Name: Nicolai
Nicknames….Nightfall, Black Rose
Faction: Vampire---Lesser
Bloodline: Warrior Line…Master of Battle
Age: Over Four hundred years, but who is counting. There is no need to count when the nights are endless.

Celeb Claim: Michael Wincott Powers:

General Powers.-- As was normal, he possessed those typical powers general to all vampires. Though, these were things that came as natural as breathing once was. Long ago. Though, these things were far from his expertise. Just normal everyday talents to him.

Improved Senses
Improved Strength
Improved Speed
Voice Control
Power of the Eyes
The Bite
Vampire Mind

Lesser Powers--
Day Walker--The ability to wake from death during the daylight hours. The vampire still cannot go into sunlight, but is awake and moving as if it was full dark.

Manipulate Shadows (Minor)--The ability to control and use natural shadows to your advantage. Moving them, twisting, shaping, using them to cover and obscure/camouflage yourself in them. At this level, control and use of such is not at 100 percent and is far from infallible.

Blend In--More of a skill than a power. This ability enables the vampire to not really become invisible, rather by ceasing all movement, using available shadows and illumination they make themselves inconspicuous. They are visually there, but seem unremarkable and unnoticeable. You would see them but you might simply subconsciously ignore them as if they weren't there.

Blood Line Powers (lesser)---
Toughness--Vampires of this line are able to withstand tremendous amounts of damage and keep on fighting. They however are still vulnerable to what others are vulnerable to and still can be killed like other vampires, they're just able to withstand it longer.

Control Emotions--The vampire is able to focus on the task at hand, blocking out any sort of emotion until the task is completed. The vampire is able to attempt to resist those who would try to influence or control those emotions more effectively.

His Story--

Born over four hundred years ago, the specific number of years and nights, long ago forgotten, discarded from his memory. To him, age had simply ceased to exist. He was born in desert country…in the barren lands and mountains of what is Present day Syria, Iran, Egypt. Present day middle East. So different it was then, wild and more rugged. Dangerous. Lands that were home to some of the fiercest tribes and warlords that ever existed upon this bloody earth. So long ago that was. Oh and how the nights had so changed. Not as Dark. Not as deadly. He had been born within a small tribe of what had once time been a noble line. A broken line it was when his birth came. Though a line of men and women who still held their dignity. There were none of the desert tribes, and few among the Orient that rivaled them in the art of death. They were experts in the arts of death. As was tradition…within three years of his birth…his training had begun. At that age.. He had no name. Boy.. or whatever other name that was chosen. It was a harsh life, a cruel life. A life without mercy…without love, without care. A life of pain, a life of suffering. At the age of fifteen. He earned his name. He had been hunting…and ran across a party of scouts from an enemy tribe. Within thirty seconds after his initial strike. His hands were red with the blood of his enemy. With his first gifts of death, he had earned his name. Nicolai.

At the age of eighteen…he was in Italy. Venice to be specific. He was one a mission. TO end the life of a Italian Don. He had angered someone…on of the few with contacts to the blades of his tribe. The Oathblades they were called. Word had gotten out to the Italian Don. He had set a trap for the assassin. His own assassin lay in wait. The Battle was deadly. It was a battle that should have been recorded in legends. The opponent was a woman…she wore a pendant of a White Rose around her pale slender neck. Such a pale delicious tone of flesh. She was the epitome of grace, of deadly skill. Her blades were like lighting, blinding fast. Speed that surpassed even his own deadly honed reflexes. Instinct was all that kept him alive, even then, that only worked for a time. Long enough to earn the respect of the White Rose. Not enough to save his life. No. He would not have asked for it. It would have been shameful. His death had been well earned. No, she gave him death. And so much more. He still bore the scars of those silver blades. Along his ribs. The scars of her fangs, there on his neck. She took his life. She gave him death…a lifeless death. Elyssia was her name. His Sire. His teacher. The only white to ever be in his dark life. Nicolai, was simply another of the OathBlades to pass on into death. Gone.

Gone from the days.

Only to spurn a new existence. Among the nights.

He was given no choice in the matter. She drained him of his blood, his life. Replaced it with her own. Some would say it was a curse. Perhaps in the beginning Nicolai thought it was a curse as well. He could truly not remember. If so, it did not last long. Nicolai embraced the monster he had became. He strove to make His Sire happy. He thirsted on the knowledge she offered. He strove to Masters the talents and abilities her kiss of death had given him. No, it was not a curse, it was a gift from the gods of Death. He would become far more dangerous, more deadly then he had been before. Together they were deadly. In time, he earned a new name. He was the dark side of the White Rose. Te Black Rose. By his hand, dynasties were broken, lines of blood, generations of nobility, severed cleanly. Forever broken. Legends were told of the pair of hunters. Legends that put fear in the hearts of those who remembered them.

Then….

One night…he awoke from his slumber. To find nothing more than a single white rose laying where she slept. The Rose, and the lingering reminders of her scent. Never again did he set his gaze upon the White Rose. Though, from time to time. Upon the soft winds of the night…he caught that scent, of death, and roses. A scent all her own.
,br> She left.

He was alone.

The Monster awoke.

His travels began…traveling abroad. To each corner of the earth. Following the wars and the skirmishes of the times and years. There was not a war that he did not participate in. HE fed on the death, the carnage, the fear and terror of war. Of death. OF battle. He thrived on it as much as he thrived on the thick sweet coppery blood that coursed through the veins of the mortal race.

Mortals. He despised them.

They were weak.

Over time. He grew calloused, cold. Emotionless. Mortals became no more than cattle to him. Mere cattle. Pawns, toys in a far greater scheme. Playthings in a sense. Evil, it suited him.

One night, in recent years…just a yew years worth of nights. He stumbled across something. Something that caught his eye. A cornered girl…a mortal. Facing death, rape, and worse. Three on one. The girl was cornered. She didn’t stand a chance against the trio of filthy stank and rank foul species of cattle. From the shadows he watched. Just to see the outcome, the blood. The flashing gleam of silver…razors. They caught his practiced eye. Oh, the sight was glorious. The girl, just at the age of eighteen…innocent. So sweet. She attacked. She came to meet death head on. Her fury, her razors prevailed. The bloodshed was glorious. It was primal, raw, and just fucking delicious. He had to have her. So much he could teach her. So he did. He took her. Took her life…her blood. Took her as his. His pet. His project in a sense. It was not love. No it was death that caught his attention. IN the raw animalistic way she gave it out. Marissa L’Noir. The name of his chylder. The Black Rose, or as others knew him. Nightfall…the name of a demon of Arabic fairy tales. The Demon of the night. The Hunter of children, of innocent souls. He had taken chylder, to pass on the gifts that were given him. Would she accept them. That remained to be seen. She was however trying of his patience.

To Dublin the pair would come.