Reflections of Insanity

Name: Michael Devlin MacKenna

Age: 736

Race: Formerly Scottish – Now Vampire – turned in the year 1404 AD

Occupation: Family vassal to James Stewart then became a soldier for Scottish Independence behind William Wallace and Robert Bruce. As a vampire – given over to the Akhtar organization.

Abilities: Elite swordsman. Skilled in the art of knife-wielding. Proficient with most bladed weaponry. "Adopted" by an Elder sire and given several years worth of ancient blood. Adept at blending perfectly with the human crowd. Was further trained by the Akhtar to hunt “other” night-dwelling prey. Not as powerful as his brother Akhtar but is quick witted and charming, studious and calm.

Weaknesses: Sunlight – makes vampires sluggish and slow. The blood craving – all vampires must ingest blood in order to survive. His fledglings - has lost one due to her voracious appetites. A good poker game. Fast cars, high living.

Brief History: Don’t let the fangs frighten; I'm not as much of a monster as I look. Trust me. I've just got a few too many enemies still breathing. Strange, isn't it? Nice guy like me? Don't get me wrong, I do have a bad side and it's probably not a good idea for anyone to get on it. That’s the problem with being a lethal weapon, trained to hunt and kill things even the nightmares are scared of...

It wasn't always like this. I was born on a small estate in Scotland, just south of what's today called Renfrewshire. I can't even remember the name of the place, it's been that long. But I was a farmer first and foremost, until Sir William Wallace came trooping through, on his way to murder the English. I couldn't wait; I was thirty and eager as could be to kill my first "Shanky". Well, to put it very bluntly, I got my ass handed to me in my very first battle. Yeah, I was dying there at Stirling. Left for dead on the battlefield. Thank God the Shanks didn't come along and finish the jobs.

But I didn't die on that blood-soaked field; my next memory was waking up in someone's basement, shaking, scared out of my mind, and bloody starving. Little did I know what had transpired while I was unconscious. A few hours later, this woman came down the stairs and everything else was a blur after that. Her blood, her skin, the killing, the revelry. I was pretty much her slave for the next two hundred years.

Until he found us. And he was damn near as insane as she was. He murdered her, struck her head off right then and there. I was blooddrunk at the time; I remember laughing as he lifted that dripping sword. But he didn't strike me down. To my gleeful surprise, he took me with him; took me back to his master. And Jesus and Joseph, I thought I'd been in hell before…

For the next century I suffered along with my brother – by the end he was my true brother, bound by both blood and magic – under that sadistic bastard. To this day, I don't know why the Akhtar didn't murder me; maybe he wanted someone else to share the torment with. One of these years, I'll ask him. But I was sent to the "Elders" of my new people to learn, to gorge on their dark secrets, to learn how to hunt and destroy even the vilest of their kin. For a hundred years I worshipped at that bloody altar, learning the ways of the blade and sword, learning how to be a lethal weapon, not just a mindless ravening beast searching for its next bloody meal.

Afterwards, our Master sent us forth, his precious killing machines, his Akhtar, the true hunters of the night. He and I were the vampire's vampire, nurtured on powerful forbidden blood and knowing just exactly how to eradicate their evil monsters. We served him for what seemed eternity, until my brother turned on him, ripping out his throat and rendering him a dry husk of what he was. I can't say I was sympathetic. Oh, the Elders were furious, but every single beast they set upon us met its gurgling end at our feet. They'd done their jobs far too well, it seemed.

I think it was sometime around 1790 that "Jared" and I went our separate ways, after taking possession of what we wanted from our sire's massive estates. I immediately went home to Scotland, only to find it drastically different from the lush unpopulated greenness I'd left behind. Nevertheless, I began to live on my own, trying to adjust to this glorious drunkenness of freedom. But I was desperately lonely. Migrating to France, I became caught up in the whirlwind of Bonaparte's senseless wars, which was where I found my first child, Dorian. Soon thereafter, we encountered Laurya in Russia. And then dear Angelique, in Rome.

My fledglings and I roamed the world, carefree but I still remembered my somewhat brutal initiation to the darker side of vampire life. Every so often, I would get a summons from my brother and I would go, returning once more to the cold emotionless killer I'd been all those years ago. And the opposite proved true as well; if I ever summoned him, he'd come. Blood binds us, you see. A much thicker magic than any human emotion.

We live mostly in Los Angeles now. Oh, Dorian and I still travel, but Laura prefers the house in New York, and her "career". I wish her much fortune. My wild Angelique would probably have remained with her, had she lived. But against my warnings and rules, she disobeyed me and met her death due to her frivolous lusts. Nevertheless, Jared and I keep tabs on the other, for we're much more than brothers. We're predators, you see, and there must always be two, for there's only one being capable of taking down an Akhtar. And that's another of his kind.

Note: Further guidelines for playing with my vampiric characters can be found here. Please read if considering an rp.

"Beautiful boy of mine." 

Michael's pet phrase for Dorian.  This fledgling was brought from France just after the reign of Napolean, the victim of a vile vampire who'd abused him to the point of death.  In order to save his life, Michael was forced to turn him to darkness, breaking the iron-clad law of never bestowing immortality upon a child.