Name: Vladimir Drake
Race: Demon
Age: Around 8.1 million years old - but who’s counting?
Birthplace: Unknown
Alignment: --
Class:--
Sub-Class: --
Occupation: --
Elements: Fire, Ice, and Shadows
Weapon: The Sword of the Dead he hardly uses - really just his own fighting
Armor: --

Personal
Hair: Jet black, slightly longer on the sides and uneven; shorter in the back
Eyes: Red pupils with black irises - no whites
Skin: Paler than snow
Body: muscular build
Height: Tall, about 6’9”, or taller when in his true demon form (about 9’9” or 10’ even)
Weight: --

Abilities - can control fire, shadows, and ice. Knows all fighting styles but rarely ever fights

Immunities - poison, fire, and darkness

Resistances

Equipment


Backstory - Flashes of the past burned into the mind of poor Vladimir Drake as he struggled to break free. He couldn’t make out the voices of the people hiding behind white masks, and he couldn’t really see them clearly. What he made out was that they had no eyes, simply black, bottomless pits where eyes should be. Vladimir struggled again from them, the chains that held him down dug into his skin, causing black blood to drip out of deep wounds that showed down to the bone. He was finally able to make out a single deep voice that stood out from all the others.
“String him up and burn him. Vladimir Drake will be one of us!”
And that was all he could take. With a certain blood curdling snarl he yanked his arms hard on the chains. His black nails grew into talons that were about an inch long, and his eyes grew a slit pupil that glowed bright, ominous red. His hair grew longer, his teeth that of fangs. With a harsh growl, Vladimir Drake grew to a ten foot tall monster, that was the most hideous thing ever to be seen walking the earth. He had big, demonic black wings that caused everyone in the dark chambers of the deepest part of hell, to step back uncomfortably. Vladimir Drake would take no more.

He woke up with a gasp, covered in a thin layer of sweat. Every night, it was the same dream. Vladimir shook his hair over his face, and closed his eyes, hanging his head. His breath was heavy as he began to calm himself down. He shook his head and laid back on the black and silver silk sheets on his bed, kept his eyes closed, and fell back into another memory...

She was beautiful, and perfect. She had wavy hair that came down to her lower back. It was the most beautiful shade of red and not a strand too thick. Her skin was as pale as the snow and as flawless as a wonderful portrait. Vladimir Drake had not seen such perfection in the time he had lived. She always wore the most beautiful gowns; that day it was white, and it sparked like flawless diamonds. Her lips were a pale rose and always seemed etched into a small, caring smile. But what had caught Vladimir most, was her eyes.
They were big, beautiful hazel eyes with a slight tint of ruby red around the rim. They were framed by thick, condensed onyx lashes that made her eyes seem the size of the moon. She’d always worn a golden anklet with a small silver heart on it, which had a beautiful ruby that sat in the middle. She was petite, and seemed so delicate... she reminded him of a wilting rose. When they first met, Vladimir Drake was transfixed. He had fallen for her in an instant, with a voice like sweet honey and a touch so gentle it made him melt. He truly loved her, and despite the fact that he was a demon, Roselina loved him back.
But that was all to change, because... who could love a demon?

“Don’t listen to them, love, for they know not a thing about me... I love you, remember? I will always love you,” by this point, Vladimir Drake was desperate to keep Roselina with him. She wouldn’t honestly believe them, would she? She couldn’t... they didn’t even know him!
“Come, darling. He’s a demon. A freak. He could eat you alive and not care about a thing. You don’t wish to be with that, do you?” But you do! Vladimir was now simply begging, but spoke nothing. And with that, she agreed to run off with the three men; the angel, the gypsy, and the other, who seemed to be the leader. With a smirk from The Leader, he turned and vanished with her. His girl. The one who promised to never leave. And for the first time, and the only time it would ever happen, Vladimir Drake wept.
Weeks past by. Sometimes he felt simply sad and would never leave the dungeon he called a room. Some days, he left seeking to kill and hurt, full of pure anger and rage from such horrific acts that swallowed him. Until the day he thought would bring him relief of all the anger and sorrow in his life.

They returned six weeks later. But everything seemed just different. Roselina would not go near her lover any longer. “What did you do to her?” Vladimir finally confronted the one he knew the best, the angel. He only laughed.
“We only told her the truth, Drake. We showed her pictures of you. Of demons. Of freaks in their true form. We corrupted her mind. We made it twisted. We made her hate you.” the angel laughed at the disbelief on the demon’s face, and never spoke to him again. Things from there only got worse.
The night the demon was created, equivalent to a birthday, the towns people hunted him down and strung him up. Roselina had been accused of being a witch, and on that faithful night, the demon got to watch her. He watched everything as they tortured her; gouging out her eyes, drowning her to almost death, tearing off her fingernails... and finally, he watched as they burnt her alive. She cried out for him. She wanted him. She needed him now, and he couldn’t help. He could only stare as they tortured her. The last memory Roselina ever had as she burnt alive, was the malice dripping, evil, hideous creature Drake had hidden from her. Her last memory...

He woke up again, but managed to stay calm this time. He tugged at his thin, silky hair in frustration, and sighed. The nightmares wouldn’t end... he shook his head and stood, pacing the perimeter of the black room, and brushing his fingertips over the wall. Then he sat back down and sighed.

He remembered the day he tortured, and maybe it had been actually weeks or months, but he couldn’t remember. His memory was distorted. But he vividly remembered every little pain he felt. He was chained to the ground by some evil guy, the leader, in fact, of those three men. The man had weakened him to a point where he could not move, and chucked rocks at him. He kicked him and struck him with a scepter that couldn’t break - so it was rather hideous, when a piece chipped off from striking the head of the demon so hard. Lastly, he was placed with a crown of thorns pressed onto his head, and struck with a whip that was covered in spikes, tearing flesh from bone.

The memory made him want to cry out, but poor Vladimir Drake knew it would do no good. Instead he laid back and closed his eyes, keeping himself awake until it was daybreak. He was afraid to sleep.... so poor Vladimir Drake never did again.