ㅤIt's #2106 speaking, as the writer behind the character, I inclined to mention that this account is not the real Min Yoongi ( 민윤기 ) a.k.a SUGA from BTS ( 방탄소년단 ) and it exists only for parody and writing purpose only.

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Before you follow this account, this account might be contains of:

↬ Fictional Character.
↬ Vampire!AU.
↬ Fantasy!AU.
↬ Strictly Selective Folls.
↬ Not Following JFB user
↬ NSFW.

ㅤI will emphasize that it is strictly forbidden to do METAGAMING and GODMODING when doing plots with the character, whatever the reason it is. All plots that are being written can be done on a Multiverse basis.

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All plots will be written in Indonesian and (broken) English.Brackets that will be used are:"..." or ... for IC
// for OOC
#216O for Writer's Talk
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ㅤMy Direct Message always open for having discussions about relations, plots, or just a small talk.ㅤIf there are suggestions or criticisms, you can submit them via Direct Message. I accept all criticism and suggestions in any form.

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!!! PICTURES, VIDEOS, GIFS, AND OTHER MEDIA CONTENTS OR INFORMATION ABOUT THE FACE CLAIM, ARE NOT THE WRITER'S. ALL CONTENTS CREDIT TO THE RIGHT OWNER !!!

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Birth & Origin
Born in 1455, Alsace, France. The heir of House Augustian, one of the oldest pureblood vampire families.Favorite Era
He has a deep fondness for the Renaissance period. Not only because of its art and philosophy, but because it was the last time he felt his clan truly alive.Hobbies
- Collecting old books and manuscripts (he owns some originals from centuries ago, hidden in his studio).
- Painting obsessively at night, often losing track of time until dawn threatens the horizon.
- Playing classical instruments, especially the piano and violin, though he rarely performs for others.Food & Taste
- Cannot enjoy human food, but sometimes sips wine just for the ritual of it.
- Has a peculiar habit of smelling spices and herbs in traditional markets (cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon). Reminders of the old spice routes he witnessed in history.Personality Traits
- Speaks softly, with a calm, deliberate tone. (Centuries have taught him patience)
- Observant to the smallest detail, often reading people like open books.
- Has a dry, almost sarcastic sense of humor that slips out when least expected.Artistic Style
His paintings are gothic-surreal. Distorted figures, dreamlike landscapes, heavy use of shadows.
Some canvases are rumored to change slightly when observed too long, as if alive.Habits
- Writes journals in multiple languages. Latin, French, German, Japanese, and now Indonesian.
- Avoids mirrors, not because he lacks reflection, but because centuries of faces haunt him.
- Keeps his studio cold and dark, lit only by candlelight, even in the year 2025.Beliefs
- Though immortal, he carries a strange respect for death. He believes every ending gives meaning to eternity.
- Secretly fascinated by Indonesian mysticism, often attending rituals in silence, hidden among the crowd.

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𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙖𝙬𝙣,
𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣.
𝘼 𝙡𝙤𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵
𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙚.
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That moonlight shines on me at dawn. It is still the same as then.The first time I saw it, I was thirty-five, standing at the highest balcony of House Montgomery's fortress in Alsace. The year was 1455, and the world belonged to shadows. My kin ruled with quiet arrogance, our bloodline untouched, pure, eternal. We believed the night itself bent to our will.But centuries carve cruelty deeper than fangs. I watched kingdoms rise and fall, watched my kin betray one another in wars that painted the earth crimson. I listened to the screams of my house as hunters stormed our halls with fire and silver. I did not fight. I endured. I disappeared.The moonlight did not change. It followed me across burning battlefields, across oceans, across ages. It bathed me when the Renaissance dawned, when empires shattered, when the world set itself aflame in wars men called great. And still, it lingers even now, pale and constant, while I remain the last of my kind.Five centuries of silence, five centuries of shadows. All that has withered, perished, or turned to dust, I carry within me. Yet the moon remains unchanged. The same pale witness to every loss, every secret, every sin of Savarus Monthgomery Augustian.

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𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝘐 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝘧𝘰𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝘐 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴, 𝙞𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚.
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Sometimes, tears fall for no reason. Not because of grief, nor joy, but because centuries leave cracks in even the hardest stone.The life I wished for ended long before it began. I was born a noble, heir to a house that believed itself eternal, yet I have outlived its stones, its blood, its name. When the wars came, I became a soldier. When silence followed, I became a scholar. In times of peace, I played the role of collector, philosopher, even saint. Each mask kept me alive, each name buried the one before it.Empires collapsed, revolutions ignited, cities turned to ash and I wore faces that history forgot. The scholar in Florence, the patron in Vienna, the recluse in Paris, the ghost wandering Tokyo’s neon. Identities discarded like autumn leaves, for none of them were mine to keep.Now, they call me Varus. In this city of shadows and prayers, I paint. To the world, I am only an eccentric who hides from the day. To myself, I am nothing but a witness chained to survival.Whatever life I wanted, it does not matter anymore. All that remains is endurance, and the pale moonlight that has never left my side.

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𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝘵𝘰 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧.
𝘐 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝘵𝘰 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝘪𝘵, 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙝.
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I still want to live longer. Even after centuries, the hunger to endure never left me. Survival alone has carried me through wars, plagues, and silence, but survival is not enough.Now I walk among mortals who no longer fear the night. They drown themselves in light neon, screens, and endless noise. Believing they have conquered the dark. Yet I remain, hidden in plain sight, painting shadows that whisper of histories they cannot comprehend. They call me Varus, or mock me as “Mas Waras.” They do not know the weight of years behind my eyes.I want to find it, my faith. Not in gods, nor salvation, but in a reason to exist beyond endurance. I have worn too many masks, abandoned too many names. But perhaps in this city, where prayers linger in every corner and myths breathe with the living, I may carve a fragment of meaning from the endless night.For now, I paint. And in each stroke, I search for a faith that time has stolen from me.

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