Rhys is totally unbothered by criticism and extremely self-confident. He is also very intelligent and very cunning. In fact, even without his vampiric charms, he is smart enough to get himself out of almost any situation.
He has a lot of difficulty controlling what comes out of his mouth and often gets himself into trouble with it. Rhys' personality is either a hit or miss, but when it misses its usually very messy. He also has very little compassion for most people which makes him out of touch.
|Nickname|| No Information|
|Played by|| Michael Malarkey|
|Age|| 121 (April 22, 1896)|
|Sign|| || Taurus|
|Height|| 5ft. 10in. (179 cm)|
|Weight|| 160 (73 kg)|
|Occupation|| Professional Con|
|Species|| Vampire |
Sarcastic, cold, noncommittal, blunt, charming
Plenty of words have been used over the years to describe Rhys. Words like asshole, pretentious bastard, fluffy, demon from hell, and wicked, just to name a few. Oh and yes, fluffy was definitely one of them. You see, as horrible as Rhys is, he's also quite charming. When he's not murdering people or seducing poor innocent women for the purpose of food he's...well, seducing women for other reasons. There are only two things that he really needs to be happy: killing and sex. Plenty of sex. With a healthy side of killing. And ironically the two are completely disjointed in his life and determine the two different sides of Rhys.
The first and most obvious side is the sadistic, maniacal murderer. When Rhys is hungry he has very little regard for human life, often considering them fine bottles of wine just waiting to be uncorked. While he's hunting, Rhys is often sadistic and 'plays with his food in the most terrifying ways possible. Although in recent years, he’s found that his traditional method of hunting is now what other vampires would consider “tame”. He makes a habit of hunting in other cities if his need is that strong so as not to leave behind any potentially detrimental rumors about what a monster he can really be.
On the other hand though, not all of his bloodlust is entirely to do with blood. Most of the time Rhys is a well-balanced, sarcastic, womanizing, passionate asshole. He’s just a simple man who enjoys beautiful women, cold walks at night, and the comfort of someone else’s warm flesh (that someone could even be a male if they’re warm and fleshy enough). If he's not too hungry, Rhys often likes to make a game out of getting a taste here or there. And usually that game is played naked. He loves women almost to the point where he treats them with near human care after seducing them. Rhys can be a charmer when he wants to be and some women simply can't resist his bad-boy demeanor. If he ever gets a woman alone, he's passionate as hell, treating them with the upmost adoration and essentially worshiping them. Up until the point where he just has to take a bite. He's found that some enjoy things like that, but for those who don't there's always compulsion. Nothing kills the mood like a fit of screaming and thrashing limbs.
Rhys grew up in London during a time of progress, reform, and eventually a war that put a screeching halt to all of that. His parents weren't very well off, but they made just enough to support their family of five, Rhys being the eldest of two brothers and a sister. They were happy enough, but all around them were constant riots, the reforms had to have come from somewhere and Rhys got to see all of it. From the labor reforms to the woman's suffrage movement, not all of the demonstrations were exactly peaceful. Still, just as he was approaching manhood things were moving in the right direction. Until World War I blew everything to pieces. By August of 1914, Rhys had already become an adult and was perfectly eligible for the war.
And so he went, thinking he could save his country, his family, everything they had worked so hard for. He felt heroic, waving to his younger brother and sister, clutching the hands of his teary eyed mother as he left on a train for the front lines. His father looked on with pride, a pride that he could only imagine would double when he returned a war hero. Rhys had somehow missed the faces of the wounded that he watched coming home. He’d seen them, but he hadn’t been able to really see them. Not past the praise, not past the thought that they were saving the country. Rhys saw brave men, he saw a future for everyone he knew and loved. However, war is never as pretty as we imagine it.
Rhys didn't find heroes or honorable men. He found murderers, cowards, broken and wounded men. And then he became one of them. Stationed on the western front, he was introduced to machine guns, trench warfare, freezing cold nights spent in the company of the fallen, and near constant bombardments. Death surrounded him and the young man who had once been eager to prove himself a hero soon became a darkened soul. When he wasn't fearing for his life, he was angry. Angry that he had been sent here, that thousands of lives were being sacrificed and that every day he found the reason for it to be less and less meaningful. After surviving several major battles, Rhys was a completely different man, that's what living in fear and death made you. He was a dead man walking.
At the battle of Somme everything came to a head. All the noise, the smell of burning flesh, the screaming, it became too much for him. He couldn't take it anymore. After he got out of there he would desert, he couldn't live that way anymore. As the German forces closed in, he and his trench-mates were forced to retreat, but as they crawled out of their trench and prepared to run, Rhys was riddled full of bullets. The army walked right over him as he lay there bleeding out, one of his lungs pierced and filling with blood. Somehow he survived a full two hours before the next wave came through. Thinking he was dead, they pushed his body into a trench. An hour later and Rhys wasn't sure why he was still alive. Nearly half dead, he hardly noticed when someone jumped down into the trench next to him. He heard tearing, felt warmth drip on his body, but none of it registered. One of the few things he remembers were the words, “Poor bastard, how are you still alive?” The next memory he had was of waking up in a trench full of bodies, his own wounds healed, everything about him fine. Aside from the thirst. So with the backdrop of death, heavy artillery, and pointless war Rhys couldn't help but give in.
No one was around to see what he was doing, no one had time to attend to the dying when they were all half dead themselves. For days he fed on the stragglers and the forgotten who were in great supply given the circumstances. He moved at night and during the day hid in half dug tunnels that extended into No Man's Land. Only after hundreds of bodies was his bloodlust satisfied, but he remained there in those trenches, trying to understand what was happening. The conclusion he came to seemed ridiculous at first, but as the years of the war went on he realized it was true. This wasn't some fairytale. This was a horror story. And he was the monster.
By the time the war had ended, Rhys had learned a few things about blending in, but not having had to restrain himself from feeding as a fledgling, he didn't quite understand how to fit in back in England where he couldn’t drop bodies left and right. There were no more convenient meals, no one who wasn’t already dying that he could prey on like a vulture. He was smart though, he understood that to be careless was to be caught and eventually destroyed. He by no means had control over his thirst, but understood that the bodies needed to be taken care of, he didn’t have the convenience of a war to blame their deaths on. Although he’d had no sire or even another vampire to guide him, war had taught him what he needed to know. About what it was like to die, about what it took to stay alive. He traveled around Europe, moving often to avoid suspicion when the number of missing people increased in whatever city he traveled to. Eventually, Rhys found a home of sorts in Paris with a man named Jean who taught him all the things he should have learned from his deadbeat sire. After years of practice, he finally knew how to blend in but still fulfill his desires. He checked up on his family from time to time, but their son had died in the war. They were better off without him and he'd rather not watch them grow old and die.
The life of a vampire was a lonely one, he knew that much at least. As the years went on, Rhys couldn't stay in England anymore. Everything was a reminder of who he had once been, not who he was now. He wanted to live his new life, not remember how weak and pathetic he had once been. So he moved to the United States, after all its supposed to be a place for new beginnings despite the overzealous southerners trying to keep everyone in the past. He made his home in Louisiana, as far from England as culturally possible to avoid the memories and pain that he left behind. Now he's moved on, all his past ties cut. Its time to make a new story and Rhys is more than excited to start.