Full name:
Phelan Kell
(Fay-len)
Race:
Infected Human (Lycanthrope)
Gender:
Male
Age:
Phelan looks to be somewhere in the midst of his late twenties.
Ask nicely and he’ll tell you that he is indeed 27.
Weight:
196 lbs
Height:
6’2
Eye Color:
Green in a way that chlorine can only envy.
Hair color:
Phelan’s hair is long and brown with a slight natural wave. It is shot through with streaks of blonde, and a bit of premature grey. Often it’s left to hang loose, though when he needs to look presentable, he binds it back.
Body type:
Phelan has a roughly average frame, the kind that you might expect to see on a good lad raised on a farm. However, since his transformation and the beginning of the fermenting rebellion, he has lost what little body-fat he’d been able to claim and replaced it with a good bit of hard, flat, athlete’s muscle.
Personality:
Phelan is an Alpha. Capital A. With every transformation, he slips deeper into the role of the dominant male, a leader among men and beasts (and even where the lines begin to blur). He is a brilliant strategist, in his own way, seeing to the most minute details in the planning stages. However, when faced with an obstacle, he attacks it with a single-minded ferocity which would reduce any other man to fragments. His temper and bull-headedness are legendary…as is his loyalty to those who earn the right to call him friend.
Mother:
Adrienne Kell (49)
Father:
Patrick Kell (52)
Siblings:
Warden Kell (23)
Sandra Ward (29) (Married, 2 kids)
Bradley Kell (18 )
History:
Phelan Kell was born into a life of hardship. The Kell bloodline was an old and respected one in the outlying villages of Lycentia, though they had never had much to claim in the way of money, or prestige. They were honest and hardworking folk, people who were proud to pull an honest living from the good soil surrounding the major human population center on the island of Trefeare. Phelan inherited the position of first born son, scion of the family, and therefore would also come to inherit the farm and its security.
But Phelan had always had bigger aspirations. He spent his time reveling in the land, though never in the way his father may have encouraged. He became a hunter, a tracker, and eventually a scout with the armies of Trefeare. A little bad blood between his father ensued. Water under the bridge compared to what came next.
Phelan chafed under the collar of the Vampires and their haughty council. Daily he saw his fellow man bled dry to satisfy their needs. It sickened him to see the “peaceful coexistence” of predator and prey…shepherd and sheep. And just when he thought he could stand it no longer, he met Isaiah.
The good doctor gave him a weapon with which to fight back against the leeches. A way to perhaps see to the freeing of humanity from the ravenous hunger and slow whittling death of the Vampire scourge. Others, sick, disgusted with the regime, began to join; to change. And Phelan stood at their head:
Isaiah’s first experiment, the first seamless combination of man and beast.
Lover/Mate:
To love is to jeopardize the mission.
Children:
Sandra’s children are the closest he may claim.
Deacon Ward (7)
Selena Ward (5)
200 word example of Role-play:
[left]
Phelan strode the floorboards in the Lycentian rooming house like a caged predator. Sixteen steps across the room, a quick turn on his heel, and then sixteen more steps. His footsteps echo like the popping of old bones in some nameless tomb. His patience wore thin.
There was work to be done, damn it. Too many blood-suckers prowled the streets. Too many predators stalking about in the territory of his people. Too many sheep, blissfully unaware of the wolves who slunk about in their fold.
Phelan Kell’s nose wrinkles with something which bridges the gap between amusement and disgust. He was mixing metaphors now…they were not the wolves. The leeches were not the wolves at all…
Sundown. Eyes like pools of envy snap to the window, watching as the last garish rays of burnished gold fade in the west; night lets down her soft narcotic hair. It was nearly time now. He crosses the floor…sixteen more steps to the window casement. It grinds obligingly upward and he steps out onto the wooden platform which serves as the rooming house’s fire-escape.
Phelan drops into a crouch, remembering the good doctor’s instructions. He focused on his breathing and let the change come naturally.
It hurt like hell.
Bones twisted, rearranging themselves, coiling about like unquiet serpents. To his credit, he did not even so much as grunt his agony until the ribcage twisted itself into the two-sizes too small configuration of what he was fast beginning to think of as his “true-form”. The forearms thickened, his wrists and ankles and shins morphing outward to blend seamlessly into splayed paws tipped with claws like black iron. Fangs pushed through his jaws, lengthening into the distinctive bite-pattern of a blood-thirsty carnivore.
It takes a beast to hunt a beast. A monster to hunt a monster.
Gods, but it was the fur that he’d never get used to.
With senses made sharp by the change, by Doctor Isaiah’s serum, he casts about. His nose samples the air, tasting the blood on the wind. Ill-gotten spoils, robbed from a still-breathing body. He makes the bound to the cobble-stones with the feral grace of a city-bred cougar, soundless and swift as a passing summer breeze.
He keeps to the shadows, already relishing the taste of the blood-sucker’s fear.
Astonishing Facts:
Phelan has never struck a man in anger.
He does not lie, though he may through omission.
He was once nearly beaten to death by a young vampire lad who had taken a shine to his sister.
He loves his mother dearly, and writes whenever he can.
He is suprisingly well-read for a farmer's son.
He's a damned fine cook.
He could somehow manage to kill you with his bare hands while exhibiting no more feeling than a man skipping stones.
Weaknesses:
Now, I'm not sure what sort of canon of Lycanthropes we deal with here on Trefeare, so I'm going to play Phelan like a traditional Loup-Garou, rather than say a Hexenwulf or a cheesy hollywood knockoff. This means that his weaknesses are rather simple to wrap one's head around.
Weapons may kill him. It will be a slow and agonizing process on the parts of both individuals, but cold steel and muskets are in fact viable options. However, he is blessed with rapid regeneration to any physical wound, and these powers are in fact enhanced by the fullness of the moon.
Here's where the plot thickens. Any wound caused by inherited silver will take a full month to begin healing. Just plain silver will hurt like hell, and doesn't heal clean immediately, but it's the stuff that's been passed down for generations that will really put the hurt on Phelan.
This is, of course, utterly negotiable if the mods wish to modify.
Human form:
Lycanthrope:
Subject: Phelan Kell 
Sun Feb 08, 2009 2:42 pm
