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Description

[GENERAL]
✦ Name: Damhán Garrett ("The Ghoul of Surrey")
✦ Age: Forty-Six
✦ Gender: Cis Male
✦ Nationality: Irish
✦ Race: Noble Dead
✦ Alliance / Faction: Denizens
✦ Hair Color: Dark Red
✦ Eye Color: A kind of sickly yellow
✦ Height: 7’0 -- suffers back problems and is often seen slouching
✦ Weight: 260 lbs
✦ Birthday: July 16th
✦ Occupation: Innkeeper -- Owns and manages a tavern on the river. The establishment is not well kept and rarely visited -- lit dimly by few lamps and plagued by dust and rats. It goes by the name -- Houndsbay

[ATTRIBUTES]

✦ Base Attribute Stats
Strength: 0
Fortitude: 0
Constitution: 0
Reflexes: 0
Speed: 0
Intellect: 0
Perception: 0
Presence: 0
Willpower: 0

✦ Noble Dead Merits
Strength: +2
Speed: +3
Charm (PRE): +2
+1 to all rolls if recently fed (within the last two hours) off a victim
+2 to STR, FOR, SPD when in a Blood Frenzy

✦ Noble Dead Demerits
-5 Fortitude/Constitution when in contact with Holy Water, Holy Artifacts, and Blessed items
-4 Willpower when hungry or surrounded by copious amounts of blood
-4 Willpower when in the presence of large or unconstrained flames
.

[IDENTITY]
✦ Blessing/Curse: Blessing
Name: Ghoul’s Dining Room
Description: With a snap of his fingers, Damhán is able to instill in a single person the feeling of starvation. While it is not actually the case, the subject will believe wholeheartedly that they are close to death. They are overcome with great pain and emotional distress -- enough to where the subject can be reasonably expected to turn violent and rash. The only ways to remove the effects of this ability is consume human flesh or be rendered unconscious -- though they are removed naturally after five hours. The subject knows instinctively what they need to do to relieve the pain.
Pros:
As Damhán is not human, he is free to cast this on someone without fear of being attacked.
An excellent tool for distraction and asserting one’s dominance.
Damhán finds it fun.
Cons:
The subject must be able to hear the snap of Damhán’s fingers. If they cannot, they are safe from the spell.
Can only be used on a single person at a time -- if the effects are still present on another, the ability cannot be cast again. Therefore -- the de facto “cooldown” of the ability is five hours.
The spell can only be cast via Damhán’s right hand -- if for any reason it were to unavailable to him, he would not be able to use this ability.

✦ Personality:
Gluttonous | Reclusive | Sadistic | Impulsive | Generous
✦ Backstory:
Damhán’s heritage and birth are somewhat a mystery -- little could be said about the tightly swaddled babe left on the doorstep of Saint Mary’s Youth Refuge, a small, understaffed institution not far outside London. Presumedly, whatever had bore him thought it best to entrust him with men of God rather than raise him up with it’s own hands. He was assumed to be Irish based on his reddened hair and the name left with him -- decidedly Gaelic in origin. While this was never confirmed, that is what the dusted, eaten records in old, desolate Saint Mary’s claim -- if one were to venture back into it’s empty halls to check.

Damhán grew into an eccentric child, often alone and numb -- rarely crying and wailing as the typical child is wont to do. The nuns of Saint Mary’s were content to leave him be for the most part. There were other, more excitable children in need of attention in the understaffed orphanage. From very early on, Damhán observed a distinct divide between himself and the humans he knew. There was humanity -- and then there was the cold valley where the red child found home. He knew not how to call for an embrace or kind look -- and grew into strange habits. In a way, he wished to delve further into that cold valley. If men would not have him, then he’d be content to fall elsewhere -- into his own.

How did the child Damhán express this sentiment? Why, the steady torture and dismemberment of rodents and the occasional act against the orphanage more relatable stock. He’d be more than them. He’d be their better.

It wasn’t a surprise, really, that Damhán would never see the touch of a family. He reached solemn adulthood in that institution -- and was refused release upon that time. Feeling unsafe around the growing man, the nuns of Saint Mary’s deposited Damhán into a partnered asylum. Damhán had moved to one prison to another. While he was not often restrained to the point of measurable discomfort -- he found himself to be miserable. Damhán’s case was given to a therapist there -- a one J. Prescott -- an aged, learned man who looked to his patient with dead eyes. His complexion was notably silvery and flat and was the type to make those around him uncomfortable. He was thin -- and his teeth seemed only elongated whenever Damhán cared to notice.

