Johnny Dayfield. [W.I.P.]

[Johnny Dayfield]

"We all belong here."

♣ Johnathan Dayfield ♣
Male .-. Vampire .-. 2037 Years Old

♣ Human Appearance ♣
His dark is black, but has the shimmering dark blue pigmentation to it. Johnathan is an extremely modest boy. He's not to muscular, nor too flashy-apart from the tattoos-. The most noticed feature about him is his eyes. Those deep blue oceanic eyes that capture you like a picture, storing you in his memory for later. He commonly wears a button up shirt, black sunglasses, black skinny jeans, and vans if not some type of boot. The thing that keeps everyone wondering about him, the thing above all others, is that his skin is ice cold. It's never warm; it's like a walk-in freezer.

♣ Personality ♣
Johnathan is harder to describe as a person... He tends to yearn to be alone, rather being buried in a deadly pile of reptiles than being stuck in the middle of bickering girls/guys. He isn't the type of young man that cares about others, tending to speak his mind without thinking of the outcome, good or bad. Because of his appearance, people don't speak to him unless they must. He judges people reguardless of what they've done to protect themselves or even help him. If cornered by people he doesn't like, he tends to lash out. Not with physical blows, rather than intense emotional things that he's noticed about you. When you break is tough outer shell, he can be quite the soft hearted loyalist that many of his close friends cherish so dearly. But that rarely happens, because he refuses to make connections with people.

☀ Biography. ☀
Roman Times... Togas, spears, swords.. Johnathan was born into a small family, already promised to the Roman Soldiers on his third birthday to be taken and trained to kill. His father was the Leader of the Roman Army, but despised Johnathan; treated him like a pile of dung. At Johnathan's first battle, he nearly lost an arm due to a little mishap with the enemy sword. His father almost tore the limb off, but the other soldiers dragged him away from his bleeding son. Thirteen was a little to young to be ripped apart, literally. Soon after he healed, Johnathan nursed a burning anger for his father, resulting in him mercilessly climbing the ranks. On his twenty fourth birthday, Johnathan was sent into battle again, but this time barely made it out with his life. He had managed to pull himself away and into a forest, deep enough to where no one would be able to find him unless they truly hunted for him. His pain was unmatched as he lay there, and at some point, someone did find him. It was a woman in white... A beautiful, cold woman. "My darling Johnathan..." She murmured, and Johnathan was immediately mesmerized by her enchanting voice. He was powerless against her charm, and it ended up with him writhing in pain, unable to call out for help as the woman sunk her teeth into his flesh...
Many, many decades later, Johnathan was forever roaming the Earth, gaining tattoos along the way. He never sought to change anyone, but did if it was entirely needed... Along the way, he sired a son with a werewolf named Hannah. Surprisingly, the son turned out to be a werewolf.

♣ Role-play example. ♣
Somehow, they always knew.

     
Johnathan liked to think it was some long-forgotten animal instinct. The way a dog could sense the difference between an animal lover and an animal abuser. The way elk always seemed to know when to bolt, leaving only seconds and inches to spare between them and the hunter’s bullet. Either way, though, the ending was always inevitable. And he was patient.
He vaguely wondered what wires had been crossed in the evolutionary chain that led women to believe it was perfectly safe to walk alone down darkened alleyways. Not that he minded; on the contrary, it made what he came to do all the more enjoyable. He could take his time; feel the pulse under his palms, slowing, fluttering, dying. Listen to the wordless gasps for air. Watch the light in their eyes flicker, then fade. He felt his own heart rate quicken in anticipation, and he forced himself to focus. She would be passing by his spot soon enough.
They always expected the attack to come from behind. He supposed it made a lot of sense, in a way. Looking over one’s shoulder was one way to try to anticipate a surprise. He had tried the strategy of sneaking up on his targets before, but it usually resulted in a lot of unnecessary running and screaming. That sort of thing tended to draw no small amount of unwanted attention.
Over time, he learned: the key was to pick the right alleyway. Preferably something near a good source of parking and with some obstructions in the way, large enough to hide behind. Women seemed to expect to be followed; they rarely seemed to anticipate that their assailant would be waiting for them.
This one was ideal: a lonely shop clerk. It might be days before she was really missed. The holidays did that to people. In all the hustle and bustle, what was one more missing relative?
Her footsteps drew closer and sounded off of the walls of the alley. He remained standing comfortably on the opposite side of the dumpster. She came into view quickly, moving at a quick little jogging pace, but she was looking over her shoulder, not to the side. He remained still as she passed.
He had chosen his spot perfectly: just close enough to the supposed safety of the end of the alley. Her steps slowed as she passed him, and he saw the relief on her features, the pause as she let her shoulders sag and perhaps chided herself for being so paranoid.
His movements were fluid as he stepped up behind her and clasped his hands around her throat

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