Hair: Black
Eyes: Silver - vertically slit pupils
Build: Willowy, but toned
Voice: the fox
Scent: insert when i find one i like for him
Scars: Both arms have been horribly maimed by exposure to silver. From just above both his elbows to his knuckles is believed to be reanimated flesh sewn to what remains of his limbs. Badly discolored, looks constantly bruised. Necromancy magic is used to keep the limbs "alive", it is housed and stored in precious metals that hold live and dead tissue together like sutures. With continued magic use, the dead sinew will dissolve, resulting in them needing to be restored and reanimated.

As victory was assured over the final resistance in Dunmeath, the celebratory roar of triumphant men rang against his ears so loud that it eventually drowned into naught but an idle roar. His arms felt heavy, the magic keeping them alive coming in sporadic bursts through the embedded metals that housed it. A long, hard battle, this was, and the relief that came with winning was hardly given time to enjoy in the following moments. Though this was preferred over the battled raged in shadows. He held no love for the manipulation behind the scenes, rather detaching himself from that part of the coven's affairs. In truth, he detested his ties to them all together, another reminder of that loathing echoing as he sheathed his blade, familiar pang of pain and unnatural sensation searing through the remnants of his live fingers.

Harsh silver stare would cut to the side as a loud scream pierced the air. The scent of blood tinged the area. Mortal, laced with fear, adrenaline. While it hadn't been uncommon to come across the stray human soldier in the skirmishes, the amount that met their enemies with such a reaction were slim to none. His footfalls were filled with purpose as they guided his form towards the scene, and as expected, the civilians in hiding cowered within the shadow of the collapsed shack no doubt erected hastily to shield them from view. Their pulses were staccato drum beats pounding within his ears and he had to exhale slowly to shut out the distraction. The group surrounding them jeered as one grabbed down into the cellar in search of one of them, eliciting another shrill of terror from the women and children within.

Peripherals caught movement at his side, the source of the disturbance pointed as where the intoxicating perfume of ichor came from as well, causing a pause to his stride. The woman stared at him, at the group in wide-eyed terror. She wasn't dead, not yet, but there was no help to be given to her to save her life, either. Her jaw hung loosely, the tissue of her cheeks torn and her throat covered in animalistic punctures. Her shoulders followed the pattern, the sensitive skin of her chest under the torn assault of her burlap dress. She still tried to speak, to scream, words and meaning unknown and lost to the unpleasantly wet gurgle of sanguine wine as her lungs struggle to function. Her impossibly wide stare only disappeared under the heel of his boot, followed sharply by the fracturing splinters of her skull. The noise drew the attention of the collection of soldiers. His soldiers. His arms crossed slowly, his gaze dragging from the victim of their blatant disregard to the current happenings. "Civilians are not to be killed." He reiterated, a point he had stressed to them, to all of them. "And we're bloody starved after this fight! You intend to just make us suffer til we get back to the capitol then?" He was irritated, high strung, a euphoric high cascading into ruin, his lip risen to reveal bloodied teeth in a miserable snarl. "No," the word was smooth, his tone even. His gaze steady, "If you must, but don't play with your food." Fingertip tapped against his bicep, a small intonation that belied what his expressionless mask did not. "Don't-" The man erupted into laughter, mocking. "You've gone soft in your years, old man! If you think I'm going to go easy on these gutter rats, then you've lost your mind!" Alas, a frown settled against his lips, not that he had expected anything different.

Whelps needed to be taught a lesson.