Damhán grew to loathe this man.

Sessions with Prescott were oppressive and difficult. Prescott was the type to assert his will above all else, refusing to see any other way besides the path he offered. He accused Damhán of horrid things and of deriving pleasure from ghoulish activity. He was not wholly incorrect -- but being read so thoroughly in so unpleasant a man drove Damhán to such disdain -- the kind of which could ruin a honest man. He often daydreamed of red victory over his perceived rival. During Damhán’s prolonged commitment to the asylum, the doors of Saint Mary’s closed forever. This would be his only surviving home -- and it was hell to experience.

Eventually. Damhán escaped that place. There was little commotion. His case was closed. The authorities were not notified, He was not pursued. He simply fell through the cracks of the system -- a system in which he was glad to be free of.

Before long though, there were signs of violence in the London outskirts. Men, women, and children would disappear in the dead of night -- seized while alone. Some left speckling of blood behind, some left possessions, some left nothing at all. There was pitifully little to work from, and most found the disappearances as a futile thing to approach. One woman however -- mother to a child that had been taken -- hired the private investigative work of one Wilhem Reid.

Reid could do little more than follow the disappearances as they happened. He would investigate the surroundings and patterns of those taken. There was no discernable link. It was a case that paid well, but one that seemed to be going nowhere. Reid was not the most prized of investigators, and would have abandoned the case if it were not for the missing child’s mother single handedly supporting him as worked.

One evening in late autumn -- when the air grew crisp and cold, Reid heard country tales of caverns and tunnels beneath old, desolate Saint Mary’s. A child who had descended there spoke wildly of bones and a monster that had been seen feeding. Curious, but doubting the connection to his case, Reid rode there to make of it what he would.

There was no monster -- but there were signs of someone having lived there. Odd bits of furniture were taken from the orphanage’s main building and dragged below and into that cavernous underground home. Small oil lamps dotted the stone walls of the place. No living man was found. Though the bones of many were -- fresh and gnawed upon. Some of the remains were hideously small. Reid kept his findings to himself for a time -- growing cold feet when it came to closing the case. The mother was paying him plenty… he would approach her when a culprit could be seized.

A month later -- old, aged Dr. Prescott was abducted from his London home -- where he boarded himself up for sometime. He no longer worked at that accursed asylum -- but to the eyes of the beast who loathed him, he would be forever tied to that place. There were signs of forced entry, the windows of Prescott’s home being shattered. Dark blood was found sprinkling the hardwood. As Reid had known Prescott through unrelated cases, he had his suspicions. Prescott had often talked of his treatment of a sorry orphan -- and how lost the subject seemed to be. The connections were loose, but Reid rode to desolate Saint Mary’s on a police carriage. The night was dark, the water on the rough roads flicking upwards when met with stampeding hooves. Reid rode into the dark, the air made colder by diseased anticipation.

Reid pulled up to the ruined place slowly, moving off his carriage. He had stood in the mud for a while, fearful of what he would find. Even if the connections were loose and unfitting -- he was still descending into a place of death… a den in which evil lived once and could very easily live still.

Lantern in hand, Reid made his descent. Quickly he realized the redundancy of his light -- the lamps of the cavern being lit, albeit dimly, Whatever had made the underground it’s home, was there now. Reid put out his light, seeking his revolver instead, He entered the rocky atrium of the bastard place.

There he found two shapes -- one moving and one still. In the dim light of the lamps, Reid could recognize the silvery hair of Prescott. It was held high above a silhouette unfamiliar to him -- separate from his body.

Damhám had had his red victory.

While the neighboring remains in the cavern bore signs of torture and prolonged death, it seemed that Damhán was quick to end Prescott’s life. He had ended him in an intimate way, removing his head with the blade of a serrated knife. The hunched figure drank of the wound below the jaw, the red ichor of odd Dr. Prescott invigorating him in ways beyond his understanding -- but not unlike the peculiar tastes he had adopted. The figure did not notice Reid for a time, caught up as he was in the rush of fulfilled dreams and the high of bloodlust fed.

Reid approached; the figure turned.

Fear pulled the trigger and a bullet entered Damhán’s chest. He collapsed to his knees, red hair flailing behind him. The caverns grew quiet after the the echo faded. Reid held his face in his hand, cold.

