Dylan Miller

[Dylan Miller]

Dylan Miller
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
"Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold

"Good and evil? Lady, I don't buy into that business, and I don't buy into that high-minded middle class morality, I just serve drinks."

character basics

NICKNAMES: None Yet
AGE: Born 1845, of appearance he seems to be in his thirties (an affectation provided by the strenuousness of his life, and not his actual age upon Turning)
BIRTHDAY: Unknown
GROUP: Dark Being
SPECIES: Vampire
OCCUPATION: Bartender
GENDER: Male

appearance

There is nothing remarkable in Dylan's physique to suggest him to a person, nor too terribly much to detract. Years of hard labor as a collier has added strength and muscle to an already sturdy build, though, at 5'9", he is not so tall as to be impressive. Still, with a thick waist, broad-shoulders, and steely arms, Dylan is at least sufficiently capable of convincing others of when he is quite serious.

Dylan's square face is likewise composed of sturdy, though not impressive features. Narrow, black eyes (they used to be olive green, but have changed since he was Turned) are crowned by broad, dark eyebrows which are little more shapely than very determined lines. His nose is somewhat wide and has a bump where it was once broken in a fight, and his cheeks are slightly pocked. His lips are nothing to be remarked upon except for being slightly darker than is average, but his square chin and powerful jaw make it clear that, should you bother to attend to him, he is not a person to be trifled with. His broad forehead is also lined with purpose and past worries. His sole feature of beauty is his hair, which is of so dark and rich a shade of brown as to nearly be taken for black, but for the golden glint it claims. This rich color is allowed freedom to grow into natural ringlets, and allowed length enough to show these neat curls without becoming immoderately long.

In attire, Dylan strives for little more than to be clean and acceptably dressed for his position at the bar. He is therefore neither stylish, nor possessed of a large wardrobe, and may even be somewhat out dated, but the clothes he has are of relatively good condition, and presentable enough for a bar, if not for a ball.

personality

Rather embittered towards polite society in general and middle class women in particular, Dylan makes no pretense of being a gentleman, nor wishes to be considered one. Nevertheless, he is not excessively rude, simply unrestrained. His manners are the best as can be expected from a low born lad of few means, and he hates any pretense which might induce him to improve in such a respect.

He is quite aware of his class and station in life, and believes very strictly in class distinctions. Despite this, Dylan has engaged in some efforts to better himself in terms of education and prosperity. He is by no means well read or any kind of historian, but he is at least literate and able to do his figures with justice. Likewise, he is not wealthy, but he has been able to earn a comfortable subsistence as long as he has only himself to support, and laid up a tiny bit of savings for the future, whatever it may bring. He still considers himself low class, low born, and has no interest in being considered part of the gentry.

While not unfriendly, Dylan prefers these days to rather keep to himself, and holds people at arm's length - most particularly upper and middle class women. He does not trust a female so far as he could throw her.

An unfortunate tendency to stubbornness was previously tempered by the good nature of his friends. Without them, Dylan possesses a tenacity of purpose that is quite unshakable.

family & history
condensed version

-Dylan grew up as an orphan and worked in a mill
-When he had the means (age 13), he left and began working as a collier and shared an apartment with Ollie and Jeremiah
-At 18, Dylan fell in love with a middle class young lady by name of Emily Ann Withers, to whose family he delivered coal.
-At 20, he had saved money and prepared to court Miss Emily, but her family disapproved and rebuked him. He connived to talk to her anyway.
-Miss Emily opted to run away with him, but after seeing his meager manner of living she soon after went back to her home.
-Dylan went to tell her parents of the misfortune, and realized tht she was at home and had told her family that he had kidnapped and raped her. Mr. Withers shot at him and managed to get him in the shoulder before Dylan got away.
-Ollie and Jeremiah found Dylan sacked out in a bar, with as much liquor in him as he had blood left, and in danger of death from blood loss. Ollie fetched a vampire he knew (Denver Thompson) to Turn Dylan to prevent his death.
-Denver taught Dylan the ropes of vampirism, and encouraged him to find a blood doll, rather than hunt regularly.
-Not long after, Miss Emily returned, after having been turned out of the house when her parents realized what had really gone on. Dylan would have turned her away, but Denver convinced him to keep her as a doll.
-After 4 years of leading an extremely taciturn and abusive relationship with Emily, Dylan could no longer stand it, and took a ship to America. He was 24, the year was 1869, and he made his home in New York City.

family & history

Dylan Miller was born in 1849, when or to whom he knows not, as he was very soon orphaned, too young to know what happened. Even his name was bestowed upon him by an overseer at the mill he worked in from the time he could run and fetch and carry for the other workers. His childhood was not unusual - he worked 11 hour days for less than minimum wage and substandard meals. His clothing was patched and mended hand-me-downs, and while the law required he have an education and be brought up a right and proper Christian boy, he didn't get quite enough of either. He learned his letters right enough, and a bit of readin', ritin' and 'rithmetic, but he was never much good for anything but working the looms. One of his overseers was cruel and quick with a lash, but there were others who were decent and even a one or two who were almost nice.

