There once was a man named Francis Brendan Parxis; he was born in 1890 in Dublin Ireland. His father was a wealthy judge; his mother was a stay at home mother. The third boy in a family of six, Francis knew that he had no chance at inheritance; he would have to earn his way in life. He applied himself to his studies in school, earning high marks, particularly in science and medicine; he performed so well that when he graduated from secondary school, he was accepted at Harvard Medical school.
After graduating from Harvard Medical in 1916, he was accepted into the U.S. Army medical corps. At the end of the Great War, having served for two years in France as a field medic, Francis had been promoted to the rank of Captain, medical corps. In the brief peace that filled the time between WW1 and WWII, Francis went back to school, furthering his education once more. Achieving his M.D. in 1922, Francis was recommissioned as a Major in the army medical corps. Stationed in Britain, Francis served as a liason between the American Army and the British govenrment, using his medical knowledge and expertise to try and assist with the reconstruction efforts. After three years in Britain, Francis was on holiday when tragedy struck. Attacked by a tiger in Niger, in 1925, Francis nearly died. But it was not to be; whether out of pity or sadism, Francis never really did find out, his sire embraced what was left of his tiger mauled corpse.
As the vitae of his sire coursed through his veins, the dying Major was in utter agony. Wounds that should have had him bleed out on the jungle floor were instantly clotted, leaving behind hideous scars that run from above his right eyebrow to the left side of his chin, following a similar course from his right shoulder to left hip, then running from left hip across the legs to his right shin. On his back is evidence of the hind claw rake that ran from the tops of his shoulders to the small of his back. A chunk is missing from his left buttock and his right calf.
Waking up in a small shack, Francis was bewildered that he still felt life in him; different from the life that flowed through his veins before, this vitae, blood ripped from his own veins and then forced back in, felt like fire flowing through his veins. Gradually the pain subsided enough that Francis was able to detect another person in the shack with him; grotesque, with boils splotching all over her face and sharp fangs jutting from a crooked jaw, she sat on the jungle floor. As he looked at her, Francis wondered if this was real, a nightmare, or if he was in purgatory for the lives he had taken during the Great War.
"You are dead, but not." she said suddenly, looking him dead in the eyes. Burning with a crimson fire, her eyes felt like they were burning right into his very soul. After a moment, he realized what she meant; he fealt stronger than ever before, but was plagued by a thirst for blood. As they left Niger, Francis and the woman he would come to know as Katleen, spoke of the rules. Katleen instilled in Francis an honor code to his thirst; he would only hunt from criminals. As time passed, Francis realized that he would have to leave his old life behind; Francis Parxis was dead; it would later be reported that he went missing while on holiday and that search and rescue teams found no signs of him.
In 1941, after Katleen told him that it was time to part ways, Francis looked at the growing crisis in Europe as a way to test the limits of what he had been gifted with by the embrace. Masking his appearance from mortal sight, Francis travelled to the U.S. Using a doctored copy of his medical certificate, and a new identity, Francis acquired a commission once again in the American Army. He had become Major Frank B. Parker, medical corps. He fought against the Nazis with a renewed sence of vigor, but not through the use of force, rather through the repair of American troops. Everytime he sent someone back into the field, Frank felt sorrow that some of them might not come back, but he also knew that by repairing them as well as he could, he was giving them the best chance of coming back alive.
In 1944, on a humanitarian mission into Russia, Frank encountered a vampire whose fate is now seemingly intertwined with his own; Viktor Minshol. After killing Viktor's deranged, Nazi, sire, Frank discovered him buried under the rubble of a building. Digging him out, Frank saw a potential in him. They travelled together for the remainder of the war. While they travelled, Frank taught Viktor the "rules," After the war was over, Frank and Viktor journeyed back to the United States. In the states, they parted ways; Frank went to New York, to practice medicine in the Hamptons, and Viktor stayed in D.C.
I am Frank B. Parker and I have been called to New Orleans by the voice of a vampire whose unlife has already ended.
Sat Jun 13, 2009 3:02 am