Colt
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Colt looks like a man just on this side of 'hard times'. Clothing a bit too worn to be socially acceptable in any company more refined than what you might find in the poorest neighborhoods, and all the telltale signs of a man that enjoys his illicit substances maybe just a bit too much, for a bit too long. It hasn't quite managed to dampen otherwise good looks, even if it's starting to threaten to, the dark circles under his eyes almost light enough to be imagined. The eyes demand attention first. Piercing, blue, expressive, with a quality that seems to invite a person in while hinting that there are hidden depths and dangers to be found if one accepts the invitation. His dark brows only emphasize the effect. Tousled dark curls, unruly by nature but stylish by nurture, offer him the look of a man of action. A dusting of lighter stubble highlights his chiseled jawline. Even when his expression is relaxed or quirked with the beginings of a smile there is a definite stubborn cast to his mouth, one that suggests you can knock this man down, but you're going to regret having done so when — not if — he gets back up again.
Good intentions pave the road to Hell, after all. Colt's personal hell, though, was one that seemed damned appealing at the time. His particular lifestyle got him the notice of one of the local vampires -- a Daeva, interested in what Colt could do for him, and what he could offer Colt in turn. As one might expect, the downward spiral just starts moving faster and faster, and soon Colt is unable to distinguish drug-addled delusion from supernatural reality. Of course, this makes him slightly less useful than he was before, and his employer's attentions — and the benefits that come with it — start to dwindle. That deep in the throes of addiction, both supernatural and natural, isn't the kind of thing that you just 'stop'. But that's exactly the situation Colt found himself in. Naked, sweating, shaking, delusional. Seeing shadows move in the walls. Hearing whispers, feeling things crawl over his skin. The Change was almost a blessing when it came. To this day, Colt doesn't remember most of what happened. He only remembers waking up, covered in blood. And for the first time in years, free of the chains that bound him -- the drugs, and the other. A local pack picked him up. Naturally, they already knew who he was -- just a punk kid in a low-rent crime racket, a plaything for a vampire. It got him his derogatory nickname -- Fangbanger, said in snickers as they remembered Colt's budding career in organized crime -- and his nocturnal pastimes. But Colt wore it like a badge of honor, determined to make something of himself. The Iron Masters were an easy choice. Colt quickly started to remember what it was like, being preyed upon by things that looked human but weren't. Except now, he was no long the Prey. He was the hunter. Within a few months, he had already infiltrated his former employer's holdings, turning a few of his key lieutenants to Colt's cause. Of course, Colt never quite got enough momentum to go after the Daeva directly. And over time, it quickly became apparent that neither of them were going to gain any ground. Their little Cold War earned them the ire of more than one denizen of the supernatural as their methods became more careless, and losses started to pile up on both sides. It's coming up on ten years now since that Change. He left New York, seeking Chicago instead. A fresh start is needed. And now he's working on getting settled. Working on redefining himself. He's even found himself a young protege to try and teach, a wolf less than a year out from his First Change. Colt calls him Moon Moon. It's a term of endearment. Really. But some old habits die hard. He still enjoys his drugs, even if he never has to worry about the addiction. And he's already falling into the same old self-destructive habits, seeking that next little bit of ecstatic escape. And of course, history doesn't just stay in New York...
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