It was a hard life, but nothing special and Dylan never thought much of it. Of course he wanted to get out, but he didn't hope for too much after a few years of abuse. When he was old enough (13) he managed to run away, steal a bit to get him through a few days, and found a job as a collier and roomed with a couple of other boys in a dingy little apartment. The three of them, he and Jeremiah and Ollie, scraped together to feed each other and drown out their miserable and unremarkable lives with gin. They slept the grim, dreamless sleep of the exhausted and though life wasn't good, it was tolerable.

Dylan was delivering a load of coal when he first saw her. By now, he'd been working as a collier for coming up on five years, and he'd been with a fair share of women (flower sellers and street walkers and factory girls, to be sure, but women all the same) to know of the wonders they held. Anyhow, she was a right lovely sight, she was. He didn't know her name, only that she looked at him as he was unloading his cart, and that he'd felt like all the sweat dripping through his hair was turning to steam, he got so hot. No one else had been home at the time, so she'd sent a servant to him with payment for the coal when he'd finished. He asked the servant for her name, staring up at her as he took the money without counting it, and ignored the verbal lashing he got for his forthrightness in favor of smiling at her and wiping off his brow.

When Dylan went back to his flat that night, he took Jeremiah and Ollie out for drinks on his treat and regaled them with stories about her perfect skin, amazing blue eyes, lips with the rich color of blood and ringlets of perfect chocolate colored hair. Jeremiah cheered him on, but Ollie warned him of the dangers of eying women of class. Such women had suitors, and brothers, and fathers, all of whom wouldn't balk to shoot a man accused of sullying their female's honor.

Still, Dylan was not about to be put off. Before long, he'd discovered the young woman's name was Emily Ann Withers, and she was three years his junior, and had been pursued before, but was presently without any prospects. Any delivery to the Withers home he made sure to take, and was often rewarded with a smile through a window, a tiny wave, or just a sideways glance that seemed full of meaning. Dylan began saving his money, socking it away for a future. After all, he'd seen pretty women before, been with them, but she was different. She was a proper lady, and he knew better than to think she'd go tumbling with him. After two years, he'd saved up what he considered a tidy bundle, and thought he couldn't put arrangements off any longer. Ollie called him a fool for it, and even Jeremiah laughed at him, but he bought himself some nice clothes and got cleaned up, hoping to find a way to meet her for more than a moment's chat as he accepted payment.

Dylan made note of her habits and managed to meet her and her mother (her chaperon) in the park on a stroll one day. A bit nervous, he straightened the uncomfortable clothing he was so unaccustomed to, swallowed, and made his approach. When he began to speak, Mrs. Withers scowled and reproached him for his impropriety in speaking to a lady he'd not been introduced to, however, Miss Emily recognized him, and as they had been introduced (however briefly) before in one of his many visits, she called him by name and reassured her mother that he was not speaking out of turn.

Dylan's relief at Miss Emily's rescue was overwhelming, and he smiled gaily at her. She smiled back, a gamesome expression that would have stolen his heart if any of it had been held back from her. Still, Mrs. Withers sent him away before too long, and he had little choice but to make his leave.

The next time Dylan delivered coal, Emily was no where to be seen.

Nor the next.

Nor the next.

When Dylan fretted enough to ask the housekeeper where the miss had gone, he was informed the miss was to have naught to do with no accounts and riff raff like him, and that she was shut in.

Dylan moaned his misery to his friends, and hatched a plan. Emily liked him; of that he was sure. He would simply have to court her directly, and let her parents rot. Managing to catch her alone outside the home would be impossible - no proper lady went anywhere unescorted. Instead, the next delivery to the Withers, Dylan convinced Jeremiah to take, and while Jeremiah distracted the housekeeper, Dylan, in his usual clothes, but cleaned up, stole into the house and found Emily.

Naturally, Emily was shocked to see him. Half in a panic himself, and painfully aware of how little time he had, Dylan rushed to explain himself and got down on one knee to propose to her. Emily simply gaped at him, then urged him to go, quickly, before he was caught, but he wouldn't leave, until at last she promised to meet him later. He left then, and she kept her word, meeting him under the cover of the night, pale and fretting. And yet, she was, herself, giddy at the thought of leaving - leaving the trying social games and the pressure of being a 'good girl' and all those things. She had brought with her as much as she could carry, packed into two valises, and told him she'd run away with him.

Ecstatic with his good luck, Dylan embraced her and kissed her, and she turned crimson at his boldness, turning away from him modestly, wide eyed and shocked - but there was a glint in her eye, and twist to her mouth that showed she enjoyed his passion.

