<div align="center">(http://img9.imageshack.us/img9/120/invest2.jpg)</div><br/><div align="center"><strong>Name</strong>:   John Francis Byron<br/><strong>Age</strong>:   32(?)<br/><strong>Occupation</strong>: Investigator<br/><strong>Race</strong>:   Human(?)</div><br/><strong>Physical Description</strong><br/>John Byron is a dark figure almost lost in the shade of any room.. Shadows come to him from their corners, from the dark places where they hide from light. They slide across stucco walks and edge along brick facades to be near him. Even forms that do not belong come to his presence like moths. Tentacles unwind in the darkness around him and faces appear briefly like startled animals in the woods, before melting back into the night that pools in his presence. All very subtle, all very quiet.<br/><br/>He is visible enough, his curly blond hair, his strong cheeks and jaw, his cupid bow lips. But his eyes are pools of ink, shadows flow into his cheeks and soak down from his chin. Light looks harsh on him. His high necked white shirt with its ivory cravat shine beneath his stark face, like a knife slash of light. The black coat with its any pockets and the shiny leather gloves fade away into the night. His legs are indicated only by the hard echoing footsteps of his patent leather shoes.<br/><br/>In the bright sun he seems to be still darkened and harshly lit. Shadows flickering into the recessed areas of his eyes and beneath his chin. Like beloved pets they follow him everywhere.<br/><br/><strong>Sexual Proclivity</strong><br/>John is a monster of dark hungers. His proclivities with the dark give him a thirst for the light of others which he takes from their ecstatic cries or the agonized moans. While he may be a monster he is not a killer. He does not permanently wound his prey nor does he mark them. He can use his shadows to bind people or touch their nerves riding their feeling right into their blinding release when he doesn't deny them that release to see them writhe.<br/><br/>He enjoys flooding a being with beautiful feelings and chemical signals of lust  to watch them squirm. Sometimes pain has to be administered and sometimes humiliation is required to get his prey into the right state of mind. If they give up their light then he will certainly take it but part of the charge is wringing it from them.<br/><br/>With the willing he will sometimes cause them to bear some discomfort for a moment or two, or have them speak their passions to him in order to better taste their need. Perhaps he will embarrass them dearly. It is the spice to his meals.<br/><br/>He can feed off anyone but he especially likes women. He has been known to engage the cross-gendered gladly and species divides are no barriers to his hungers.<br/><br/>It should be noted that John is in no way vampiric. He does not drain his prey but merely feeds off the nerve signals flooding the body during extreme episodes. Their light. His feeding does not affect the victims beyond feeling a bit exhausted from the activities. Even when using his abilities to create pain, the victim is not actually wounded. It is all in their mind. People with a strong control over their own nervous systems will be more resistant to the neural effects of Johns shadows but the binding effect is physical.<br/><br/><em>(check the Codex Lucifaelia (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=31557.0) for specific info on like and dislikes)</em><br/><br/><strong>History</strong><br/>In the day when John Francis Byron worked hand in hand with the law he was young and bright. His bright golden curls broke a heart or two and his snappy wardrobe gave a few the wrong idea all together. But above all he was smart, swift and dedicated. He could never accept defeat even though th vagaries of real life battled him into one stalemate after another. Still he had a good reputation as a fair and dependable investigator, not too showy, not to violent. Just good enough to get the job done and so so good that people wanted him dead.<br/><br/>And that very reputation landed him a meeting with a Police chief, a mafia boss and an arcanophsical master. They explained that someone had been committing atrocities and leaving them as calling cards. But these were not murders, not killing for profit or fun or any of the usual ends to be found in the hard world.<br/><br/>The deaths were experiments, insidious, horrible and grisly. They showed him what they had found and even the crust of years deep in criminal minds could not spare John the iced blood of terror One woman was literally turned inside out, only she didn't know it. She wandered around her little glass cube smearing it as she tried to wipe her own biological grime off the encrusted walls. John thanked gods he could not name that she was just a shambling shadow behind the red walls.<br/><br/>There was a man who cursed constantly, he spat obscenities while his eyes rolled up into his head, bucking on the table when they had him secured. The mafia boss said that her had been here for almost a year and had never said the same word twice.<br/><br/>He watched as a young man literally broke open, his body splitting as if along a seam and his bones splaying out like a shattered ship as a new young man climbed out of the wreckage both of them screaming. He was up to his knees in burst cocoon corpses. The Arcanomaster mentioned that he did that every ten minutes.<br/><br/>There were more but they all blurred together in a streaming flicker film of unnameable terror.<br/><br/>John left there assured by the leaders than they would support him in finding whoever did this and shutting them down. And John left them fully intent on doing just that. And he walked right into a trap. The last thing her remembered was walking into his low rent flat and then the lights went out.<br/><br/>He awoke to a pain in his extremities only to find himself bolted into a metal contraption resembling to workings of a clock. He hung among its gears in a round armature that swung slowly around, idly placing him head down at times and then just as slowly righting him. As he struggled to free himself a disembodied voice with a slight gurgle told him that he would be exposed to a dimensional anomaly and if he survived he would be free to go. But if he died then he would serve the game forever.<br/><br/>Then the metal rings started to spin. Twisting and spinning he began to lose his connection with the world beyond his whirling bubble of brass and steel and slowly he became aware of something else. A dark sun blazing from some other space, raging in dark volcanic fury. Its rays touched John and he burned. With a fire unlike anything he had ever know he burned, the dark flames reached into his vein into his bones and crawled over his soul like frenzied shadow ants.<br/><br/>The police found him hanging there and pried him loose but the warehouse was quiet and dim. There was no burning black sun, not whirling portal. There was just him and a rickety cobbled together machine, and the shadows.<br/><br/>John knew that he was different. He would never be the same. As the shadows in that dark warehouse crowded around him like a harem of horror, John knew he was no longer quite human. What he didn't know was whether or not he had survived.