#oh he's now a creature of the eye haunting the streets of london killing innocent people? anyone's dream ending

[vicioustoker]

the fact that getting any sort of information on jon post tma ending in any way will just inevitably add on to his tragedy keeps me up at night

[cavernovs]

Jakoris “Jack” Davenport

➵  BASICS

NAME: Jakoris Davenport GOES BY: Jack, Ripper, The Better Davenport AGE / D.O.B: November 8th,  [ 267 yo ] FACECLAIM: Chris Wood GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cis-male, depends on the day. HOMETOWN: Whitechapel, London.  CURRENTLY: Darklands SPECIES: Vampire ROLE: Vizier

➵ TRAITS

POSITIVE:  NEGATIVE:

➵ BIOGRAPHY

[triggers: murder, blood, mutilation, serial killer, violence.]

There’s a darkness behind blue eyes; an ocean that roars like a lion and a vicious tendency hidden in azure hues. Such eyes look black in the night, a deep lull that eats away at all the innocence that ever was and a sickening smile that matches the flickering abyss that flashes on twisted features. There’s a man in there somewhere; something resembling a human being, stalking the nights of what people used to call London streets. A lit cigarette in hand and gutter thoughts in mind.

It’s never just a calm stroll in the late hours, there’s never tranquillity; neither his mind nor intentions are at peace. Jakoris wants them to be, but he knows it’s a lost war trying for it. So he never does. Like a broken tick in his mind, something dark calls to him, reminds him to bring knives for the night; tells him to play reaper until dawn breaks. And he does.

Jack’s not a likeable man, more monster than anything else. A predator that favours nice woman, alone in the roads - offering services in exchange for paper; coins. A sick man that offers no mercy for those who look better in red.

Ask him what happens to a kidney if you slice it open, press that blade hard enough into a stomach that the splitting of flesh sends blood bursting through the seams. If something’s hit well, then there might be screams too.

Ask him, he’d dare you to. Let him tell stories of how they deserved it, that they asked for such an end that only the luxury of a blade could give. Drawn by his hand, slaughtered like cattle in the city streets. Because if you ask him, he might offer you that end too.

And someone did; a woman more vicious than he ever could be asked. And Jack died.

That was two centuries ago.

Years pass differently in death, they don’t seem to matter. There’s no value to them and Jack never cares about knowing where time has taken him. A man so good at killing that when he’s given opportunity to do it better - he thrives from it. But he never did ask for it. Jessica Davenport his end as well as his new beginning. A woman so like the ones he used to put blades in, now holding unprecedented power over him, bettering him in ways he never figured he could be. He’s never known parenthood; can’t even recall if he had parents, he knows everyone does - but he never actually had them, he doesn’t remember much in the past when he comes to think of it. Just snippets of what used to be. 

He’s never forgotten, or forgiven that his mind snaps into something from nightmares when he’s triggered by whoreish behaviour. Whether its stemmed from a blacked-out memory, he doesn’t know, but he becomes volatile and virulent in its presence. Jessie being an unavoidable exception; he can’t deny her a thing and mostly, he doesn’t really want to. An unwavering respect for her, despite her methodology in her position. Jack’s right there beneath her in the ranking. Where’s she’s the conduit for them all, he’s vicious in other ways. A team that could rival the world if they were given motivation. 

With death however, comes consequences that aren’t all enacted by his own hands. And with shaky alliances, enemies of the undead that haunt the nights; the daytimes when they cannot meet the sun; bring untimely ends to those creatures that are known to be oh too good at making meals of those with beating hearts. Jack doesn’t remember too much about how he came beneath human captivity, some kind of POW in a battle he doesn’t even recall diving into. Not that it mattered, the man’s too good with pain; likes it like he enjoys a good wine. 

Revels in a it, enjoys it like only a twisted masochist could. Even as a subject of whatever humanity’s science took them a century or so ago - he can’t quite remember, but he knows that ever since, he’s broken his self-appointed rule of never procreating. Though, that creation had nothing to do with him besides the stolen blood in human experimentation; locked into a bond to a man he didn’t choose to turn and bring into his ranks. 

