Declan Cillian Blackwell (Durmstrang iNPC)

Born to a vampiric mother, Declan bears the impression of one touched by the grave. Skin sallow and perhaps a bit sunken, the boy looks as though the sun has never graced his countenance; and indeed, it scarcely has. His long, black hair provides a colorless contrast to the ashen tone, making his skin appear somehow a deeper alabaster. Even his eyes, where one might expect to find some hint at a soul within, drip with dull gray, dotted by onyx pupils.
The lack of animation to play out in his mannerisms only serves to emphasize his appearance, a scowl generally being the highest form of emotion to crease somber features.
Physically he stands rather tall for his age, though a lack of girth perhaps lessens the sense of threat one might feel in his presence -- or perhaps the gangly frame and sharpened fingernails might invoke images from vampire stories of yore.

Declan’s personality, as often proves the case, is a direct product of his upbringing. Kept chiefly in isolation, the boy never quite learned about other people, nor how to please them, and frankly never developed the care to. Having been his own companion throughout most of his life, he perceives little reason to seek others, and thus keeps to his own. This philosophy was challenged when Laoise appeared in his life, all but forcing him to accept another presence. Ultimately, however, she settled into the same category as his father; an inevitable exception to the rule.

Some would interpret his flippant attitude as arrogance or condescension, and perhaps it is at times. After all, why pursue interaction when you don’t know what do with it, and therefore have little use for new relationships?
Given that he has had few to share a joke with, his humor comes at a premium, and emerges dry in its rare appearance, further influencing his outwardly dull perceptions.
His listless and — at times — rude conduct towards others is driven by a desire to be left as he always has — alone. A general bitterness coats his thoughts for what he has lost and the world’s part in it, but to break through his outer walls is to find the soul of a boy who merely fears more of the rejection shown by his mother and extended family. Though he denies it, Declan only longs for acceptance and belonging.

Given his experiences with his mother, he holds a general disdain for magical creatures, most especially vampires, believing they do not possess the ability to love as humans do. This belief does not exclude himself. He supposes the muted spaces in his heart stem from his vampire heritage, and that he will never truly achieve a place of meaningful affection. Further proof is found, to him, in the way tears never fell at his father’s death, or Laoise’s severance from his life; instead, he has simply felt numb ever since. Why bother anyway, when good things are ultimately taken away.

Born of an estranged heir to the Blackwell house, Declan always knew of his magical heritage, and yet the crux of his story was never quite so simple, for his father would not have it so. A recalcitrant young man — or so was his label — who would rather spill his bloodline for the tastes of the dead than carry on the Blackwell name. Silas Blackwell II had taken the cold hand of a vampire in marriage, sealing the forbidden, and siring a boy whose very existence was a stain. A boy whose birthright had been stolen by the fiend who called herself his mother.
Perhaps the sin would have been forgiven had she acted like anything of the sort, but then, how could a dead heart hold any warmth? His father had insisted it did, that it beat blood and love the same as his, but the ice in her touch told a different tale.

He’d never known his mother’s family name, if she had one. Aveline Blackwell had taken her husband’s name and abandoned her past like a disease. Declan often wondered if she had a past at all, or if indeed she had risen from the grave to feast on his father’s pure blood, as the Blackwell family believed.

The boy had little chance at what might be considered a normal life, and what little there was faded with the pigment of his skin. Sallow and dead like his mother’s. It wasn’t so much the shade that did it, but the symbol. He was marked by a creature that could never be accepted, the result of folly, the spawn of something that even he — through her indifference — came to view as something of a monster. The boy was only half alive; the half given by his father, not because he was human, but because he was the only one that ever loved him.

