481 (28)

Clan Leader / Businessman
May 27, 1547
Lives in
Scottish Highlands
Significant other
No Information

Last Active: Jul 14 2018, 11:42 PM
Whoever made up the myth that vampires like to bathe in virgins' blood has clearly never tried to bleach a bathtub.

(tw: some violence, vampire-y things)


His life began when he died.


Before that, he was nothing. A peasant boy born into city-wide famine and suffering the same year that the Fire of 1547 scorched through the guts of Moscow, he was blessed with a mother who could hardly feed herself, much less him. She certainly couldn’t tell him the name of his father - a faceless, amorphous shadow of a man, he was sometimes a high-ranking official in the court of Ivan the Terrible, or sometimes just a randy drunk of a soldier, depending on the mood that his mother was in when she recounted the tale of their meeting.

Kazimir grew up mostly unsupervised, living hand-to-mouth the way that so many of them were. As soon as he was old enough to know what to do with his hands in a trade they were put to use, and sometimes of an evening they were nimble enough to relieve a few tavern-goers of their coin as well. He was wretched, dirty, low, the basest of filth, and people who were born that way at the time certainly stayed that way.

He was magical, too, but the odd little things that would happen whenever he lost his temper, laughed too loudly, felt too strongly were to be feared at those times, and he kept them to himself for fear of a beating or worse. It worked - nobody noticed for years. Nobody noticed until Aleksandr.

Aleksandr was noble, Kazimir assumed, because of the fine cut of his clothes and the easiness that he displayed with his coin - out of place, for the less savoury parts of Moscow, but not unheard of. A lot of rich folk enjoyed the underbelly of the city, because it allowed for discretion. Plenty of alleys, dark corners, averted eyes. No one to notice if a young woodcutter simply vanished one night.


What they assumed happened: he got into a drunken brawl and was lying brains-bashed in a ditch somewhere, never to be seen again.

What actually happened: a pair of sharp fangs in the soft juncture of neck and shoulder draining him dry, a strong hand forcing his jaw open on the brink of death, the metallic taste of blood, darkness.

And then, the beginning.


He was not angry when he awoke - he was grateful. Kazimir had always been quick, resourceful, and all he saw in his murder and resurrection was opportunity, an endless span of years, and the awakening of a latent greed in the pit of his belly. He took his sire’s name for his own - Kazimir Aleksandrov, no longer a miserable and nameless bastard, but a man with a father - and he cleaved his way through Moscow, lustful for blood and power both. Occasionally a fit of human conscience would seize him and he would reap the streets like an avenging angel, seeking out those that he knew to be corrupt themselves, but over time even this tenuous grasp on morality slipped, replaced by his own code of bored, immortal whimsy.

Whenever people started to notice the destruction or the way his face never seemed to age, he moved. Within a matter of decades he had spread himself thin across Russia, and so then it was the rest of Eastern Europe, gradual and sure like a plague of self-serving violence. He acquired lovers of any kind and hobbies, discarded both, revelled in impermanence - except when it came to magic, and Aleksandr. The former, he took to with joy, commissioning a wand and learning the secrets of a world that he hadn’t permitted himself before his rebirth. The latter, he worshipped - Aleksandr was his creator, his best friend, family.


Aleksandr lay staked through the heart in a market square in Wallachia.

Neither of them had seen it coming. For the first time in almost two centuries, Kazimir felt grief, raw and visceral and human, and he lay waste to those responsible in the most unspeakable and awful of ways as he desperately wondered, what next, where? The decision had not been his alone to make for the longest time.

But it was time to move on.


He set his sights on Scotland in the middle of the Jacobite Rebellion - where there was war, there was blood, and where there was blood, there he would be. He walked the fields of Culloden Moor like a ghost, fed on bright tartan-kilted Highland warriors who tasted like their courage. And he decided to stay.

It was boring, at first - the prospect of eternal life was not one that he’d thought he would have to face alone. He made a home for himself first on Loch Assynt, shrouding it from Muggle eyes with the magic that he now had at his wandtip, and when that grew dull, he created company for himself, too, plucking a new soul from Lairg or the Orkneys every several decades and giving them the gift. What did he look for? It depended - sometimes simply beauty that seemed too lovely to go to waste with old age, or maybe courage, or stubbornness, or even a malicious streak that he could nurture into fruition. Longevity became an experiment, clinical, thrill-seeking and amusing, but in his strange way he made himself a new family. In his strange way, he crafted a Highland clan of his own there in the rocky, inhospitable north.

For a while it was enough to spend his days at the shrouded manor with his new patchwork family, exploring the wild heathers, taking time to simply enjoy what was and live in the moment the way that he distantly imagined a real human might. Watching the sun set over the Callanish standing stones gave him a feeling in his chest, beneath the barbed wire, that seemed wistful and almost-forgotten. But forever is a very, very long moment to live in.

And he had time to kill.


He came to the gradual realisation that he could not live on good will and good company alone, no - and Kazimir had always been crafty. It started first as a small blood farm to feed his little clan, pure and simple. The seductive appeal of a charming and mysterious young nobleman, the witless and trustworthy warmth of a simple peasant boy, whatever was needed - he or his kin would lure them to one of the many small islands off the rugged coast, take what they needed and more, but always release them afterwards, Obliviated and befuddled, to return to their lives as though those lost few days or weeks had been a dream. It wasn’t mercy, as such - it was practicality. Trails were sloppy, and sloppy vampires were caught. He was a survivor. He was not like Aleksandr.

It turned out he was rather good at what he did - good enough to monetise the operation over time as surplus grew, anyway, exporting blood to Knockturn Alley, to the mainland in utmost secrecy and on pain of…well, whatever extreme pain someone who has all of eternity to live can inflict. When the practice was officially outlawed, he simply built a distillery atop that tiny island of horrors and began making fine Scottish Firewhiskey to sell too - cover for the blood business and extra profit, a flawless combination. It was satisfying to him, challenging to him, something to hone a bored old mind on and keep him occupied.

Somewhere along the way he even stopped attempting to create new vampires - he took the lack of urge to do so as a sign that he had finally reached some sort of plateau of contentment again in his long, interminable life.


Times were changing.

Apolitical and both dangerously attuned to the workings of humanity and dangerously out of touch with what little he retained of his own humanity, he let himself loose on the wizarding world as the tide first started to turn slightly in attitudes towards vampires. He tried to plant himself at the forefront of the movement, progressive and pleasant. Gone was the wrathful creature who had cleaved his way through a small town in vengeance - in its place, cunning, carefully crafted composure, and a slightly too-toothy smile.

Creature rights and treaties came and went, Kazimir unmoved throughout it all except to become slightly more prominent, slightly less reclusive with each and every development, the smiling and well-behaved poster boy of what it meant to be a productive and cooperative example for his kind. Social events, wizarding society in general, anywhere that was visible - he was a showman at heart, and relished being able to live some parts of his life out in the open at last.

Proud, bold and charming, fond of material things and maybe slightly too hedonistic, he wears his status and his species like a badge of honour and even makes jokes about it, off-colour and slightly disturbing though they may be. Vampire clan leader and Firewhiskey businessman are both presented in a suave and neatly packaged front for the rest of the world to see, wonder about, like or fear - that part, he doesn't really care about so much.

As for all the rest? Well, it’s his little secret.
KAZIMIR ALEKSANDROV has a total of 10 badges

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