So in denial about it; refuses to ever acknowledge its existence. Lets the monster he created at on its own actions; Demitri would never know, never understand the bond that ties them and presses Jakoris traits into him without even realising. The one loose end he has no way of fixing without bloodshed. His justifications; it feeds the masochist within. 

Jack’s usually a well-spirited individual, he doesn’t exude the psychopath that lives beneath his flesh; the cold of his skin, the dangerous grin he wears like the Cheshire Cat the first tells that he’s not all the rational; human being that people probably wish he was. But if you ask him the right (or wrong) questions, that smile darkens; those eyes redden and those teeth sharpen. He’ll play the games asked of him, be a good Vizier and he’ll relish in every opportunity presented to him. He doesn’t have automatic hatred for anything - not really, but he’s not all that favourable of anyone either. Much like his maker, gain his interest, win him over and he’ll be your greatest asset. 

Lose his interest; you’ll wish he never caught wind of you. 

➵ CONNECTIONS

JESSIE DAVENPORT / Maker, Ride Or Die, Unofficial Wife, Vampire. MALCOLM “MAL” DAVENPORT / Friend in Arms, Vampire. DEMITRI DAVENPORT / Secret Protégé, Vampire. EVANORA BILE / Best Friend, Witch.

➵  ADDITIONAL

Nobody besides Jessie knows his name is Jakoris, nor does anyone get away with calling him Ripper besides her, though, test the theory if you like. She’s his maker and they’re solid. 

If Jessie knows someone - the likelihood is, Jack knows of them too. 

He really really, really loathes ‘easy’ woman; give him a challenge; a chase; he does not do well with women throwing themselves at him if he knows they’re (a) trying to use him, (b) thinking he’s any more merciful than others. He can be, but not for them. He’ll snap.

Frequents Bite Club himself and when Jessie’s dragging him there. 

He’s loyal to the hierarchy, but doesn’t appreciate weakness. 

If you can surprise him - he’ll like you, usually.

Again, don’t call him Jakoris or Ripper. It’s just Jack, he’ll accept The Better Davenport also. In fact, he’ll probably be more inclined to like you with that being his introduction. 

Jessie will correct that statement if she ever hears it.

He will irritate the hell of you before you accept that it’s going to be that or eternal torment.

He’s not related by blood in any way to Jessie - she just gives her prodigies her surname; it’s more like a marriage thing; open relationship style?

Jack’s got some heavy strips of scarring along his backside from an old reprimand that got messy; don’t ask him about it, he’ll probably stab you if he can’t bite you for it.

Often knows how to silver-tongue out of most situations; something picked up from his maker; watch him, he’s a  h y p o c r i t e. 

Like, biggest hypocrite going; doesn’t like whores; is basically the epitome of one when he masters the art of balancing pain and pleasure; he’ll threaten it, you’ll like it. 

Turns everything into a joke, 99% of the time. 

Will play the game of ruses, but has every ability to shred you to pieces if you test him.

QUICK LINKS

THREADS

SELF-PARAS

HEADCANONS

MUSINGS

[thetruemage-blog]

WW1 Short Story

                                                      Part I

The Fate of Europe hung on a fine thread for the last coming decades as unwanted and unneeded pressure strained the great continent like the powder kegs that felt a great compulsion themselves to tear across the land. Finally, when the thread was snipped by golden scissors and the deprived kegs blew up grander and more devastatingly than anyone had anticipated, it left people to wonder when this was all to end. And, when it was to end—if it was to end—what misfortunate shadow would be cast over the lives of the millions of people that lay claim to the great country of Earth?

In the great maw of bloodshed were necessities, and comfort, and everything that made life for the many fragile creatures normal, but as the aggression propagated and swallowed up Europe the commodity hardest to find was family. Stripped of their husbands, their children, their brothers, and their lovers, too many were forced to start anew with their hearts so badly broken. In the years that followed the war, there were some who received the pleasure of saying their hero returned home. For most others, the company of ghosts lingered in their cold living rooms and parlors, unseen and unheard, but not unwanted.