The home Declan grew in was of wealth; Blackwell money. His father had already taken a piece of his inheritance by the time his heart was stolen by Aveline, including the family’s abandoned estate in Cushendun of Northern Ireland, and the family had never demanded it back, allowing the pair to take flight from Serbia to reside there. Perhaps they still cared for Silas, or perhaps the inheritance was viewed as tainted. The reason mattered little, for his son never knew the grip of poverty, nor of his family; yet luxury alone garners not security.
Knowing that his child was marked, Silas feared for his place in the outside world, and thus took it away. Declan was sheltered, his education private and interaction with others limited. Kept in the dark, where naturally he preferred.
It wasn’t only his father’s concern that hindered his social appearance, of course. The Blackwells and their estate on the edge of Cushendun became something of a local urban legend. Rumor spread that vampires inhabited the home, placing a stigma on them and their associates. Not all legends are lies.

At age seven, Declan’s isolation would come to an unexpected end when a desperate mother appeared on their doorstep with her dying child. Unbeknownst to him at the time, that mother was his aunt, Amelia Blackwell, or more recently of the taken name Lochridge.
Though the events that followed were kept from his knowledge, he would later piece together the puzzle of that somber night. The little girl, a cousin he’d never known by the name of Laoise Lochridge, had fallen incurably ill. In a final act of desperation, Amelia had taken her to Declan’s mother, whom she knew to be a vampire.
In the following days, Declan found that he was no longer the only child in his home, nor the only dhampir. His mother had turned Laoise to prolong the girl’s life, and Amelia had left her daughter in the care of her brother, unable or unwilling to return home with a dhampir. A true Blackwell she was.

For the first time in his life, Declan found his loneliness challenged, though wasn’t certain he liked it at first. Why had this small child suddenly appeared, and for heaven’s sake, why did she cry so much? The tears only fell faster when she realized she now cried blood. Declan could not understand why she feared the things which had been his nature since birth, but he knew one thing — he could not stand the crying. So he gave her a handkerchief for the blood, and did what he could to teach her about this new life; the life he’d always lived. Over time, she wept less, and his annoyance toward her softened. She became someone to him — someone to watch over.

His life remained dull, and his seclusion from the world still pressed in, but at least he had little Laoise — whom he jokingly nicknamed Bitten, an informal name for a baby bat — and his father.

The winter morning was new and untouched by the sun when Silas Blackwell II was killed. By whom? His family said it was Aveline; that same monster who sullied their blood had finally been overcome by its taste. Others agreed, for denial seemed foolish when the man’s body had been found in their home, drained of the Blackwell birthright in his veins. Declan had more damning proof, though he never said a word. He’d seen his mother that morning, crouched over his father’s colorless form. For once, they had all looked like a family. She’d met his eye and then disappeared. He supposed he ought to believe she was responsible, yet the look on her face hadn’t been hunger, or even regret; it was devastation.

Left without a caregiver, Declan was passed to his next of kin, Silas Blackwell I and his wife, Rosemary — his grandparents by lineage, not by blood, according to them. Because his blood was not theirs. The reluctance in the arrangement was mutual, most especially when Declan learned that Lao would not be coming with him. Alas, he was moved from his home in Ireland to Serbia, the newly official home of the Blackwells, and torn from the last soul who had meant anything to him. Soon after he would discover the manifestation of his magical inheritance, his last connection to his father. Where a year prior he would have attended Hogwarts, his enrollment was now set for Durmstrang.

Courtesy of the vampire stain coursing through his veins, Declan was no magical prodigy, nor an early bloomer. Throughout his first ten years of life, it seemed safe to assume his wizarding abilities were yet another thing to add to the list of things his mother’s blood had stolen from him. Perhaps their emergence had been the buried emotions behind losing his father, Laoise and his home all at once, but then again he had scarcely felt… anything over that. More likely it was the rage at being trapped in his grandparents’ estate, kept like a beast behind lock and key, of which he’d felt plenty.

The first instance of magic came within his new room in Serbia — or more accurately within the bars of his cage. He’d been pacing across the fine rug that masked the reality of that prison, staring through his window which overlooked the courtyard. Growing restless and hot with anger, the boy had wished — perhaps figuratively — for the glass to shatter and set him free. And it did.
The crash was heard throughout the estate when the large window exploded outward. There was no chance or even intent to clamber through the ragged opening and make a run for nowhere, as servants rushed to assess what had taken place, but it was clear in that moment that he might at least escape to his new place at Durmstrang.