Edwin Juinarto Harbeo
58 Human Years
Half-Elf
Author, Professor
Moorish skin like soil rich with clay. Hair shaven close and a beard that progressively lengthens beneath the chin. A half-hand taller than Men, but a build quite in-line with the common Man, if a touch softer in the waist. Regularly dressed in a woolen dress coat and blackened rough-spun shirt or a dark fabric vest atop a fine white shirt. Always with the same white fob watch in a pocket. Always with the glasses a touch too round to be posh. Fingers adorned by silver rings of varying degrees of quality. Often found with a book in hand. Most often something dripping of wit, the sort of text that brings an elitist air surrounding those dumb enough to share. Fortunately, Edwin is relatively bright. Ears pointed at the top, but relatively Man-like. Smile lines are beginning to etch and the bags beneath his eyes are taking a darker hue -- only just so, of course. He is a groomed one. More than most anyway and it's likely why he smells faintly of lavender. All in all, he is visibly an academic, or maybe a well-read hermit. Who can say, really?
Expect a smile that is a little too distant and a hello that is a little cold. His words are warm first and second crisp. A faint song guides each phrase like modern poetry. However lyrical his words, their contents rarely indulge the ear. Edwin is an learned one and an academic born and bred. If he ponders upon pop culture it either runs its course with him quickly or it tickles his fancy far, far less than most. Instead, the middle aged professor speaks of the latest writings on science and philosophy. One would be wise to keep an ear, though. Every now and then as day approaches night or he succumbs to the drink, a lyric or two will slip divinely from those lips. They come as quick as they go. Merely a drop of honey -- but
so sweet. Some think him the true identity of
Juinarto.
In truth, the years have worn on Edwin's psyche. Deeply and in a proper Jungian sense, he is a tarnished shell of what was. The suffering of past traumas made sharp wit obscured by an utter lack of interest. He is slow to anger or otherwise difficult to read. A time or two when challenged he is known to lower his book for a proper brawl -- which a time or two he has also won. Put simply, an odd sort seemingly too good for society.
Edwin looks on the past sixty-odd years and realizes how bloody fucked his life has become. As a lad he was raised among elite folk, the royals and the politicians and the warriors earning excellent repute, these the peers of his family. Mother was a warrior of the elven folk to the far north, where skin darkens under the tropical sun and extreme violence is only matched by wit. Father was a politician, strong in an intellectual way if also hawkish and manipulative. They loved him. And they taught him all their flaws and their strengths, and Edwin grew to be an imaginative intellectual. He lived as the rich among peasants. The boy grew so snobbish he might on the beggars and very well given a wink by pa for doing so. No surprise when Harbeo Manor suffered
sickness. Oh, the thought still makes him scowl. That awful night father came home tattered and bleeding from the neck. A blood-thirsty madness took him, and in that madness he killed two servants and his beloved. Nevertheless, his wife fought, a warrior do not forget, and made certain both died by the rising sun. A horrific vision. A macabre scene that shaped Edwin throughout childhood as he pursued education, creativity, and love. The boy might've grown to be a artist taken by ever-taken by whimsy, but instead his passions looked distant. Despite such horrors he came to teach and to write. Under the pseudonym
Juinarto he writes dark penny-dreadfuls of abominations and sin. A recreation he stumbled into before adulthood and has kept up ever since. His actual profession is instruction, more specifically, he teaches rhetoric and folklore. He lives in his childhood home, Harbeo Manor, with a few roguish friends, little luxury left from his youth, and an utter obsession with what he'd seen as a child. Most pay little attention to the dilapidating manor and dismiss its inhabitants as outcasts, druggies, and delinquents. The assumptions allow him to investigate folktales of vampyres without attention. An investigation that only a fortnight ago led Edwin to a most morbid twist.
No matter his recent encounter, the growing darkness in Gramheim is of much concern to Edwin. He has chosen to set aside his own tribulations to solve the strange events and also to ensure the horrours he is now responsible for remain hidden as well.
Edwin is armed with the following strengths and weaknesses:
- A sharp and hungry mind
- A physique visibly attractive, though of limited agility
- An armoury filled with honeyed-words and clever rhetoric
- An attitude and a proclivity for concentrated violence
- An insatiable hunger, by his ego, and by his newly inherited Thirst
~~ If it's too cryptic, Edwin became obsessed with his family's death due to vampirism. His curiosity is both vengeful and, in a very narcissistic way, awe-stricken. To a child, much less the child of a politician and seasoned warrior, mother and father are gods. To see them killed demonstrated a power greater than the divines. Edwin's obsession finally brought him to true vampyres two weeks ago. During this encounter he too became a vampyre, though he is not maddened by the curse like his father. Instead, he satisfies his thirst for blood subtlety, fortunate that recent horrourific events have overshadowed his own actions.