Arthur sat in a worn armchair in the dimmed light of his small London apartment, thinking about the ghosts that lingered in his cold heart. In the empty chairs and quiet air was the present memory of a charming young American who lived in these walls not so long ago. The only vestige Arthur held of the youth was a distressed photograph that only grew increasingly worn, and the scarce stack of letters Arthur wished had been larger. The tired man sighed wistfully and out of sheer force of habit, he began reading the letter dated September 1914.

Dear Arthur,

The army isnt as bad as you made it out to be. You really do worry for nothing, you know? The drills ain’t bad and I think the only thing I could really complain about is the food. We’ve been doing a lot of marching and rifle drills. Who knew I’d be a good shot? And you’d said I’d shoot an eye out in a week. Well, Art, I’m sorry to inform you I still have both my eyes.

I’m sitting in my tent right now with a few new buddies of mine. Though, they’re a loud sort and I don’t think you’d like them much. But you don’t like anybody much, do you? I’m honestly surprised you tolerated me staying at your place as long as you did. You know how while we were still in university you said that you wanted to travel around the world? Maybe I’ll live long enough to take you with me through Europe after this is all over.

It’s been raining for the past day which is the only reason I’m able to write you at the moment. It’s too muddy to go out for drills and we’ve been stuck in our tents for hours. I can’t imagine the poor blokes fighting out there in this weather. I suppose that’s something I’m not looking forward to, frankly.

Have you ever been to France? It’s a nice change in pace, I’d say. Nothing like the dirty streets of London. Everything’s so spread out and the land is so green. The locals are nice, and the girls are pretty. You’d like it here, I think.

Au Bientot,

Alfred.

P.S. I’ve been working on my French.

Arthur let a sad smile play his lips before he gently folded the paper. Placing it neatly on his end table, he picked up another letter. The date read April 1915.

Dear Arthur,

We have settled in a small town in the north of France. It’s interesting how few people live here. The town seems to have far fewer men than women, and most of the males are elderly or adolescent. I suppose this war has dwindled the population of men in all of Europe. The locals are rather disturbed by the presence of soldiers in town, but I’ve been looking past that. It’s nice to get a break from all the fighting, and if that means disrupting a few, I’ll gladly take it. On a side note, if you ever do go to France the natives do not appreciate being talked at in english. One young lady had the honors of hitting me with her purse. It seems the months of hardship have stripped away all my charm . Matthew and I hit the pub yesterday. What I call beer and what the French call beer are disappointingly different. It’s watery, flavourless, and weak. And I can’t say the wine is much better.

I suppose I have to take what I have. A break is more than most get in this war. Though, in a few weeks time I’ll be back in the trenches killing germans.  As the locals say, “Quand on a pas ce que l’on aime, il faut aimer ce que l’on a”

Yours truly,

Alfred F. Jones

A shadow consumed the confinement of the room at the sight of a particularly doleful letter. Arthur’s hand brushed over the worn parchment warily and he could not be certain if he had the will to read this one. “Oh Alfred.” He sighed, lowering in thought. “You were so innocent in a time less straining than now. I wish you could have remained that way.”

Dear Arthur,

I think I’m going to hell. I didn’t think it’d be so hard their the enemy but dammit I can’t do this anymore. Their people just like you and I and their dead because of me. I killed a man. He didn’t do nothing just think about his family oh god they're gonna miss him and I can’t do nothing about it. He was so young and handsome there's probably some girl back home waiting for him. They make you hate them. They make you want to kill them but dammit they're just people too. I’m going to go home when so many others lost their lives to meaningless war.

Alfred.

November 1914

Dear Arthur,

I’m writing to let you know all is well. Today there wasn’t much enemy fire so instead we spent our hours shoveling out water and mud and refortifying fallen trenches. Let me tell you, it’s much more exhausting than you’d think. The mud is almost impossible to walk through and I fell down more times than I’d like to admit. Matthew was there right beside me to make sure I didn’t fall down too much. It was actually quite a funny endeavor and I pulled him down with me a few times. Our commander wasn’t impressed with the mess we made, but I couldn’t care less. We need to cherish laughter, because you don’t know what day’s going to be your last.

