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Evan Prescott
Vampire - Priest - Guardian
Link to MOOD BOARD
“I guess some of us are just born with tragedy in our blood.”
— Richard Kelly
Vampire - Priest - Guardian
Link to MOOD BOARD
“I guess some of us are just born with tragedy in our blood.”
— Richard Kelly
[The Basics]
Nickname
The Saint - Other Vampires refer to him as this, it's usually meant to be derogatory
Birthday
He’s not sure of the exact day, he believes it was in 1720 or there abouts. He appears to be in his mid twenties, but is closer to 326.
Birthplace
Upstate New York, USA
Occupation
Evan has made many long-term investments and stolen from enough victims that money is no longer a concern. He does, however, have a “vocation”: to rid this world of the evil his kind created. To accomplish this, he has honed both body and mind for the hunt. Not to feed, but to atone for the atrocities he committed as a fledgling.
"The world changes, we do not, there lies the irony that finally kills us"
— the vampire Armand
— the vampire Armand
[Appearance]
Height
6’2”
Build
Evan possesses a lean, slender build, a ghost of the hard human life he once led. Though he looks deceptively frail, his strength now stems from the dark gift, making him far more powerful than his frame suggests. His features are sharp, angular, and distinctly cat-like. His skin is so strikingly pale, it often appears translucent under artificial lights.
Face
Like all of his kind, Evan's mouth houses two sharp fangs where human canines would sit, flanked by a smaller, secondary set. His eyes burn with a bright, inhuman shade of blue. However, when the blood hunger strikes, his pupils dilate until his eyes seem swallowed by blackness. In the darkness, they can even glow with the predatory luminescence of a hunting carnivore.
Hair
Dark and unruly, his black hair appears perpetually windswept. He has occasionally attempted to cut it into a more modern style for the sake of maintenance and blending in, but the dark gift forces it to grow back within moments, always returning to that wild, natural state.
Scars & Markings
Although his vampiric nature now grants him rapid healing that prevents new scars, his body remains a map of his human suffering. Lash marks scar his upper back, a permanent reminder of a whipping he endured as a child for stealing food. Most notably, the tell-tale puncture marks of his turning scar the crook of the left side of his neck.
Wardrobe
Evan’s wardrobe is an amalgamation of over three centuries of life. While survival demands he adapt his style to the current era to blend in, a part of him remains forever nostalgic. He clings to garments from his past, resulting in an eclectic mix. His choice of attire depends entirely on his mood, how he wishes to be perceived, and the nature of the night's hunt.
“Evil is always possible. And goodness is eternally difficult.”
— Anne Rice
— Anne Rice
[Traits]
Skills
Telepathy: Evan cannot read thoughts, but he can sense the emotional states of beings within at least a few hundred feet.
Keen Senses: The dark gift gives all vampires enhanced hearing and vision. They can see in the dark like a cat and hear as well as any hound.
Speed: Like all vampires, he can move faster than the human eye can see.
Strength: He easily has the strength of half a dozen men, though his slender frame would suggest otherwise.
Research: Evan has an excellent memory for folklore and is very well read.
Personality
Guarded: He is slow to trust and rarely gets close to humans or vampires.
Jaded but Hopeful: Years of seeing the ugliest parts of humanity have made him jaded to the world in many respects, but he stubbornly tries to still see the good.
Religious: Still a devout Catholic, Evan prays daily and reads the Bible for study.
Awkward: Though he is old, he has spent most of his “life” away from humanity and can be socially inept.
Self-loathing: He still sees himself as a broken thing, a monster.
Pansexual: Evan has very slowly come to embrace his sexuality. In his early years as a vampire, he found that he did not care where he got pleasure from, and when he tamed his wild nature, he was able to find peace with the part of himself that desired forms of many types.
"For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them blood to drink; for they are worthy"
— Revelation 16:6:
— Revelation 16:6:
The Child
Evan Prescott has never been certain of the year he was born. Nor the exact place. Back then, birth records were only kept for people with wealth or station, and the sisters at Saint Bartholomew’s Orphan House in upstate New York only guessed at his age when they took him in.
He remembers snow. Hunger. The sound of iron bells at dawn to call the children to morning prayer. And most of all, the ache of cold in his small form from sleeping on floorboards beneath thin blankets.