It had taken some time, but Reid eventually gathered the bodies of monster and victim and loaded them into the back of hs carriages. Midnight fell. The ride was fast and long -- but Reid would never reach his destination.

There was movement in the back of the carriage.

No words can fully describe the wicked howling heard by sleepless men that night -- the terrible almost-laughter that exploded and travelled far with the wind. Reid’s carriage was found the next morning, grey dew mixing with spilled blood. Reid was found alone with the corpse of Prescott -- his horses having either been stolen or having fled. The investigator’s body was dry and partially eaten -- his form barely resembling the healthy soul who had once inhabited it.

His cases were all closed.

✦ Strengths & Weaknesses:
Damhán is considerably strong -- though mostly in short bursts.
He is an accomplished cook -- having often assisted the staff of the asylum in meal preparation
His senses, aside from his sight, were all quite formidable even before his death.
His own impulsiveness and pride can lead to trouble
A certain lack of empathy bars him from healthy relationships with others
His loyalty can often be brought into question

✦ Likes & Dislikes: Same as above
Coffee -- evenly mixed with cream
Late night -- where there is rarely anyone awake
Meat -- exclusively that of human origin
Bright lights
Loud noises
Pretentiousness

[OPTIONAL]
✦ Extra:
Voice Claim - Nick Cave
Playlist - open.spotify.com/user/inksick/…
He often wears spectacles to help aid his poor eyesight -- engraved into the inside are the letters: J.P.
His Claim is Urya Fleigh - fav.me/dcctp8b - She runs the Inn with him, but is mostly kept out of sight in one of the cellar rooms. Her room is notable as it is the only one in the entirety of Houndsbay to have a doorknob fashioned out of silver. (Please do note that Damhán is abusive towards Urya — emotionally, physically, and otherwise. His actions are separate from my beliefs. Please do not refer to them as a couple. They are victim and abuser.)

[RP PREFERENCE]
✦ Media: [Discord]| [Skype] | [Google Docs] | [Notes] | [Comments]
✦ Methods: Paragraph | Literature | Script | Headcanon
✦ Timezone: EST

Description

[GENERAL]
✦ Name: Damhán Garrett ("The Ghoul of Surrey")
✦ Age: Forty-Six
✦ Gender: Cis Male
✦ Nationality: Irish
✦ Race: Noble Dead
✦ Alliance / Faction: Denizens
✦ Hair Color: Dark Red
✦ Eye Color: A kind of sickly yellow
✦ Height: 7’0 -- suffers back problems and is often seen slouching
✦ Weight: 260 lbs
✦ Birthday: July 16th
✦ Occupation: Innkeeper -- Owns and manages a tavern on the river. The establishment is not well kept and rarely visited -- lit dimly by few lamps and plagued by dust and rats. It goes by the name -- Houndsbay

[ATTRIBUTES]

✦ Base Attribute Stats
Strength: 0
Fortitude: 0
Constitution: 0
Reflexes: 0
Speed: 0
Intellect: 0
Perception: 0
Presence: 0
Willpower: 0

✦ Noble Dead Merits
Strength: +2
Speed: +3
Charm (PRE): +2
+1 to all rolls if recently fed (within the last two hours) off a victim
+2 to STR, FOR, SPD when in a Blood Frenzy

✦ Noble Dead Demerits
-5 Fortitude/Constitution when in contact with Holy Water, Holy Artifacts, and Blessed items
-4 Willpower when hungry or surrounded by copious amounts of blood
-4 Willpower when in the presence of large or unconstrained flames
.

[IDENTITY]
✦ Blessing/Curse: Blessing
Name: Ghoul’s Dining Room
Description: With a snap of his fingers, Damhán is able to instill in a single person the feeling of starvation. While it is not actually the case, the subject will believe wholeheartedly that they are close to death. They are overcome with great pain and emotional distress -- enough to where the subject can be reasonably expected to turn violent and rash. The only ways to remove the effects of this ability is consume human flesh or be rendered unconscious -- though they are removed naturally after five hours. The subject knows instinctively what they need to do to relieve the pain.
Pros:
As Damhán is not human, he is free to cast this on someone without fear of being attacked.
An excellent tool for distraction and asserting one’s dominance.
Damhán finds it fun.
Cons:
The subject must be able to hear the snap of Damhán’s fingers. If they cannot, they are safe from the spell.
Can only be used on a single person at a time -- if the effects are still present on another, the ability cannot be cast again. Therefore -- the de facto “cooldown” of the ability is five hours.
The spell can only be cast via Damhán’s right hand -- if for any reason it were to unavailable to him, he would not be able to use this ability.

