User Profile

Name: Conor Oberst
Known For: Bright Eyes, namely
Clan: Malkavian
Live Journal: neurotic_conor
Screen Name: brighteyeburnsco
Character Photo:
Brief Character Summary: He was born the son of a sailor and a prostitute and a king and a blacksmith. He was an infant, an adolescent, a decaying old man. Conor was everything and was nothing, and all of this before he was even embraced. His age was relative, an arbitrary number marked by a knife dragged into the wall of his dwelling. He added a new tally when he remembered to, when he believed a year had passed. But time was easy to lose track of, and sometimes a new year was marked within five minutes of the last. Sometimes it was a decade before he took out his knife and carved another line into his walls.

On a rare, lucid day, Conor knew that he was born during the 20s, a product of excess and beauty and entertainment. He knew that he was embraced far before the Stock Market crash, before the war. When the thick fog cleared, when his insanity was only evident in the unmatched color of his eyes, Conor knew that he had been a little crazy even before he met his sire. The 20s, with all the parties and dancing and sound, were also ripe with unrefined chemicals and powders, things far more potent than their modern counterparts. And that made him a little unstable, clouded his eyes and his mind and his conscience even before he started taking a cold, cold man into his bed. He was still seventeen when his sire nipped his lower lip, lapped up the blood that formed, and whispered a promise of eternity if only he agreed.

And he did. He agreed. Three days later, the man returned and the nipping that customarily took place as they undressed was replaced by deep, painful penetration that Conor barely remembered because of the wine and opium swirling through his body as it happened. He remembered going limp and then he woke up, naked and cold, and his drug-induced insanity was replaced with a new form, a thicker, colder version. He barely noticed the change until the hunger set in.

Fortunately, his lucid days are few. He has his sailors and whores, kings and decaying old men, and with all that, who needs to remember a past?
Sample Role-Play: “Shh,” he whispered, a thin, pale finger pressed to the center of his mouth. He repeated the request for quiet, and yet the pretty, pretty, pretty prey continued to scream. Conor smiled, though, eyes bright with the tangible air of undeniable terror. He could smell it, lick his lips and taste it, and that was thrilling. That alone was a drug far sweeter than anything a kine could imagine, could taste.

“Pretty please be quiet, little one,” he said, lowering himself onto his knees. The corridor was narrow and damp. Maybe a sewer. He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. His prey had nowhere to go and that was the important thing. That was the thrilling part. “I promise to be kind,” he added, his voice gentle, and when the rat let out another tiny scream despite his tender reassurances, Conor reached forward to take it in his hand, to drink his fill.

There was never enough to draw out, never enough inside, and he shifted to sit down properly, holding the little body in his lap. “I didn’t mean to,” he said, brushing his fingers along its matted fur. Time slipped by, as if often did, and he stayed still, using his nails to comb out the coat of his dead little friend. “But now you look pretty,” he whispered, finally licking up the blood left smudged along his lower lip. “Now it’s okay.”








[Psst. You. Yeah, you! Come here. Nah, closer. Little closer. Yup, that's good. This is fake.]