They went back to his apartment where he introduced her to Ollie and Jeremiah, and wrung his hands as he could see her struggle to accept the squalor they lived in. After only three weeks, Emily had had enough. She had romanticized running away and idealized 'the simple life' - the bleakness of reality was not something she was prepared for. True, Dylan was far more passionate than her suitors of before, and true Dylan worked hard to clean up the place and give her every luxury he could afford, but in the end, it amounted to he was gone all day, home late and tired, and Ollie and Jeremiah were rough company.

When Dylan came home one Monday night, Emily was gone. He searched for her, and then, in anguish, went back to the Withers home to let them know their daughter had vanished away.

Imagine his surprise when the housekeeper opened the door and shrieked. Imagine his surprise to hear the entire family scramble to see the matter, and then hear his own precious Emily scream and cry and yell, "That's him, papa! Oh, Papa, papa!" Imagine his surprise to here 'Papa' call, "John, get my gun!" and see Emily's older brother go to do just that as red faces, enraged or sobbing, looked at his bewildered one. He began to step back, begging to know what was the matter. "I'll teach you to look at girls better than you! Gutter slime! Not content with the filth that wallows in the street, running about talking respectable women from respectable society!"

"Emily, Emily, tell them I never! I never forced you; I never!"

But Emily only sobbed and hid her face and ran into the house, and a moment later Papa was fumbling to load his gun, and Dylan turned tail and ran. Not soon enough, unfortunately - Mr. Withers managed to hit him, and the impact of a bullet into his shoulder nearly sent Dylan to the ground. He stumbled and continued, running as fast as he could till he'd left their nice neighborhood and the streets became rough and full of holes and the buildings more crampt and the stench more rank and at last he was in his own neighborhood. He clutched his shoulder, biting back tears of pain and anguish.

She hadn't helped him. She had blamed him - made him out to be a monster! She had accused him of kidnap, and probably rape! And he, what, he'd tried to love her? Had loved her? Dylan ambled into a pub and ordered gin until he passed out, having waited only to tie up his shoulder as best he could, rather hoping to bleed out before he woke.

Ollie and Jeremiah managed to find Dylan first, and weren't about to let their friend go. It was cautious Ollie who knew a fix. Ollie knew a vampire. Dylan was too close to death for anything less to restore him at that point. Jeremiah stayed watch over Dylan in an alley (they were thrown out of the pub) while Ollie fetched his friend, and a few hours later, Dylan awoke with a raging head ache, but, otherwise, none the worse for wear. He was laying in his own bed and groaned loudly, placing his hands to his head, and Ollie and Jeremiah looked over from their spots at the table. Sitting next to Ollie was a man Dylan had never seen before, smartly dressed - some kind of dandy.

"My head..." Dylan moaned.

"Well, Ollie... Now the ball is in your court," the dandy said, turning to look at a very pale Ollie.

Ollie gulped and nodded, getting up and picking up a razor he'd laid out earlier. He'd been fed off of before, by the man he'd summoned to sire Dylan - the same dandy that sat by him now. He knew what it was like. He also knew that newly sired had a powerful appetite. "Dylan... Uh, you're a... There wasn't any other way to save you... Ummm... Be careful. Just - try not to take too much, okay?"

"What are you talking abou-?!" Dylan stopped mid sentence as Ollie slit across his wrist and the scent of blood grabbed him by the nose as never before. His eyes were riveted to the red stain at Ollie's shaking wrist and the silver blade, and his head pounded. He panted, salivating, and sat up, staring at Ollie's wrist. "What...?" He murmured, unable to explain or identify the feelings that ravaged him - shamed him.

Guiltily, fearfully, desperately, Ollie held out his wrist to Dylan. Dylan was transfixed, but frozen, an alien hunger he was terrified to succumb to tearing at his entrails, pounding his brain, forcing his jaws to part. His hands fisted in the thin covers, as he tried to restrain himself from obeying his new instincts.

"G-Go on... You have to... J-just - be careful?" Tentatively, Ollie moved his wrist closer, at last gently pushing it to Dylan's lips. Dylan almost whimpered, trying to turn his face away, but inexorably drawn. He sealed his lips to Ollie's wrist and and began to suck, and a moment later his hands had jumped up to hold Ollie's arm and hand, to brace Ollie's arm and hold his wrist to his lips. Dylan groaned as his canines seemed to shift somehow and then into fangs, and he sank them into Ollie's wrist, barely hearing his friend gasp.

"Stop - Dylan, STOP!" Jeremiah yelled, and suddenly Dylan's eyes snapped open and he saw Ollie had fallen to the floor, pale and cool, and panicked. He tried to stop but couldn't, and looked up at Jeremiah with fear, begging with his eyes that Jeremiah do something. Somehow, Dylan didn't remember when, the dandy had come up behind him, and now his cool, white hands forced Dylan's jaw open and Jeremiah snatched Ollie's wrist away.

