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Enoch, the Blood Hound
Enoch is a rough, handsome young man in his mid-twenties. He is caught between time, wearing old well traveled cowboy boots with jeans and a brown silverado concho hat which seems to have some sentimental value; its worn to a dark copper shade over time. His eyes are dark and give little away and his hair is consistently, naturally windswept. Though, to contradict this western appearance his bottom lip is pierced by a black ring as is the left side of his nose. He typically wears flannel shirts, often open, with t-shirts of simple or graphic design. Presence 2, Blood Potency 1, Humanity 7, from Dallas.
Sins of the Father
 "Strike to take flesh, blood, and soul." - Ma |
 "Man ought to shoot to kill or put down the gun." - Pa |
 "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?" - Some ol' bearded fella. |
 "Lot of reasons to kill a man. I am not above the petty ones. Hands off." - Enoch |
Its all runnin' red these nights
The war, the battle, hot smoke fills the lungs,
Ancient limbless warriors looming like celestial prophets over the field,
Frowning, frowning from the bloodshed and the lessons unlearned,
And the promises broken by their progeny who swore not to pick up the sword,
Who swore not the grab the woven fate of the gun.
War, he is war, he is the bloody tip of the bayonet turning innards into vulture scraps,
Turning boys into corpses, mothers into widows, children into orphans,
He is war, the trigger, the bullet lodged in the Yankee skull,
Through the window of his eye, War, the distant fate,
The fatherless son, the agonized wife,
Poverty upon the streets, the gun, the robbery, the hangman's lever, death again,
Living in a cycle beginning and ending with death.
He is war, the knife, the last ditch weapon, he is the red cascade warm down his hand,
He is the sullied field where no life will grow;
He is the blade deep in the heart of his enemy,
He is the author of another's last story, he is war.
The hollow sounds of the cannon ball landing in the earth,
Showering corpses in the dust, soldiers in the gore, he is war.
The tattered, symbolic flag which inspires poets but spurs nothing in the soul of men,
Who survive,
Survive and chip at the calloused swells on their fingertips,
and sob and are solemn and thoughtless.
He is war, eternal, the Gatling gun the wall of impervious shells,
And white death on his brothers, on his enemies, he is war.
The saber, the symbol, the clear cut across the jacket of adversarial commanders,
Whose wealth is worth shit and whose lungs fill with blood,
Dying like any man, on the smoking grass.
He is war, the fog, the silence to follow,
He is war.
The way things go...
Lineage:
- "Marzanna", Circle of the Crone
- The Ved'ma of the Baltic Sea, Circle of the Crone
- Agatha Strangewayes of the Black Forest, Circle of the Crone
- Samantha Malory of Salem, Circle of the Crone
- Bloody Abigail of the Ozarks, Circle of the Crone
- His Sire is Bloody Abigail of the Ozarks, a creature entered into folklore from her kidnapping kine and general witchcraft that was performed in the Arkansas area, she eventually moved to Dallas for reasons unknown. It is rumored to be she was fleeing angry Lupine.
- Is quite monstrous.
- Enoch, Circle of the Crone
- Enoch himself proved his worth as a Valkyrja of the Crone. He was often, though patronizingly, called Brave Enoch by his Sire, often saying he fit into the Hero archetype.
- On one occasion in the city of Dallas he saved a fellow Acolyte, Esperenza Trejo, from the wrath of a Carthian Haunt named Scism. This was his most notable exploit.