Lucian Vorador

Age (appearance): Early 20s • True Age: 800+ years
Race: Mutated Vampire (Daywalker)
Build: Tall, slender, commanding presence
Hair: Pure white, sleek and elegant
Eyes: Golden, luminous
Style: Refined formal attire (suits, cloaks, high collars)
A gentleman’s poise, a scholar’s mind… and a predator’s shadow. Lucian moves through daylight like any mortal, dines and toasts with the living, yet carries centuries in his eyes. He speaks softly, commands silently, and vanishes before history can write his name.

Daywalker: Sunlight does not harm or weaken him.
Mortal Meals: Food and drink provide real sustenance.
Animal Blood: Sates the thirst and keeps him steady.
Human Blood: Unlocks his full power (terrifying strength, speed, senses, mesmerism) at the cost of temptation.
Aura: Imposing, elegant, and unsettlingly calm.
Mindset: Gentleman first; monster only when he must.

Longevity & Memory: Eight centuries of languages, politics, and warcraft.
Superhuman Physicality: Heightened strength, speed, agility (amplified by human blood).
Mesmerism: Hypnotic influence over weaker wills.
Predator’s Senses: Preternatural hearing, scent, and night vision.
[*]Perfect Masquerade: Can eat, drink, and walk under the sun—almost impossible to detect.


Prologue — The Turning (1241, Transylvania — Regnum Hungariae)
The battlefield smoldered beneath a pale dawn. The Mongol horde’s passage had left the Carpathian Basin in ruin; ash drifted like snow over broken spears. Among the dying, a young scholar-soldier bled into the earth—his name, Lucian, already loosening from the world’s tongue.

She found him there: a woman with moon-cold hands and ember eyes. “You should not die here,” she breathed, the words soft enough to be a prayer. Her wrist split beneath a white fang; iron and fire filled his mouth. A thunderhead rolled through his veins. When the sun climbed, he stood—not mortal, not ash, but something else.

He learned his difference by degrees. Bread warmed him; wine steadied the tremor in his hands. The sun welcomed him back without turning him to cinder. Beast-blood dulled the hunger. Human blood, when it touched his tongue, blew the doors off the world—strength and speed like a storm, senses a blade’s edge… and a darkness that would drown him if he let it.

Late Middle Ages — The Wandering Scholar
Lucian hid in libraries and chancels, where candleflame turned vellum to gold. He argued theology with monks by day and hunted deer beneath the pines by night. Florence lent him philosophy, Paris lent him politics, and courts across Europe lent him masks. He kept a knife-edge balance: eat with men, feed on beasts, and never stay long enough for anyone to notice that he never changed.

18th Century — The New World
The Atlantic carried him to wilderness and revolution.
French & Indian War: On the frontier, he became a rumor with a rifle—eyes that found paths in darkness, feet that didn’t tire. He fed on deer and boar and returned to war-fires smelling of pine and smoke.
American Revolution: He dined with rebels, argued the shape of liberty, and slipped into midnight councils as a nameless advisor. In the din of battle he refused the easy power human blood offered, choosing the smaller, harder strength of restraint.

19th Century — Governor & Industrialist
Politics required daylight and dinners; Lucian had both. Under an alias, he briefly served as a state’s governor—calm, infuriatingly insightful, and conspicuously tireless. Before whispers about his unaging face could take root, he traded the rostrum for rail lines and foundries. Industry suited him: he could shake hands at noon, sign contracts at dusk, and let centuries of patience turn steel into empires.

20th Century — Two Wars
World War I: An officer among the AEF, he shared coffee and bread with boys who would become ghosts before spring. In the ruined fields, he fed on livestock, never comrades.
World War II: He chose the perilous path—Army Ranger. Normandy’s cliffs taught him the old lesson: sometimes the line between salvation and surrender is a single mouthful of human blood. He crossed it once to save his men, and the world exploded into terrible clarity. Victory tasted like guilt for a long time after.

Modern Age — Patron of Progress
Now he wears the world’s finest masks: philanthropist, scholar, investor. His fortune feeds research labs and clean-energy grids. Officially, he is accelerating the human future. Privately, he hunts an answer to his own mutation—how to anchor the predator without damning the man, and how to keep his kind from ever ruling the night by force of hunger alone.