Dylan was panting, sweating rivers, still hungry for more, but the edge was taken off at least. "What - what am I?" he asked, his tone full of horror.

"Good morning, Dylan," the dandy said, in a tone much too bright. "My pet Ollie fetched me to save you. My name is - well, it's not really my name, but the name I'm using these days is Denver Thompson. I'm a vampire. Your sire, in fact. Now then, feeling better, I trust?"

"Whuh... What? Ollie - Ollie - Jeremiah, is he..."

"Not dead..." Jeremiah murmured, his tone faint, his skin clammy with fright. He'd laid Ollie out flat and listened to his breath and heart beat.

"Oh, he'll be fine. He's a resilient little blighter, and I was watching the whole time," Denver assured. "Give him a couple of hours of sleep and he'll be as good as new. Now then, Dylan. I assume you could do with a top off yet?"

Dylan looked over his shoulder at the man in a mixture of horror and fascination - and a strange feeling of kinship. "What do you mean..."

Denver sighed, and rested a hand on Dylan's shoulder. "You're a vampire. You need blood. It is the only thing which will nourish you. And given the fact that blood loss was very nearly your cause of death, you are especially in need of it. Come with me, and we will hunt. After that there will be time for explanations." Denver stood up and offered a hand to Dylan, who needed it.

"Get him in bed. Like I said, he'll be fine soon enough, if you let him rest," Denver called back carelessly to Jeremiah, as he led Dylan out of the apartment and down to the streets.

"Hunting is easy enough in theory, if not in practice..." Denver began. He explained the mental tricks vampires used to hypnotize and anaesthetize their prey, the way they could move through shadows, and so on, ending by exlaining it was his preference to find a partner to serve as blood doll rather than hunt, and the reasons why - convenience, less morally repugnant, so on. But for now, a hunt was all that would do.

Dylan had to take two more victims, and could have had more, but Denver kept him from losing control and killing his prey, and they were getting too close to dawn to try for a third. By the time they returned to the apartment, Dylan was satisfied, if not full, and Ollie was awake, though a bit dizzy.

Denver stayed with them a few days, teaching Dylan the ropes, and despite his fine clothing, he didn't seem in the slightest bothered by their poor clothing and dingy apartment. Denver and Dylan were chatting alone one morning when they heard a knock at the door. Ollie and Jeremiah were at work, so Dylan got up to answer the door.

Imagine his surprise - there stood Emily, with her packed bags once more, looking the image of misery. "They threw me out," she whispered. "I'm sorry... can I please... Please stay with you? No one else will take me..."

Dylan blanched to see her, gripping the door as revulsion and rage and sorrow battled for control of him. Denver joined him at the door, took one look at the situation, and smiled. "This could actually solve a lot of problems, Dylan. She can be your doll."

"You let them shoot me. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't need a-"

"Yes, but now you do need a doll, and here she is, with a perfect little throat all ready for the taking."

"Denver-"

"I'm sorry, I'll do anything!" Emily promised, and she looked so penitent and hopeless, helpless, and Denver was right about needing a doll, and finally Dylan sighed and backed down, allowing Emily into the apartment. But, predictably, their relationship was never really right again, if it ever had been. She sank into depression, finding the common tasks that most girls of Dylan's class performed (working, cleaning, so on) to be soul-crushing. Dylan's mood alternated from passionate to repulsed to vengeful to remorseful, seemingly unpredictably. He shoved her away, begged for her love, accused her of betraying him, and finally it grew to be too much for him to stand anymore. After four dizzying, miserable years, in 1869 he bought a pass on a ship and moved to start over in America, and has stayed in New York City ever since.

the roleplayer

NAME: Falco
GENDER: guess
AGE: 20
ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE: since the sixth grade, so about 8 years now
OTHER CHARACTERS: none yet
HOW YOU FOUND US: the 'idea' thread on RPG-D
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:

Jericho tried not to think about the last time he'd managed to get some fresh blood. As it was, his veins were burning, and he'd only just arrived at the latest stop in his flight from city to city.... What was this place called? New something-or-other. His fellow stow aways had told him to stay in the slum district known as the Wapping, and informed him most the humans who hung out in such a place at night were second-class citizens themselves - people who had pissed off the government somehow, or committed a crime.

Meaning?

Dinner time.

Jericho was swathed in an innocuous pair of jeans, old t-shirt, and a brown leather coat that had seen better days. All second hand clothes, all drooped off his body. The coat threatened to fall right off of his shaking shoulders as he kept to the shadows around the docks and the warehouses, looking for some shmuck he could take a bite out of.

[Amore]

ACCEPTED

Duuuude, you're like totally accepted. Welcome Falco!