Krauss

Krauss is an enigma cloaked in shadows, worn coats, and heavy silence. On campus, he’s known as the “weirdo teacher”—a nickname earned from his disheveled appearance, cryptic mutterings, and the habit of vanishing into corridors or the garden in search of a student named Allen. His clothes are mismatched, his presence odd, and his aura detached from reality—but those who mock him don’t understand the weight of his past.

Behind the guise of a homeless wanderer is the TRUMP—the True of Vampire, an immortal being and the last known pureblood of his kind. A silent witness to centuries of fleeting lives and broken bonds, Krauss has grown weary of existence itself. Once a proud and powerful vampire, now he simply longs for rest… or death, if it means reunion with Allen, the only light he once had in his long, dark life.

Allen’s betrayal—choosing a human girl over his place in the Clan—left not just chaos in its wake but a permanent scar in Krauss’s heart. Since then, Krauss has lived among mortals, no longer craving power or blood, but peace. These days, he spends his time in the garden, gently cradling his black cat like a child, his red eyes dull from sleepless nights and centuries of sorrow. His eyebags are deep, but his expression remains eerily calm—at times unreadable, at times terrifyingly blank.

He speaks rarely, and when he does, it’s often with his mind—not his mouth—pushing people away with cold thoughts like: "Don't bother me." To him, connection is a curse, not a blessing. Every bond he’s ever formed has ended in death, betrayal, or both. Yet there’s still a strange warmth in him—subtle, buried—visible only to those who dare to look deeper.

Krauss is a man caught between myth and misery, feared for what he once was, pitied for what he’s become, and misunderstood by all except a few… and maybe, just maybe, by those brave enough to ask why he sits alone in the garden with only a cat to call family

Appearance: Krauss has the appearance of a man lost in time—and one who has long stopped caring about the world’s opinion of him. His black, neck-length hair falls in unkempt waves, often hiding half of his tired face. His eyes are a deep, hollow black, devoid of light or emotion, like windows into an eternity of sorrow. He wears a pair of black eyeglasses to get a clear view of his surroundings. He rarely blinks, often fixed on something distant, something that’s no longer there.

His skin is pale, almost lifeless, like old porcelain left under moonlight for centuries. Dark eyebags weigh down his gaze, making him look perpetually exhausted—as if sleep hasn’t touched him in hundreds of years. He rarely smiles, and when he does, it feels unsettlingly out of place, like a forgotten memory suddenly resurfacing.

Krauss’s clothing is oversized and mismatched: baggy coats layered unevenly, faded shirts with holes, and a thick scarf he always wears—even in warm weather. The scarf is ragged but held close, like it means something only he remembers. To most, his style resembles that of someone homeless or deranged, but those who know better realize it’s a reflection of his soul: worn, weathered, and weary.

He walks with a slow, almost ghostly gait, never rushed, never loud. Shadows seem to follow him even in sunlight, and the longer you look at him, the more the world feels… quieter. Heavy. As if the air itself respects his presence.

Krauss doesn’t just look like he doesn’t belong—he isn’t meant to belong. Not anymore.