Amilia Victoire

A mischievous, chaotic being who is dedicated to an unnamed, remote "Master" and has a keen disregard for all other authority.


Amilia Victoire, Nosferatu Carthian

176 years old (November 2nd, 1835)
turned in 1853 at age 18
5’5", athletic frame
blonde, curly hair, matted from neglect
black, empty eyes
dresses in slightly grungy neo-victorian attire with a chain around her neck

Blackpool, 1895 Amilia Victoire was born on All Souls’ Day, 1835, to a loving mother and father just outside of Blackpool on the isle of Great Britain. Timothy, her brother, joined them a few years later in 1839. Her family was well-off, although old-fashioned for the times, and she was raised to marry and bear children and perhaps promenade about the pier every once in a while or have tea or something.

In their youth Amilia and her brother would wander the sleepy, lamp-lit streets without fear, but as the town quickly succumbed to the industrial revolution (gas lights, piped water, factories popping up everywhere, the works) and tourists began crowding the sidewalks, the dark side of Blackpool started to seep through the cracks. Ever intuitive, Amilia tried her best to stay out of harm’s way, but little Timothy was still too naive to bother and would routinely wander off.
One cool evening in 1853, Amilia was helping the cook prepare supper when the hounds in the yard started howling uncontrollably. She was about to shout out the window to quiet them down when they suddenly ceased to make any noise at all. Timothy was shouting, and then his voice cracked and he was screaming. Horror greeted her when she ran outside. The three fox hounds were lying dead in the garden with identical wounds on their necks, and Timothy had stopped screaming, too.

Crouched over and wild-eyed, the beast froze momentarily before it lunged at Amilia. It tackled her backwards onto the garden bench and the sheer force of the impact sent the both of them crashing through its boards and onto the ground. Luckily, English literature was currently going through its gothic/romantic phase and Amilia knew that, if utilized correctly, a piece of the bench could save her life. She grabbed a shard of wood and held it tightly as the creature flew on top of her. The stake punched into the monster’s chest cavity at the exact moment its fangs pierced her skin, but it was too late.
Why are you hovering over this? It's fucking Nosferatu.
And I ain't done. But that's like half of it or something. I'm going to bed.

Amilia Victoire

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