Real Name: Ian "Reb" Stoker
Age: 16
Identity: Secret
Birthplace: Tallahassee, Fl
Date of Birth: October 30th, 1993
Known Relatives: Peter Stoker (Father), Claudette MacKenna (Mother), Emily MacKenna-Stoker (Sister), Theo Stoker (Uncle)
Height: 5' 11" / 8' 3"
Weight: 185 lbs / 671 lbs
Eyes: Black/Red
Hair: Brown/Black
Grade: Senior
Dorm: Rider



Take a youth who’s not exactly had an easy time of life. Mix in a touch of personal tragedy, and a slew of commitment issues. That’s the base recipe for a young man Reb. Even before the Bite, Ian had a lot of anger floating just underneath the surface, like vinegar to oil.

In many ways, the Bite made dealing a lot easier. Instead of avoiding the nasty things he’d rather deny, Ian had to face them and decide what type of person he wanted to be. The anger’s still there. Very much so, sitting there looking like a shot to a thirsty drunk. But he’s all too cognizant of it now, knowing to drink it is to let out the Beast inside him. So he vents in any way he can.

On the surface, he is all calm. Y’know, the guy who always had the word for edgewise moments, often drier than most deserts. Even from a young age, he had trouble tolerating things he found stupid, and voicing that opinion despite the repercussions. The wit perhaps stemmed from that; the Straight-Man act that made folks wonder whether he was serious or just kidding. Just enough to disarm what could normally be a volatile situation, given his mouth. That’s not to say that the young man is all piss and vinegar. He may not hold his tongue, but he won’t go out his way to make someone feel unwelcome because a difference of opinion. Unless they really, really deserve it. But most people don’t, and usually that dry humor is just that, with little true maliciousness behind it.

He’s a lover of the arts - music and poetry, preferably good music and bad poetry. He found the former with his sister and never looked back. The later came well after she was gone, and very shortly before the Bite. It is the purest outlet he can have. He speaks the truth as he sees it, except when it comes to himself. He cannot express himself eloquently, he feels, unless it’s through verse or sonnet. He’s revels in the music when he can, even now. But the poetry is kept in a padlock chest, right next to his other Deep Dark Secrets (TM). Not from any danger to the world, mind. He just feels his love stuff is too darn cheesy, and his angry verses are too dang… emo. And odds are he’s right on both of them. Good music, bad poetry.

He lost his sister at a formative age, in the worst possible way. His parents were borderline abusive, and full time absent. His last serious fling thought he was “Too Human” (Perhaps implying “Too Boring”) and botched an attempt to make him goth-awesome, resulting in his current clawed state. To say he has commitment issues is probably an understatement. Anger might be Ian's gin, but the commitment issues would be his grape juice on the verge of turning wine. He keeps everybody at arm's reach, as much for his own sake as for theirs. It makes it easier when things go bad.

The problem is that when they get through, they really get through. He has a tendency to fall hard. He’s the friend for life type in the best of times. At the worst, he'll read into the nature of the relationship far too much. It’s just that way with him. Black and white, with little room for shades of gray.

And then there is the Fear. He was once afraid to die - the option that would have solved a lot of people a lot of problems. It’s still there, but it isn’t his greatest heart-stopper anymore. He’s afraid of the Beast, the thing that still is out there. The thing that may well come claim him one day, if he continues to insist denying it. He’s afraid that he’ll get complacent, and hurt people because he couldn’t keep things in check. And he’s afraid he’ll just end up liking the hurting anyway. That he was Bitten for a reason, and he really is just as horrible as the other side of him.

Oh, and most of all, he’s afraid he's going mad.

No, wait. He’s afraid he's already there.

He hears voices: Whispers from his dead twin sister, taunts from his ex, and blasphemies from things he’d rather not give a name. And that little devil on his shoulder, that Old Black Beast inside him, well she whispers too. And at the most inopportune times. It could be the poison in his veins messing with his head. Or perhaps the whole mythos - the whole reason for why the Beast exists is simply bullshit; little more than the fragment of his imagination. That his powers are simply genetic, and he’s doing everything out of some twisted little power game.

And for the life of him, he’s afraid that insanity’s the better of the two options. For a nutjob can be put into the asylum. What do you do with the New Black?

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