. There is a burn scar on his inner, left thigh. Don't ask him about it!
History: It was simply a business trip, Morrigan told her friend's family as they welcomed her into their home. No one seemed to notice or care about her pale skin and perfect form. All seemed to love her. Especially, James William Bliss, the sickly young man that painted all the day long. Morrigan was so kind and giving. Her knowledge of science, history, and even human anatamy surprised everyone. It was no problem to let her stay for a month or two until her job here in Scotland was over. Besides, the master's son adored her.
Everynight Morrigan would linger in Bliss's room as he discussed his art and everything related to it. His passion for art and fashion fasinated her. She was the only one in the large household that could stand listening to him rant about one painting for three hours. Her stay was good for him. Before her, he never cared what he wore or how he looked. He was never allowed to leave his home anyway. His illness kept him from that. But when she was around...everything must be perfect, including his naturaly messy hair. He must impress her.
But her trip did not last forever. Three months passed and it was time for her to leave. Sadly, he was very ill that cold day in the December. As Morrigan stood beside his bed, watching him sweat and wince in pain, she cried.
"Don't go. Don't leave me here!" he begged and pleaded with harse whispers.
"I must," Morrigan whispered back, "I can't watch you..."
"Die," he spat, "I know your secret, Morrigan. Save me. Please."
She just turned her back, her pale, cold hand still holding his. "I can't let you suffer," she said, "I will not let you suffer this evil that grows inside me."
He hissed. "It can't be worse than this! Never leaving this damn room. This damn house!" He glanced at his newest painting. The past few weeks he was too weak to finish it. "I have to finish the painting," he muttered, matter-of-factly.
"You're insane," she said, wipping away the blood tears before anyone else saw.
He looked back at his beloved. "Help me," he said, "Or leave now."
She squeezed his hand and bent over him. Her cold lips touched his forehead. "Good-bye." She let go of him, though his hand lingered for awhile. She left that house as quickly as she could.
So, Morrigan left her soulmate. Once home she tried to forget him. Watching him die was too much for her heart to bear. Nothing could distract the memories, short thought they were. She lived in silence and mourning for three months.
Then, one dawn, as she laid down to rest, Bliss was there. Sitting, limbly, in a chair in her dark basement. Sweating, breathing shallow, he stared at Morrigan with sad, beautiful eyes. He was crying.
"Save me," he mouthed, his voice barely left his thoart, "I don't want to die this way." He paused. Something like a smirk appeared on his face. "I must...finish my last painting." His last words came out clearly and lingered in Morrigan's mind. She understood what he meant. He tried to chuckle, but coughing forced it's way out instead. Morrigan sprang from her coffin to his side. She caught him as he fell forward. Lovingly, she carried him to her resting place and laid him inside. She wept blood.
I am dying with or without your help. She heard his thoughts, the only thoughts she could ever read. The only fear she sensed in him was fear of death without her. Sorrow and love swelled inside him.
Day was coming. Gracefully, she slipped inside the coffin with him, wrapping herself around his weak body. Morrigan kissed his mortal life away.
"I'll never leave you, again," she promised. She never did.
Fifty years later. Bliss left her. Not out of hate, anger, loss of love, or rebellion. He was just young. The lust of blood still controled him terribly. He travelled to America, killing all in his path. Morrigan let him go. He needed the freedom. She would find him, again, another day.
As A Vampire: Bliss is bold. He isn't afraid to tell a mortal, "I am a vampire. Let me suck your blood." This may be humorous, but it causes problems. Fire doesn't harm him, but holy objects(especially crosses), sunlight, and stakes to the heart kill him well. His outward appearance never changes. No matter. He can't see himself in a mirror anyway. Though his very pale and strange skin does attract some attention.
His "gifts" are becoming mist, "melting" into the ground, walking through walls and the like, and creating illusions. He has even been known to create emotions, which is how he fools his prey. He did inherit the ability to munipulate objects, but it's not strong enough to use practically.
He feeds often. And dreams of cruely killing his food as he sleeps all day. His offspring, however, falls into a coma-like state.
( Hops IC )
His eyes were large and coated in an invariable green, his girlish face was a pure and unhindered rapture; a snow white jewel amidst an ocean of ugliness and of unsightly people. Those mahogany curls had parted perfectly, settling upon either shoulder of the bel homme and complimenting his rose petal lips. Lips that were almost always curved, like cupid's bow or of some other cherub from paradise. If memory or idle thought counted for anything, He would have known that he had only stepped foot in this part of town once before. It was something of a fo-par for a being, he disliked refering to himself as a man, such as he to be in this place; it was quiet and the was most unpleasent. Alas, a feeling of childlike curiousity drew him further through the looking glass -That and a considerable urge to break from routine. Despite the red sky it was still rather dark in the depths of the night, the labyrith of alleyways currently underfoot was lit by the amber flames of a smoking pipe. A mighty pipe carved from cherrywood fixed with a dull silver mouth piece such details only available to those with a supernatural sight. Regardless, the footsteps continued leaving the now bloodless pipe-smoker in his wake and with not a speck of blood tainting His dainty cheek, though the blood irritated his refined taste buds which explained the corpses ragged, ripped state. Ah the mansion , a shaven, the dark traveler's oasis and something that would have to do for the beautiful one. Truth be told, he had actually started the night in search of this place but now he gave a disappointed gaze with those orbs of perfect green. Was this his fate? To wander aimlessly? It seemed that was all he'd been doing lately. Wandering from one territory to the next, always hurried along after people realized who he was, who he'd been. William Bliss, called Death Watcher. William, responsible for thousands of deaths. Men, women, children,...all were fodder for his rage. As birds wove their intricate melodies on their heavenly loom, the cerulean sky, William entered the tavern. He slowed his horse from a working walk to a standstill as he took in his surroundings. It seemed that everything had a healthy glow to it as the sun illuminated the tavern. He smiled to himself, and then rode slowly to an inviting patch of grass on the side of the road. His mare was a dark grey colour, almost black, and he was enormous. It was sometimes said his hooves were the size of dinner plates; and to see him arch his neck and lift his stately head was a magnificent sight. William, on the other hand, had a short, slight figure. His skin was fair, his cheeks rosy, and his eyes were as blue as the ocean. But his hair was the color of his horse, and it flowed down his back like a dark, mysterious waterfall. He wore a dark trench coat, plain black shoes, and a tunic as green as the grass he stood on. William walked into a bar. This one was interesting. So many people inside, it seemed almost to attract them, like blood or pain could call to their kind. William ordered a glass of erbal tea and sat down in a secluded corner. He pulled out a pristine Stratovarius sword. He loved the sword.
It had been a gift from a nobleman to gain his favor. William had torn out his throat after he recieved the sword. It was a beautiful sword. It glistened like honey in the lamplight. William cleaned it with a soft cloth and placed it back in its sheath. He sipped at the erbal tea and looked around. Where was he, anyway? This place seemed so different from the other villages and tavern's he'd been to. So many humans living amongst the peasants. It amazed him that they could share such close quarters. It reminded him of his years in the swordheart village, as a killer. A trechorous murderer he'd been willing to be a kind and just ruler, until his love was assassinated...He growled under his breath and slammed a fist into the table. Why did she have to get in the way! He sighed and sipped at his drink. He wondered how long it would be until he was kicked out of this place, too.
( That's how the sword looks like. )