Character App: Vincent Teagan O'Flannery

Character Name: Vincent Teagan O'Flannery


Canon Point: Modern day, Ireland


Age: 32 at the time of his "death"; currently occupying the body of a 27 year old.


Why do you feel this character would be appropriate for this setting? Vincent has seen a lot of the world - and some not of the world. He is a survivor by circumstance, so to speak, but he's managed to make it as long as he has without going stark, raving mad. He is resilient, if nothing else. He has definitely seen more than one person's fair share of ugliness, and has, at times, shown himself to have a touch of proclivity for cruelty.


What are they bringing? (limit 3)
    1. A pair of well-worn, ivory, twelve-sided dice. He won them from an old Gypsy man in a dice game while in his teens; he then went on to win almost every game played with them, and therefore considers them lucky. He frequently uses them to make decisions; basing choices on the numbers he rolls.
    2. A well-preserved but faded tintype of a handsome young man. Written on the back: James, 1913 [the rest is illegible]
    3. A seemingly-innocuous antique Ricohflex, which is actually gutted inside and contains a garrote wire.


Abilities/Powers: Cursed "immortality", as it were. He is invulnerable to most natural causes of death (ie: old age or illness), and, given time, can heal from almost any wound. The exception to this is decapitation, as Vincent discovered in 1923. Following the loss of his head, his soul was forced to evacuate his body, after which he became a ghost for almost twenty years, until finally co-inhabiting, and ultimately possessing, another body (see Background). His immortality comes with few 'perks', however; he possesses no inhuman strength, speed, or senses. He generally prefers to maintain physical fitness, and is fairly athletic, but remains limited by his human body.
He has picked up a few useful tricks along the way, however. Being immortal has given him ample time to learn various skills, including, but not limited to: building explosives, marksmanship, wilderness survival (including hunting and trapping, as well as some knowledge of herbology), and some knowledge of the occult (although the full extent of this is unknown, even to him - he is still testing the boundaries of what works, and what doesn't).


Background/History: Vincent was born in Drogheda, Ireland in 1891, the illegitimate product of a wealthy English landowner's affair with his wife's Irish maid, a young woman named Brighid. Upon learning of her husband's indiscretion and Brighid's resulting pregnancy, the landowner's wife dismissed the girl. Finding herself barred from employment among the female gentry, Brighid moved in with her married sister's family, where she took up sewing, candle-making, and occasionally prostituting in order to earn a living. After giving birth to Vincent, she suffered serious post-partem depression, and was found dead in the river near her home when the boy was not quite a year old. Whether her death was suicide or accident was impossible to tell.

Vincent was adopted by his aunt and uncle and raised with his eight cousins. Although he was not neglected by his relatives in any way, he often felt alienated, which led to his decision to leave home at 15 and join a group of Irish rebels protesting English rule. Migrating to a smaller town a few days' ride away, he found work in a pub as an assistant to the unmarried (and therefore childless) owner/barman and inherited the business on the man's death in 1918. By 1920, he was an established member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

In 1921, a band of Gypsies settled in the woods skirting the town. They were a strange lot, but they caused no trouble, and with a revolution in progress, soldiers could hardly be spared to evict the caravan. Vincent began visiting the Gypsy camp on behalf of the Brotherhood, purchasing information and weapons. As he spent more and more time among them, he took notice of Tatiana, a young woman with beautiful eyes. He became infatuated with her; he found excuses to be near her, brought her gifts, and finally asked her to meet him one night at the edge of the forest. She agreed, but when she met him there, it was only to tell him that she did not return his feelings, that she was planning to marry a Gypsy man in the fall. Enraged, he stabbed her with a hunting knife, and killed her.

Tatiana's brothers were nearby, and when they saw what happened, they wanted to kill Vincent in return. They were stopped, however, by one of their own, a wisewoman known only as Old Mother. As Vincent washed himself of blood in the river, the old woman approached him, and asked what he had done. Frightened and angry, he told the Gypsy that he had done nothing, and shooed her away.