✦ Personality:
Gluttonous | Reclusive | Sadistic | Impulsive | Generous
✦ Backstory:
Damhán’s heritage and birth are somewhat a mystery -- little could be said about the tightly swaddled babe left on the doorstep of Saint Mary’s Youth Refuge, a small, understaffed institution not far outside London. Presumedly, whatever had bore him thought it best to entrust him with men of God rather than raise him up with it’s own hands. He was assumed to be Irish based on his reddened hair and the name left with him -- decidedly Gaelic in origin. While this was never confirmed, that is what the dusted, eaten records in old, desolate Saint Mary’s claim -- if one were to venture back into it’s empty halls to check.

Damhán grew into an eccentric child, often alone and numb -- rarely crying and wailing as the typical child is wont to do. The nuns of Saint Mary’s were content to leave him be for the most part. There were other, more excitable children in need of attention in the understaffed orphanage. From very early on, Damhán observed a distinct divide between himself and the humans he knew. There was humanity -- and then there was the cold valley where the red child found home. He knew not how to call for an embrace or kind look -- and grew into strange habits. In a way, he wished to delve further into that cold valley. If men would not have him, then he’d be content to fall elsewhere -- into his own.

How did the child Damhán express this sentiment? Why, the steady torture and dismemberment of rodents and the occasional act against the orphanage more relatable stock. He’d be more than them. He’d be their better.

It wasn’t a surprise, really, that Damhán would never see the touch of a family. He reached solemn adulthood in that institution -- and was refused release upon that time. Feeling unsafe around the growing man, the nuns of Saint Mary’s deposited Damhán into a partnered asylum. Damhán had moved to one prison to another. While he was not often restrained to the point of measurable discomfort -- he found himself to be miserable. Damhán’s case was given to a therapist there -- a one J. Prescott -- an aged, learned man who looked to his patient with dead eyes. His complexion was notably silvery and flat and was the type to make those around him uncomfortable. He was thin -- and his teeth seemed only elongated whenever Damhán cared to notice.

Damhán grew to loathe this man.

Sessions with Prescott were oppressive and difficult. Prescott was the type to assert his will above all else, refusing to see any other way besides the path he offered. He accused Damhán of horrid things and of deriving pleasure from ghoulish activity. He was not wholly incorrect -- but being read so thoroughly in so unpleasant a man drove Damhán to such disdain -- the kind of which could ruin a honest man. He often daydreamed of red victory over his perceived rival. During Damhán’s prolonged commitment to the asylum, the doors of Saint Mary’s closed forever. This would be his only surviving home -- and it was hell to experience.

Eventually. Damhán escaped that place. There was little commotion. His case was closed. The authorities were not notified, He was not pursued. He simply fell through the cracks of the system -- a system in which he was glad to be free of.

Before long though, there were signs of violence in the London outskirts. Men, women, and children would disappear in the dead of night -- seized while alone. Some left speckling of blood behind, some left possessions, some left nothing at all. There was pitifully little to work from, and most found the disappearances as a futile thing to approach. One woman however -- mother to a child that had been taken -- hired the private investigative work of one Wilhem Reid.

Reid could do little more than follow the disappearances as they happened. He would investigate the surroundings and patterns of those taken. There was no discernable link. It was a case that paid well, but one that seemed to be going nowhere. Reid was not the most prized of investigators, and would have abandoned the case if it were not for the missing child’s mother single handedly supporting him as worked.

One evening in late autumn -- when the air grew crisp and cold, Reid heard country tales of caverns and tunnels beneath old, desolate Saint Mary’s. A child who had descended there spoke wildly of bones and a monster that had been seen feeding. Curious, but doubting the connection to his case, Reid rode there to make of it what he would.

There was no monster -- but there were signs of someone having lived there. Odd bits of furniture were taken from the orphanage’s main building and dragged below and into that cavernous underground home. Small oil lamps dotted the stone walls of the place. No living man was found. Though the bones of many were -- fresh and gnawed upon. Some of the remains were hideously small. Reid kept his findings to himself for a time -- growing cold feet when it came to closing the case. The mother was paying him plenty… he would approach her when a culprit could be seized.

