 |
| Name: |
Angharad Williams |
| Genos: |
Revenant |
| Form: |
Sarkomenos |
| Theme Song: |
The Dance of the Knights - Prokofiev |
During his breathing days, Angharad
never made much of an impression on history. His story
was one you could find anywhere across the emerging
New World in the eighteenth century, save changing
a few place names and mixing up surnames. His family
were new immigrants looking for somewhere they could
find a plot of land and call it their own, turning
their backs on old Europe and looking forward to a
self-made future. They settled with their countrymen
in the south of the continent and focused on bending
this new land to their will. They died poor, and forgotten
within two generations.
Angharad was brought up on a combination of Catholicism
and Capitalism, and cherry-picked from both. God was
to be obeyed and feared, and people were to be exploited.
He dealed, he lied, he cheated, he grafted, he loved,
and he lost. He never lost that arrogant grin of youth
that assured you that he knew some secret truth which
was lost to you.
By his early thirties he had settled down, in so much
as he had started a fledging coach house business
as a way to ensure a steady source of income. It didn't
matter what people were dreaming or who they were
fighting, they always needed somewhere to sleep and
something to drink. The key to business was to agree
with the money being given to you at any given moment.
He was, to say the least, bitterly disappointed when
fever took his life in the mid 1750's.
Looking at life from the other side of Ethereus only
made him all the more bitter; once you realizewhat
it is you have lost, you feel the loss all the more
keenly. It seemed a good time for sombre reflection
and taking stock, and so that's what he did. It didn't
take long for him to pursue a return to the living
lands to its conclusion, and it paying his debt to
the Ghuls who made it possible he learneda lot. He
learnedabout his new existence, and the new world
he was now part of. Death, it seemed, didn't change
people all that much. Money, power, pleasure . . .
the currency hadn't changed, just the stakes.
Released to his own devices and unable to connect
with the life that he had stolen, he drifted and played
the game as best he could. He played in the Court
of the Night, he played with the rapidly growing society
and economy of the New World, and he painfully came
to terms with his new existence. Once he had loved
life, and now he found himself watching it from the
wings, unable to join in. Mirrors were smashed, people
murdered, and life slowly slipped away through his
fingers.
He played the Machiavellian games of the Court and
steadily rose in importance, his passage eased by
the money he made from exploiting mortal society.
Those who see him now are not
at all surprised by what they see: an old, bone-white
man who long ago let his warm blood turn cold; cruel
and callous, almost given up on trying to find life
again; always half a step behind the increasingly
fast paced modern world. A man who has little to do
with his time other than read, as a few words to the
right people will mean everything is done for him.
People are always comforted to find exactly what they
expect. His hair is cream next to his skin, and normally
worn down around his shoulders, his eyes milky white,
and his body gaunt and wrapped in an expensive suit
from any period within the last two hundred years.
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