He possessed no family name when he arrived at the orphanage, battered and skeleton thin. “Prescott” was given to him by the parish priest, after an old benefactor whose portrait hung in the church hall. Evan used to stare at that painting while his stomach cramped with hunger. The benefactor's fat face was set in a stern look as he sat in lush clothing next to a bowl of fruit.
Evan wondered what kind of God allowed one man to live surrounded by riches, while children froze in alleys only streets away. But perhaps God had something different planned for Evan.
The orphanage was strict and the doctrine of the church was followed to the letter. The sisters of Saint Bartholomew’s believed suffering built character, and so they never spared the rod.
Evan learned his prayers alongside discipline and pain.
When he was nine, he stole a loaf of bread from the church kitchen. He had tried to eat the sisters’ porridge, but something in it made him ill and his stomach led his hand to steal. He was caught before he could take a bite.
The priest whipped him publicly before the other children as he was tied to a post in the courtyard. The others laughed. Evan never forgot the humiliation of it. He still carries the scars on his back, a reflection of the ones on his soul. Yet strangely, he did not lose faith. If anything, he clung to it harder. He convinced himself that God was challenging him. Breaking him apart to build him into something new.
The Priest
As he grew older, he became quiet, intelligent, and deeply devout. The church taught him to read and write and recognized his discipline. They offered him a path few orphans ever received, the priesthood. Evan accepted without hesitation. The clergy was already his only family and the church was his home. He studied scripture obsessively, finding comfort in ritual and purpose in helping the poor and in need.
By twenty-five, Father Evan Prescott was known as a compassionate young priest who wandered dangerous neighborhoods at night carrying food, blankets, and medicine to the forgotten and wayward. Some admired him. Others thought he was naive. Neither opinion mattered to Evan, and nothing brought him greater joy than his duty.
One storm-ridden winter evening in 1745, Evan answered a frantic knocking at the church doors long after midnight. A man stood outside soaked to the bone, pale and trembling violently. He begged for sanctuary, claiming he was pursued by demons and the dead. Evan, unable to refuse someone in mental and physical distress, brought him inside and out of the storm.
Evan closed the heavy wood and iron doors. The stranger wept as Evan prayed over him. And then suddenly, the stranger attacked.
The turning
The creature was not human, but a vampire. An ancient, starving, and hopelessly mad monster. He spoke in fevered fragments while feeding from Evan’s throat, muttering that the blood of a holy man might cleanse centuries of evil from his soul. He called Evan “pure”. He laughed, he cried, and he drank until Evan’s heart slowed toward death.
The man would not simply let Evan die. No, he babbled that Evan's soul needed to live on so that he may escape to heaven. Evan, on the brink of death, did not care or understand. And then he felt hot blood on his lips. Sweet and warm and rich. It was ambrosia. It made him feel light, the pain and chill gone from his body. He reached out and grabbed the offered limb, not hearing the coos of encouragement coming from the monster that fed him his immortality.
And then it was done. The blood was gone, and the pain that followed threatened to rip him into pieces.
As Evan collapsed dying upon the cathedral floor, the creature staggered toward the church basement in hysterics. Nuns later claimed they heard screaming from beneath the sanctuary that woke them in the night.
The vampire had hurled himself into the furnace, ending his immortal life.
Between the pews, in front of the altar, another monster was born while the other burned.
Evan awoke, gasping for air into lungs that no longer needed to breathe. Eyes wide and seeing in a way no mortal could. And the pains of hunger, they had already begun.
The monster
No mentor came for him. No ancient guide explained the laws of his kind or how to survive. For years, he wandered alone through growing cities like a specter. Hunger ruled him. He fed with abandon. He delighted in carnal pleasures. He lost himself to the night. Every few years, guilt would consume him and he would think of ending it.
He tried to starve himself in abandoned chapels. He tried to greet the sunrise until feral instinct made him flee back to the dark. He tried to pray the devil out of his blood. Nothing worked. He felt like a coward and a fool.
By the 1860s, Evan had given up. He drifted through brothels, gambling halls, battlefields, and opium dens, surrendering himself to decades of bloodlust and debauchery simply because resisting hurt too much.
He wandered into New Orleans half-feral after feeding his way down the Mississippi River, drawn by the city’s music, decay, and endless nightlife. New Orleans suited predators. Sin walked openly there in silk gloves and bowler hats.