Right now I’m sitting around a makeshift fire sharing letters with some soldiers. We just got in our Christmas mail today and I’m smiling from ear to ear. Thank you for the chocolate. It really means the world to me! How’s London doing these days? I honestly can’t wait to get back and see you. Please do tell me about everything when you write me next. I want to know how your Christmas went. Did you get to see your family?

Merry Christmas, Art. Matt says Hi.

Jusqu'à notre prochaine reunion,

Alfred.

(December 1915)

Alfred had become impermeable to normal emotion as the decades of each battle passed.  On one occasion, he witnessed the gruesome sight of a thousand casualties being carried off in stretchers from the front lines and fell in a fit of depression, not for the men who gave their lives, but for himself, for he would have to go into the hell in which they had come. It was impossible to stay human in the company of combat and it was impossible not to strip the given title of human from the men who fought on the other side. But every soul knew, and refused to admit, that they were all simply human. Alfred did not have the will to think of that now, but perhaps it would haunt him in the years to come.

My dearest Arthur,

How much longer will these poor young men have to lay down their lives for reasons unknown? I’ve been stuck knee-deep in this muddy hell hole and I still have not a clue when the fighting will end. It seems as if the only time of peace is in the early hours of the morning when the larks have not yet started to sing, and the sun has not yet risen over the trenches. Though, behind the hellish wall of smoke and artillery, the sun is barely recognizable. They told us we’d rotate- a few months of fighting and one on leave. But I have been stuck fighting for… oh god, how long has it been now? I believe 7 months. Four of the men I’ve started with still live, but I can’t say for how much longer we’ll hold up. I hope to get Matthew out of here alive. He’s the friend I told you about. I miss seeing your face and I

Alfred put his pen down and stared into the distance.

~ ~ ~

Through the dust and dirt of yesterday advanced a force with more bravado than any other. Every morning it came without fear to the trenches, through the land of no one unchallenged, and remained upon these men until the late hours when another more pernicious force would march and take its place. With the Great Red General (given the name ‘le soleil’ by the locals) came the army band to get the men on their feet. Every morning these larks would shout the orders to commence the fighting once more.

The band’s bloody cry rang through the hills, the valleys, the thistled black bushes and it rung through the sleeping corpses and the living skeletons who stood in attention, answering the cry and ready to die on both sides.

Dug seven feet under in the grave that would soon claim the lives and identities of these skeletons, not a sound escaped a spectre or the dying dead men with lacerations and mutilations too useless to be bothered with. Deep in the veins of the once thriving country, small creatures held their breath along with the breathless battlefield and waited, and wanted and wielded the fear and anger and sadness and shadows on their slumped shoulders alongside their weapons.

Skeletons sprung to their feet and ran. There was shooting and then shouting. Screams and smoke penetrated the air. It used to be so quiet. All of the skeletons were shot down and forgotten. From the graves there were plenty to take the fallen’s place. They were all dead. More shouts. The earth lurched and people fell and more dead. Whistles dropped from above, explosions rattled on both sides and there was the deafening clapping of thunder. Still more dead.

It was Alfred’s turn to die. He ran and dove and ducked and dared not look back. He still ran and ran and one more jump. He was in another’s grave and none but Matthew joined him. One jerk from a shaking finger and the enemy was dead but his face was still screaming. The screaming wouldn’t stop. Make it stop. Alfred covered his ears but he was the one screaming.

                                                      Part 2

The sound of silence once more touched the ears of the phantoms that burrowed themselves deep into the cavities of earth. The Great Red General had long called his men back, and to take his place emerged an assailant woman clad in robes of silver. Her militia shadowed her closely and gazed down on the dual armies with blinkless eyes, yet they were unseen through the cloudy fog. The Great Red General advanced and pricked the creatures with smoldering heat, but the moonlit mistress preferred other antics.  From her hoary robes, thin cloths were cut and gently placed over the eyes of Earth’s children.

The quiet never lasted long and both men, deep in the lines of earth, huddled closely in a desperate attempt not to lose the other. When one sense was stolen, the others became critical and so they listened urgently for any signs of life or death.  Their labored breath pierced the air and echoed louder than it should have. Fear assimilated in their very bones and perhaps if a rat had skittered past, both men would have sprung to their feet with guns drawn and ready, but the soundless air still blew gently through the darkness.