The old woman cursed him in her own language, and then again in English, telling Vincent, "Live, fool, and may your life be long. May your sustenance be as dust, and your pleasures nowhere found. For innocent blood will you pay forever." Becoming angry once more, Vincent threatened the old Gypsy. Unconcerned, she disappeared into the forest. The next day, the Gypsies were gone, and he pushed the incident from his mind, thinking himself safe.
In the weeks that followed, he began to realize what the old woman had done. Food and drink were tasteless in his mouth, and physical pleasures ceased to be pleasurable. Furious, he went looking for the caravan, leaving his life in the village behind. In 1923, after searching for almost two years, he found the Gypsies in a forest near Ballymend. He was recognized by one of Tatiana's brothers, and a fight ensued. Outnumbered four to one, he was quickly beaten. The oldest brother then took Vincent's sword and used it to cut off his head. The brothers dumped his body in the river, and considered it a job well done.

It was an understandably shocked Vincent who found himself - or, rather, the ghost of himself - on the bank of the river the next morning. A thorough evaluation of the situation assured him that he was, in fact, quite dead. Meanwhile, the brothers found themselves being questioned by Old Mother. On learning what they had done, the old woman demanded to be taken to the river, where she came face-to-face with Vincent's irate ghost. Seemingly satisfied, she took no notice of his cursing, and left once more.

Alone and unable to venture beyond the banks of the river, he spent the next two decades searching for a solution to his "problem", until the answer fell, quite literally, into his lap - from a horse spooked by the presence of a ghost. The rider, an Irishman bound for a ship to America, suffered a broken neck as a result of the fall and was killed instantly. Presented with a fresh, non-decapitated body, Vincent's soul was sucked into the waiting corpse and trapped. Days passed as the curse caused the body to heal itself, until he woke up on morning and found himself once again alive.

Sick of his surroundings and hoping to escape his curse, Vincent took advantage of his newfound ticket to America, where he would reside for the next sixty years, moving from town to town in hopes of finding his solution while simultaneously avoiding someone noticing that he wasn't aging a bit. When he finally got tired of the country, he bought a plane ticket back to Ireland.


Personality: Vincent was born with a stubborn streak a mile wide. Mind, this is only one of the reasons he's frequently called an ass. The simple fact is that once he sets his mind on something, it takes an act of god to dissuade him from it. It doesn't help that after being alive for more than a hundred years, he has learned to be very, very patient. Years and circumstance have cured him of the insufferable pride he possessed in his early life, and he has a tendency to be self-deprecating. He feels loyalty to no one but himself, and seldom forms any lasting friendships or close bonds with anyone. While he's not necessarily a misogynist, he has little regard for women in general. He still has a hot temper, but he isn't a sociopath - he continues to feel remorse for the murder, and has calmed down immeasurably in the years that have passed. Unfortunately, this often results in him being moody; he spends a lot of time brooding.

Despite his rough ways, Vincent does have his redeeming moments. He's not likely to be a hero, of course - and he'll be the first to say so - but he has a deeply rooted sense of right and wrong, contradictory as that may seem. Surprisingly, though, he doesn't see the world in black and white. Nor does he see people strictly as good or bad. According to the man himself, "If I were to paint the world, I'd paint it in shades of gray. Tha's how I see things. Not just this or that, but ever'thin' in between." Aside from being somewhat gender biased, he has no real prejudices. He accepts people for who and what they are, and does not judge by appearances.

He is also relatively intelligent, although he'd rather no one know it. The reason for this is that he would rather just be lazy. He is well-educated in various ways, but he would rather shoot himself in the foot - literally - than admit to this and be obligated to act upon it. He vastly prefers to sit back and let others do the work. For as many times as he's been hurt or 'killed', one would think that he would be accustomed to pain, but he's actually a big bawl-baby. He abhors physical pain and goes to great lengths to keep himself out of situations that could have such a result.


Triggers: He dislikes discussing his past, the terms of his curse, or anything at all related to either topic. He prefers not to be around other people when they eat, and he especially hates when other men - or women - attempt to goad him into discussing sex. Any attempt to take his possessions (dice, picture, camera/wire) would certainly be met with violence. Although he cares little for people, he is very attached to the few things he carries with him. He also dislikes mirrors; he hates being reminded that the body he inhabits is not technically his own. Although he's not a very vain person, he does miss his former carcass.