A month later -- old, aged Dr. Prescott was abducted from his London home -- where he boarded himself up for sometime. He no longer worked at that accursed asylum -- but to the eyes of the beast who loathed him, he would be forever tied to that place. There were signs of forced entry, the windows of Prescott’s home being shattered. Dark blood was found sprinkling the hardwood. As Reid had known Prescott through unrelated cases, he had his suspicions. Prescott had often talked of his treatment of a sorry orphan -- and how lost the subject seemed to be. The connections were loose, but Reid rode to desolate Saint Mary’s on a police carriage. The night was dark, the water on the rough roads flicking upwards when met with stampeding hooves. Reid rode into the dark, the air made colder by diseased anticipation.

Reid pulled up to the ruined place slowly, moving off his carriage. He had stood in the mud for a while, fearful of what he would find. Even if the connections were loose and unfitting -- he was still descending into a place of death… a den in which evil lived once and could very easily live still.

Lantern in hand, Reid made his descent. Quickly he realized the redundancy of his light -- the lamps of the cavern being lit, albeit dimly, Whatever had made the underground it’s home, was there now. Reid put out his light, seeking his revolver instead, He entered the rocky atrium of the bastard place.

There he found two shapes -- one moving and one still. In the dim light of the lamps, Reid could recognize the silvery hair of Prescott. It was held high above a silhouette unfamiliar to him -- separate from his body.

Damhám had had his red victory.

While the neighboring remains in the cavern bore signs of torture and prolonged death, it seemed that Damhán was quick to end Prescott’s life. He had ended him in an intimate way, removing his head with the blade of a serrated knife. The hunched figure drank of the wound below the jaw, the red ichor of odd Dr. Prescott invigorating him in ways beyond his understanding -- but not unlike the peculiar tastes he had adopted. The figure did not notice Reid for a time, caught up as he was in the rush of fulfilled dreams and the high of bloodlust fed.

Reid approached; the figure turned.

Fear pulled the trigger and a bullet entered Damhán’s chest. He collapsed to his knees, red hair flailing behind him. The caverns grew quiet after the the echo faded. Reid held his face in his hand, cold.

It had taken some time, but Reid eventually gathered the bodies of monster and victim and loaded them into the back of hs carriages. Midnight fell. The ride was fast and long -- but Reid would never reach his destination.

There was movement in the back of the carriage.

No words can fully describe the wicked howling heard by sleepless men that night -- the terrible almost-laughter that exploded and travelled far with the wind. Reid’s carriage was found the next morning, grey dew mixing with spilled blood. Reid was found alone with the corpse of Prescott -- his horses having either been stolen or having fled. The investigator’s body was dry and partially eaten -- his form barely resembling the healthy soul who had once inhabited it.

His cases were all closed.

✦ Strengths & Weaknesses:
Damhán is considerably strong -- though mostly in short bursts.
He is an accomplished cook -- having often assisted the staff of the asylum in meal preparation
His senses, aside from his sight, were all quite formidable even before his death.
His own impulsiveness and pride can lead to trouble
A certain lack of empathy bars him from healthy relationships with others
His loyalty can often be brought into question

✦ Likes & Dislikes: Same as above
Coffee -- evenly mixed with cream
Late night -- where there is rarely anyone awake
Meat -- exclusively that of human origin
Bright lights
Loud noises
Pretentiousness

[OPTIONAL]
✦ Extra:
Voice Claim - Nick Cave
Playlist - open.spotify.com/user/inksick/…
He often wears spectacles to help aid his poor eyesight -- engraved into the inside are the letters: J.P.
His Claim is Urya Fleigh - fav.me/dcctp8b - She runs the Inn with him, but is mostly kept out of sight in one of the cellar rooms. Her room is notable as it is the only one in the entirety of Houndsbay to have a doorknob fashioned out of silver. (Please do note that Damhán is abusive towards Urya — emotionally, physically, and otherwise. His actions are separate from my beliefs. Please do not refer to them as a couple. They are victim and abuser.)

[RP PREFERENCE]
✦ Media: [Discord]| [Skype] | [Google Docs] | [Notes] | [Comments]
✦ Methods: Paragraph | Literature | Script | Headcanon
✦ Timezone: EST