The realization of his seriousness settled onto the crowd, a spirit of unease growing between them. "We're just collecting our dues, sir." The assumed ringleader would speak once more, his vocals lowering, his posture shifting. Predatory. "So you can just turn a blind eye to thi-" "I won't. Leave this area at once." "Or?" His lips quirked upwards, brows lifting slightly as he regarded the man evenly. "Or I'll reduce you to a mass of pulpy meat." The words were flat, not a threat, but matter-of-fact. As if stating that the skies were blue. That the year was 1857. Simple. "I'd like to see you-" the words were cut off by the piercing sound of shredding, peeling metal. The dawning was slow, but sharp when it he had taken heed of the crystalized blood that had lanced through his boots, pinning him in place. His voice drew in a strangled cry, eyes looking to the ground, to the distance between them where the woman's blood coursed thick and visceral across the debris littered stone. "You wound me to defend the vermin?!" his cry was met as Theodred allowed his arms to fall, one hand rose in a bland shrug of indifference. "No. I am going to kill you to teach a lesson." His gaze swept those that surrounded the spectacle, silver disassociated, distant and as frigid as the mountain peaks. Each second, another lance of crimson lacerated the tender flesh as he bid the dead's blood to rise, to consume the vampire from the inside out. "A lesson, that I didn't think I would have to address. Gentlemen..." His footfalls would begin to slowly pace, a trek back and forth before them, his voice not raising or falling in volume despite the wails of the would-be aggressor closest to him. "When you are ordered to seize and deliver goods, boxes of parchment, if you will, would you tear open the boxes? Would you damage and deface the product you are told to bring back to Lavalles?" He halted, his withering stare fixing upon the intended martyr. The pikes had reached his hips, his own blood mingling, dripping with that of the human. Everything was still, deathly quiet. Those in the cellar, he believed, didn't even breathe. The hushed atmosphere drug on for what seemed forever, the only sound the voices in the distance, the sizzle of torches and fire and lanterns hissing in the sputtering rain that began to descend from the force of the shrouds above. "You do not." The words finally broke the tense barrier. His vision drifted as another pierce jutted through the soft give of his belly, coming dangerously close to the general himself, a controlled manipulation as he ran his glove over the sharp tip of the javelin, rubbing the viscous liquid betwixt his forefinger and thumb. "Because you are robbing Lavalles of its paper. You are robbing women and the new generation of the young of paper. You are robbing your families of paper." The hand at his side tucked behind his back, his eyes drifting towards those behind the proverbial stake. The spears suddenly spurred through his chest, his voice long gone raw from the screaming, now only producing whines and whimpers. But he was oh so careful and deliberate, avoiding vitals, extending the duration of this teaching session. "If we kill and maim every human now, what are we supposed to sustain ourselves with later, gentleman? Who will turn the soil in the fields of Andersteel? Will you? Will you labor out in the sun to feed mankind to, in turn, feed your family?" He shook his head, his demeanor unwavering, even as the man before him mustered the strength to gather a mouthful of blood and spittle and hock it at his features. It splattered upon his cheek, drawing his attention again to his haphazard prisoner. A collar of pikes forming just below his throat, creating a clear line between neck and shoulders. The mix of fluids slipped down his countenance, the absent rub of fingers grinding to a halt as he regarded him. As he drank in the focus of them all. Then his eyes slipped closed.

His fingers snapped.
The person that was once before them exploded in a hail of gore, splattering, spraying over all present.

Those within the cellar cried out, their voices howls and screams of horror and disgust as chunks of warm flesh splattered all around them, all over them, all over him, all over the rest of his men that flinched and some even turned their eyes away. The grotesque sounds of falling tissue mixed in an unnaturally coherent semblance to the rain that fell all around them. He released a sigh, tilting his head back to indulge in the falling droplets of pure water to wash the vibrant spray of crimson from his features, a soft, almost endearing smile pressed to the cusp of his mouth as his boot caught the lulling head still twisted in that hateful display of defiance. "Nobody here drinks until you return to the city." The words accompanied another wistful breath, his foot crushing down steadily until it once again met flat to pavement. "Go elsewhere. Gather the dogs. I will personally see to these ones." No words left them as they now obediently marched around him. His crown lilted towards the basement shelter, footsteps carrying him closer towards them, gaze softly gleaming in the darkness of the coming twilight, almost taunting above that lazy smirk. "You will come with me, and you will behave." He informed them, again, just as if he were merely stating a fact. It would be dark soon. It was spring. The year was 1857. "I don't want to punish you."

So it was that he returned with the rest of the forces to Lavalles.