That was where he met her.
The companion
She found him feeding in an alley behind a gambling house, covered in blood from mouth to navel and on the verge of frenzy. She watched him with cold amusement before asking:
“Mon ami, do you intend to remain an animal forever?”
Julie was older than him by centuries, elegant and impossibly perceptive. She taught Evan what he could not harness in himself, restraint. She showed him how to hear emotions through walls, how to endure hunger without surrendering to bloodlust, and how to spare his victims from death.
Together they built an unusual life in New Orleans. While other vampires hunted indiscriminately, Evan and Julie began feeding only from those they believed deserved judgment. Murderers, abusers, predators hiding behind wealth and status, or slipping through the clutches of human law. They turned the same judgment onto their own kind, ending those that refused to live in peace with humans.
Occasionally they fed from willing mortals enthralled by the danger and intimacy of vampires. Their kind was readily available in the dark recesses of a town like New Orleans.
Over time, whispers spread among the undead. Stories of vampires who hunted their own kind when they preyed upon children or slaughtered recklessly. A devil who still wore silver crosses and prayed in cathedrals. A monster who quoted scripture while tearing apart sadists and killers.
They began calling him The Saint. Most used the title mockingly and with disdain. Others spoke it with fear.
Julie remained with him for decades, but vampires are rarely allowed permanence. In 1786, Evan returned to their townhouse near the French Quarter to find Julie gone.
On his coffin, a letter and a ring left atop a Bible.
The letter was painfully brief:
You no longer need me, mon saint. Europe calls me home. But you, my beautiful friend, you are home.
She never returned. Evan still wears the ring on a chain beneath his shirt.
The saint
Now, after more than three centuries of undeath, Evan Prescott remains. A guardian. A relic. He moves through the now electricity-lit streets and the familiar candlelit cathedrals, hunting monsters that humans rarely notice until the fangs sink in.
Evan Prescott has never been certain of the year he was born. Nor the exact place. Back then, birth records were only kept for people with wealth or station, and the sisters at Saint Bartholomew’s Orphan House in upstate New York only guessed at his age when they took him in.
He remembers snow. Hunger. The sound of iron bells at dawn to call the children to morning prayer. And most of all, the ache of cold in his small form from sleeping on floorboards beneath thin blankets.
He possessed no family name when he arrived at the orphanage, battered and skeleton thin. “Prescott” was given to him by the parish priest, after an old benefactor whose portrait hung in the church hall. Evan used to stare at that painting while his stomach cramped with hunger. The benefactor's fat face was set in a stern look as he sat in lush clothing next to a bowl of fruit.
Evan wondered what kind of God allowed one man to live surrounded by riches, while children froze in alleys only streets away. But perhaps God had something different planned for Evan.
The orphanage was strict and the doctrine of the church was followed to the letter. The sisters of Saint Bartholomew’s believed suffering built character, and so they never spared the rod.
Evan learned his prayers alongside discipline and pain.
When he was nine, he stole a loaf of bread from the church kitchen. He had tried to eat the sisters’ porridge, but something in it made him ill and his stomach led his hand to steal. He was caught before he could take a bite.
The priest whipped him publicly before the other children as he was tied to a post in the courtyard. The others laughed. Evan never forgot the humiliation of it. He still carries the scars on his back, a reflection of the ones on his soul. Yet strangely, he did not lose faith. If anything, he clung to it harder. He convinced himself that God was challenging him. Breaking him apart to build him into something new.
The Priest
As he grew older, he became quiet, intelligent, and deeply devout. The church taught him to read and write and recognized his discipline. They offered him a path few orphans ever received, the priesthood. Evan accepted without hesitation. The clergy was already his only family and the church was his home. He studied scripture obsessively, finding comfort in ritual and purpose in helping the poor and in need.
By twenty-five, Father Evan Prescott was known as a compassionate young priest who wandered dangerous neighborhoods at night carrying food, blankets, and medicine to the forgotten and wayward. Some admired him. Others thought he was naive. Neither opinion mattered to Evan, and nothing brought him greater joy than his duty.
One storm-ridden winter evening in 1745, Evan answered a frantic knocking at the church doors long after midnight. A man stood outside soaked to the bone, pale and trembling violently. He begged for sanctuary, claiming he was pursued by demons and the dead. Evan, unable to refuse someone in mental and physical distress, brought him inside and out of the storm.
