Focused and determined are two of Haemon's traits. He lives for the thrill of the hunt, much like a wolf as it hunts down its prey. He's reserved in his speech, only ever speaking to close friends, the Mentor or to civilians if he needs information. However, Haemon seems like a dangerous and strong man.
-Dagger similar in style to Altair's
-Simple, single bladed sword
-Skilled in the art of the silent kill, he has stealth on his side.
-Those who know him say he has the eyes of a cat, allowing him to see in the darkness of night.
-As elusive as a cunning fox or wolf, Haemon has the knack for escaping even the toughest situations.
Haemon has quite a short temper, so short that many people have to walk on eggshells around him, especially during a mission. Although quite useful on the field of battle, it's rather dangerous around his fellow Assassins, so they're always careful of what they say.
Haemon suffers from a scar across his right eye, which blinds him partially and gives him a blind spot.
Haemon was born in London, England. The night of his birth was actually quite clear, which was unusual, considering England's shit weather. He grew up knowing only his mother and the books that she gave him. He studied everything, especially the mythology books. They intrigued him the most and what fascinated him even more were the books on vampires.
Over the years as he grew up, life became very hard for him and his mother. She began to take on three jobs just to pay the rent for their flat and even then, to the young boy, it didn't seem like enough. This hardship went on for years, though Haemon did his best to keep up his studies as well as earn some extra cash for him and his mother.
When Haemon turned sixteen, he decided he'd had enough and told his mother to stop working so hard, that it would kill her. Once she heeded his words, Haemon went out and sought out a job every day for a month. His perseverance paid off and he'd taken a job polishing armor for an unlikely and unseemingly group of soldiers.
Haemon didn't think anything of it the first few months he worked for them. They were men of war, after all. No one could say anything ill of the men. However, once his mother found out about his job and about the armor he'd been polishing and repairing, she became frightened for his safety, though he didn't understand why. They were just soldiers, according to him, and they paid him well for his services.
Everything changed, however, when he went in to where the soldiers had been camped and everything was missing. Haemon decided to search around London for them. After all, no one could miss armored men with red crosses adorning their breastplates. Haemon just barely set foot into an inn to ask around when he heard mention of soldiers marching toward the docks.
He and his mother lived near those docks and fear began to rise into his veins. Swift as the wind, Haemon bolted across the streets and plummeted through the crowds, his feet striking puddles rather viciously and spraying him with water. Shouts of pleas reached his ears and they pushed him to run faster. What Haemon saw upon reaching the docks put him into a state of horror.
The soldiers were surrounding a woman in garments that he knew well. He didn't know what they were doing to her, but he could tell by the smug expressions on their faces that it was nothing good. The second he called out was the second that his mother shouted at him to run, to get out of there. However, his way was barred by the very soldiers whose swords and armor he'd polished and repaired for months.
"Hey," said one, staring very closely at Haemon's features. "This boy looks like that Assassin we killed about a year back." The others that had surrounded him studied his features closely, and then one answered.
"You're right," Haemon felt like he was frozen on the spot, fear making it unbearable to breathe or move.
"Then," said another in a darkly pleased voice, his sword drawn. "Let's make him suffer as we had his father, shall we?"
With laughter ringing around him, Haemon felt himself being restrained and he could hear his mother's screams at the soldiers to let him go. Those screams were cut short when a sword sliced through her abdomen. Haemon felt as though everything was in slow motion around him as he pulled against the soldiers and cried out.
With their laughter still in their skulls, the soldiers turned on the boy and approached with the bloodied sword in hand. "Now," roared the one who'd gutted his mother. "It's your turn." An eagle's cry echoed above them and creating a distraction. It was a welcomed one to Haemon. It allowed him time to breathe before the sounds of throats being slit and metal sliding against armor before piercing through to flesh filled his ears.
"May you be judged lightly," said an unfamiliar voice just off to the left of the boy. "Rest in peace." Haemon looked up the second he felt a strong, comforting hand rest against his shoulder. "What is your name, son?"
"H-Haemon," he answered, his voice shaking with emotions as his eyes glanced briefly to his mother's body, lying motionless on the ground. "Haemon Donnelly."
"Well then, Haemon Donnelly," said the unfamiliar man as he knelt down to stare into Haemon's emerald colored eyes. "I promise to protect you and to guide you. Now, come. It's not safe here." Haemon willingly followed the man, but not before taking his mother's favorite necklace and pulling it around his neck. He at least wanted something to remember her by.
Once Haemon was introduced into the Brotherhood as a student, he became withdrawn, hardly participating in any youth activities all the while he was there. Instead, he submerged himself in the books he'd managed to gather from the house, all of them dealing in the mythological. Haemon spent years training and finally, upon his twenty-fourth birthday, he was sworn into the brotherhood, taking the oath and going through the removement of his right ring finger, the sign of all Assassins.
A few years after his initiation, he was transferred to the Holy Land and into the care of Masyaf. It was there that he made his name known, silently taking out his targets and, to many, drew his strength from their blood. Many among the Templar ranks called him The Vampire and he gladly adopted that name.