DORIAN CASEY
A P P E A R A N C E Madness is a little evident in his dual colored eyes; one brown, one blue. His hair is auburn and kept a little long in the front. He dresses in what he's given, which is at the very least clean, but not necessarily stylish. He has no eye for pairing clothes, and often goes out mismatched, unless he has help. He's thinner than the other acrobats in Asile, but really, he doesn't need the extra muscle. He's also clever about hiding his razor sharp smile and the predatory point of his nails.
B A C K G R O U N D Blood is an interesting thing. Each drop holds a plethora of stories, dating back to the beginning of life itself. In it, the strengths and secrets of the ancestors are housed; each peculiar trait rearing its head every few generations. Even science and its manipulations have been unable to destroy the very basic nature of all creatures; the fight for survival. When faced with destruction, everything makes a choice; fight or run. Even now, only the strong will survive. Humanity has every reason to be afraid.
On February 8th, 2217, NOVITAS destroyed the Anankai camp known as Valore, near Sector 03. They accomplished this by setting up a decoy supply train for the mutants to raid, and then proceeded to track them back to their home base. No survivors were ever found. On February 10th, the same year, a terrorist group bombed a marked AU truck on the outskirts of Sector 02. When they looked among the rubble for survivors they found only one; an obvious prisoner, bound heavily and drugged. They marked him for what he was by how quickly his wounds were healing. They took him away and waited for him to regain consciousness, careful not to unbind him, for fear of how he would react, once he awakened. It took two days. When he did come around, he remembered very little. He could sense that they were different from him by the way they smelled. He could remember flashes of the soldiers in the camp, but couldn't tell them anything before or after that except his name; Dorian. Not knowing where he came from, he couldn't even be returned to his people. Agreeing that the dangers of the city were too great for any sort of normal integration, the terrorists agreed to take him to a man named Pasquelle, who could easily hide him amongst the other participants in his circus. The man accepted him. No one would know that he was any different from them. Darwin demanded that Dorian survive; he picked up the language and habits of those around him, instinctively toning down his abilities so as not to alarm the lesser creatures. But a fight was still a fight and could only be won when blood was shed. To those whom he held no allegiance, potential enemies that they were, he brought down quickly in private; he would taste their blood and their flesh and know it to be weak, but warm. Nothing comforted him more than to have his claws embedded in sinew, his lips stained a sanguine red. Small victories for the larger war. And quite a mess for Ban to clean up.
A C T I V I T I E S When he isn't performing acrobatic or balancing feats for Asile, he's bothering their musicians to teach him how to properly hold this or that instrument, and then impressing them with his ability to mimic what they just played. He claims he can see each note visually, as a color, and merely recalls what colors he'd seen, and in which pattern. He hopes to one day play among them, instead of partaking in the physical aspects of the show. Sometimes he attempts socialization, but he still comes off as odd. Nevermind that he has a lust for murder, and often makes a sport of hunting people, and then tearing them apart. More than once, his illustrious ringleader has caught him with his face in someone's innards, their flesh between his teeth.
S T R E N G T H S + W E A K N E S S E S + mimic +/- VA++ - Reading
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