3rd Person Sample Entry: He still wasn’t sure what had possessed him to begin wandering aimlessly, and the nagging feeling of unease he’d been pushing away at was becoming more insistent by the second. For what must have been the millionth time that day, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and rubbed a hand across his skin impatiently. It wasn’t that he was cold – the air was cool, but that wasn’t what bothered him. It felt more like… a presence. He’d encountered ghosts before (after all, wasn’t he one?), but again, this was not what he was feeling. He knew the tell-tale signs of spiritual inhabitation: the sudden temperature drop, as if the world would never be warm again; the sensation of electricity in the air; the distinct knowledge that you’re not alone. This was not as intense. This was a vague, niggling awareness, like something seen out of the corner of one’s eye and then lost. He scowled, pressing onward. It was, he had discovered, useless to turn back – he would not end up in the same place he had been. Things changed in the blink of an eye, and it was useless trying to fight against what was happening. And so he kept walking, bitterly resigned to whatever waited.

After what seemed like hours, he began to make out the first hazy impression of a door in the crepuscular hallway. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the unmistakable shape of a heavy metal doorknob – probably iron, he mused vaguely. It opened easily at his touch, swinging open on creaking hinges. The feeling was stronger now, and while it was entirely conceivable that he had finally entirely barmy – mad as a March hare, he thought to himself with an odd sort of chortle – he would almost swear he heard voices.  Then – no, he decided – just one voice. (A shame, too, for if one had come unhinged, it would have been so much nicer to have more company.)  That settled, he paused to listen, leaning back on his heels and canting his head to one side.

Vincent. Vincent. Vincent. Vinnnncennnnt.

Perfect, he decided. Just bloody perfect. He was hearing a voice, and it knew his name. Must be in good company, then. He shook his head to himself, feeling a mild sort of disengagement. The rational thing to do, of course, would have been to run – but he had already discovered that to be useless, and after eighty-odd years of being a supernatural thing of sorts himself, he was quite used to the irrational, truth be told. The whole situation left a rather unpleasant taste in his mouth, and he was just about to start looking for another way out when he saw the mirrors. Not just two or three mirrors – not even twenty or thirty mirrors. There were quite literally hundreds of them, filling every available inch of wall space. Perturbed, he took an automatic step backward and bumped into what should have been a door – except that it wasn’t. Turning, he came face to face with his own reflection. The door was gone, hidden or missing, he did not know. He shuddered. It was incredibly disconcerting to see oneself no matter which direction one turned. He had heard of places like these, in so-called ‘amusement’ parks – pay a fee, walk into a building made up of mirrors, get to see yourself from every angle, contorted in a hundred ways. Not his cup of tea, no-thank-you-sir.

He shifted uncomfortably, unable to look away. There it was, all around him – the visage he’d managed to avoid looking at for so many years. At least partially, anyway – he’d gotten quite good at shaving while only looking at the lower half of his face. Just now, though, he hadn’t shaved in several days. He rubbed a hand over his stubble-covered jaw ruefully, the voice momentarily forgotten. Then he leaned forward, narrowing his eyes slightly to see better, and studied his reflection. Blue-green eyes, framed in thick eyelashes; better suited to a woman, he’d always thought. His nose, despite cursed ghostly healing powers, remained crooked, a product of multiple breakages. He’d noticed his sense of smell deteriorating with the last few breaks. Square jaw, relatively even teeth, high cheekbones, wide forehead, and a mess of unruly, ridiculously red hair that never laid flat for any amount of time. He knew he wouldn’t win any beauty prizes, but it was strange, how closely he resembled his former self. He leaned back. Same stature and build – tall, lean, with somewhat wide shoulders and narrow hips. Slightly bowlegged. And the clothes he’d arrived in: his favorite flannel shirt; faded, rumpled jeans; heavy boots; and very old, very beat-up leather jacket. He scowled again, just for effect.

Vincent.

He jumped back, cursing. A draft caught the tail of his shirt and the edges of his sleeves; he shivered, backing away, toward the middle of the room. There was someone – or something here that wasn’t him, and wasn’t a ghost. He didn’t like that notion very much. He looked around frantically, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of it – whatever it was. The only thing he saw was his reflection; a hundred of himself staring back at him. He was dimly aware of shouting something incomprehensible, and of a strong desire to break all the mirrors, destroy them all, and then there was a door, and he grabbed the handle as though in a trance, stumbling out into the sickeningly familiar hallway with a gasp. Backing away hurriedly, he pushed it shut with a satisfying slam, and was rewarded with a tinkling of glass. Spinning on his heel, he ran – blindly, uncaringly, he just ran.