Evan closed the heavy wood and iron doors. The stranger wept as Evan prayed over him. And then suddenly, the stranger attacked.
The turning
The creature was not human, but a vampire. An ancient, starving, and hopelessly mad monster. He spoke in fevered fragments while feeding from Evan’s throat, muttering that the blood of a holy man might cleanse centuries of evil from his soul. He called Evan “pure”. He laughed, he cried, and he drank until Evan’s heart slowed toward death.
The man would not simply let Evan die. No, he babbled that Evan's soul needed to live on so that he may escape to heaven. Evan, on the brink of death, did not care or understand. And then he felt hot blood on his lips. Sweet and warm and rich. It was ambrosia. It made him feel light, the pain and chill gone from his body. He reached out and grabbed the offered limb, not hearing the coos of encouragement coming from the monster that fed him his immortality.
And then it was done. The blood was gone, and the pain that followed threatened to rip him into pieces.
As Evan collapsed dying upon the cathedral floor, the creature staggered toward the church basement in hysterics. Nuns later claimed they heard screaming from beneath the sanctuary that woke them in the night.
The vampire had hurled himself into the furnace, ending his immortal life.
Between the pews, in front of the altar, another monster was born while the other burned.
Evan awoke, gasping for air into lungs that no longer needed to breathe. Eyes wide and seeing in a way no mortal could. And the pains of hunger, they had already begun.
The monster
No mentor came for him. No ancient guide explained the laws of his kind or how to survive. For years, he wandered alone through growing cities like a specter. Hunger ruled him. He fed with abandon. He delighted in carnal pleasures. He lost himself to the night. Every few years, guilt would consume him and he would think of ending it.
He tried to starve himself in abandoned chapels. He tried to greet the sunrise until feral instinct made him flee back to the dark. He tried to pray the devil out of his blood. Nothing worked. He felt like a coward and a fool.
By the 1860s, Evan had given up. He drifted through brothels, gambling halls, battlefields, and opium dens, surrendering himself to decades of bloodlust and debauchery simply because resisting hurt too much.
He wandered into New Orleans half-feral after feeding his way down the Mississippi River, drawn by the city’s music, decay, and endless nightlife. New Orleans suited predators. Sin walked openly there in silk gloves and bowler hats.
That was where he met her.
The companion
She found him feeding in an alley behind a gambling house, covered in blood from mouth to navel and on the verge of frenzy. She watched him with cold amusement before asking:
“Mon ami, do you intend to remain an animal forever?”
Julie was older than him by centuries, elegant and impossibly perceptive. She taught Evan what he could not harness in himself, restraint. She showed him how to hear emotions through walls, how to endure hunger without surrendering to bloodlust, and how to spare his victims from death.
Together they built an unusual life in New Orleans. While other vampires hunted indiscriminately, Evan and Julie began feeding only from those they believed deserved judgment. Murderers, abusers, predators hiding behind wealth and status, or slipping through the clutches of human law. They turned the same judgment onto their own kind, ending those that refused to live in peace with humans.
Occasionally they fed from willing mortals enthralled by the danger and intimacy of vampires. Their kind was readily available in the dark recesses of a town like New Orleans.
Over time, whispers spread among the undead. Stories of vampires who hunted their own kind when they preyed upon children or slaughtered recklessly. A devil who still wore silver crosses and prayed in cathedrals. A monster who quoted scripture while tearing apart sadists and killers.
They began calling him The Saint. Most used the title mockingly and with disdain. Others spoke it with fear.
Julie remained with him for decades, but vampires are rarely allowed permanence. In 1786, Evan returned to their townhouse near the French Quarter to find Julie gone.
On his coffin, a letter and a ring left atop a Bible.
The letter was painfully brief:
You no longer need me, mon saint. Europe calls me home. But you, my beautiful friend, you are home.
She never returned. Evan still wears the ring on a chain beneath his shirt.
The saint
Now, after more than three centuries of undeath, Evan Prescott remains. A guardian. A relic. He moves through the now electricity-lit streets and the familiar candlelit cathedrals, hunting monsters that humans rarely notice until the fangs sink in.
“The undead did not love, but they remembered love with a savage loyalty.”
— Kim Harrison
— Kim Harrison
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