“I don’t like it,” Whimpered the echo of a once assertive voice.

“I know. I don’t like it either.” Another answered back. He blindly clutched a shred of humanity in his tremulous hands. “It’s too quiet”

“Well it would be. Would it kill you to whisper—!” Hissed the twin phantom. There was a prattling of bullets picking up on their own old conversation. Sound was the only thing to be trusted, and the shouting and advancement of ambiguous allegiances were leagues away and not to be worried about. The guns and grenades discussed gallant matters while they took turns drowning out the wails and wretched cries from those material beings.  It was a while before the two soldiers could continue where they left off, but they were used to this motion of breaking in and out of a conversation like nothing had ever interrupted it.

It was far from silent, but it was also far from the worst it had been. The one with trembling hands took this as an opportunity to remind himself of the earthly plain. “We’re still alive” he croaked, trying desperately to remember what speaking sounded like.

“Yes, we are.” echoed the other despondently.

“For how long?”

“I can’t say.”

There was a long pause to let that other tedious conversation go on.

“I remember when the sky used to be blue.” He laughed nearly innocently. “I think I used to walk with Arthur through the park every evening after class and watch the sunset—we wanted to travel, I think—I wonder if he’d like to come to France with me when we’re done here. I think he’d like that—I wrote him a letter.” His blind eyes from both darkness and gas stared unmoving towards the void in front of him. “I hope… I hope that he hasn’t forgotten about me.”

Another pause.

“It’s better to be forgotten than a wound gnawing away at the hearts of our families. I pray to God that my family can forget about me.” The pratting of machine responded with fervor. “Every second’s our last, ain’t it? We’re dead men.”

“If you think like that you are—”

“Don’t tell me you still think we’re getting out of this! You’re too naïve for your own good.”

“And you’re a pessimist.”

Not a word after was spoken, but perhaps he had wished there had. The echoes of conflict advanced them until the roars and howls pounded in their ears like a frenzied beast. Both, in their muted dread, waiting with tenacious horrors flooding their minds, equally knew that the other shared the same anxieties and thoughts that refused to be suppressed. It was mankind that dragged men down to hell and it was mankind that ruined the lives and minds and freedoms of all the creatures that lay claim to the great country of earth. But it was also mankind that laughed and shared moments with their fellow compatriots and brought hope to many, but there was not a sliver of hope that dared show itself in morbid countenance of battle. The sounds of battle still swallowed the peace of the night and refused to be muted.

He was hit before the deafening, yet familiar pratting of bullets reached the aching ears of the phantoms. The ammunitions that nipped all life in its path would never feel remorse for the innocence it had reaped from a boy too young to die but too old to go on in the world of the living. The boy lurched forward, collapsing on his knees while a shaky, desperate hand scratched at the wound lodged in his ribcage. His eyes felt heavy and his mind was becoming milky and inky as years drained from his face in seconds until he was older than the country itself. A sliver of childhood refused to leave his wet, fading eyes. “I can see it.” He croaked, laughing and coughing red spots.

“Shh” Matthew pleaded, “I know, just hang on. Listen to my voice.” His shaking hands clutched Alfred’s matted hair and softly placed him on the ground so he could rest.

“The sky is so pretty. Do you see it Matthew?” He chirped like the early larks.

He dimly nodded, and pressed bloody fabric against the wound. “It sounds lovely, Alfred. Tell me more about it.”

“Me and Arthur used to take walks. He liked to watch the sun set. It reminded him of… of… Home. I miss home—”

There was a long pause.

“Alfred? Please go on.”

Another pause.

“Alfred please!” Matthew begged “tell me more.”

“He’s forgotten about me.” His voice was so inaudible and frail that the wind carried it off towards the stars. Great curtains were beginning to drop over his eyes.

“No, Alfred.” He pleaded, and desperately shoved the other to his senses. “He has your letters, he hasn’t forgot. He’s read all of them. He needs you.”

“My letter.” Alfred whimpered and looked desperately with unmoving eyes. Matthew placed the red dotted parchment on Alfred’s chest. He fingers did not bear the ability to grip, but knowing Arthur was with him gave him peace and he let sleep overcome him.