Supernatural is such a broad spectrum of ideas and while you might find something here that is familiar we believe this is something that is inevitability true of most supernatural RP's today. We've taken inspiration from a myriad of books, shows, movies and actual lore from around the world to pull the best of everything together and make our species as unique and exciting as we possibly can.
So much thanks to everyone who joins and everyone who's paved the way long before and, inevitably, after us~
|Help Search Members Calendar Affiliates Shoutbox|
|Welcome Guest ( Log In | Register )||Resend Validation Email|
Old, easily amused, cold, ruthless, and elegant, Silvo might be exactly what you would expect of a man his age, and similarly he remains perfectly loyal to every living nightmare. With a dark sense of humor, and the worrying ability to remain calm no matter the situation, if he doesn't faze ever then the question remains what drives this ageless and immortal man? If he doesn't fear, doesn't perturb and doesn't blink, unflinching in the face of anything, if he's a sworn third-timer of everything? Things don't surprise Silvano, and due to his age and the honest to god fact he's likely tried everything at least thrice, what can you do about a man whose calm is both a general state of indifference to the world and a flippant mask that easily cracks under amusement? Silvano might not chase cheap thrills, but there's an element of unpredictability to him that forever leaves you questioning; as far as his motives are involved, is he a bad person... or is he somewhere in the middle? Without a sliver of doubt-- Silvano is not good.
Silvo has no need for breaking people's legs and arms to serve his amusement. Gratuitous torture, the screaming of a victim, and the whole scene of gore, guts and snuff nonsense isn't where he confers. But it's also nothing that can turn his stomach. Not the type who'll sit you down and tell you exactly where he'll cut you, and not the type who'll never bother to cut or hurt you despite you standing for long, silent minutes in his presence, somehow unsettled by his stern, amused silence, Silvo honestly doesn't need to do much to translate what he's on about. He typically just needs to be, and there's something obvious about him that reads to people: he's a threat, he's chilling, and even the most stubborn of souls will find a little shiver of discomfort crawl over their backbone. Silvo doesn't need to try.
Confident, calm, and icy cold in character, he warms up only with the amusement that doesn't climb up by many degrees above his usually chilling demeanor. He'll smile, and even in that he will retain a chilly attitude as though he won't be moved even by a chuckle. For as a person he will not be driven by anything shallow. He pursues order, and the elegance in thereof. Though as an advocate of this notion, he has learned any means will be necessary to achieve an end; absolute obedience.
Silvo is power-hungry, to a degree. While you'd try to mix arrogance into this, or a god complex, Silvo considers himself a messenger of his own religion, ruled after all by several notions he's set into motion and won't be straying from though in character, in function, they're as shapely as a person. There is the aforementioned unpredictability to his person, a sense of "off" that Silvo doesn't bother to hide. His vision of the world, after all, cleans everything wrong and thus he imagines obedience, in methodical, controlled genocide.
Silvo wants to kill a good part of the world. He's just not going to shed blood.
With his sense of literal order, and his appreciation for balance in the world, Silvo may hold onto honestly worrying notions that should back you right out the room before he notices you (by default, too late), but he's honestly not the sort to set into motion some evil plan that will do exactly as is his ideal. Silvo should be understood as someone who'll believe what he believes although in his convictions he's situationally forceful and uninhibited. He's well above just wiping out a city even though he's well capable of at least tackling one smaller. He's above screaming and disorder--
But get into his way, cross him and Silvo will clean you. After all, he doesn't separate from his ideals, he just executes them in a way only he understands.
This world is filth. And Silvo sees symmetry in it.
Deeply philosophical, twisted in a manner most casual, intelligent and genuinely dangerous, Silvo should still be given some due credit of a megalomaniac. While he won't be seen pulling a Thanos, he's always surrounded himself in the characteristics of an affluent, influential person; his home is rich, his people are dedicated willingly or unwillingly, and he's a king of a realm that begins where he walks, and ends what he abandons. Silvo doesn't need to announce that he expects things to work a certain way. Bound to the magics of his species, and the first of his affliction, the magic is most concentrated around his person, and his millennia of killings had given it a mutated, harsh shape that announces ahead that he won't be your mate. He won't be someone you go out to crack a cold one. He won't make you a cocktail, or listen to your woes.
Silvo's interests have always been bigger scale. He thinks big, and he also prefers to focus on anything life altering, bending, revolutionary, on genuine fears that drive families and leave entire generations to stagnate at homes since that's what they know the best.
There is elegance in death. In the state of decay. In the filth on our streets, and in our world. Silvo, I want to explain, doesn't want to round up the criminals and kill them off. Or the disabled, or the homosexuals.
He will round up people at a random if you ever give him the choice, men, women, murderers and the good politicians, because the world should be in a yin-yang state; it needs a balance of good and bad. He will go from person to person, a loaded gun in his hand and from close range, he'll put a bullet into their heads. Women men children. Unblinking, calm, but if a look particularly scared cracks him up, he'll manage a faint smile.
Should the world ever be trusted into his hands? Silvo might not say it, but considering he's still alive, he feels a bit of entitlement we will understand. He might round up anyone eventually, but if you give him the reason and you interest him: he will round you up, a loaded gun in his hand, and he'll consider who to kill from your family of thirty innocent men and women and there, the young one, seven kids, and that's your little brother, isn't it?
In order for the world to exist in order, sacrifices need to be made. This cleaning that Silvo does? It involves performing a couple of cruel and premeditated steps that target: the good, the bad, the kill ennui and put inertia to death, that stab you through the heart and drive you on a path of revenge. If you have an enemy, you'll likely become good yourself, or you will be bad. Nobody will be in the state of neutral. I guess now we know if he's bad or gray after all.
Is that your mom? Was. Silvo cleans. Silvo loves cleaning. And he won't bite you because fuck you if you think you're worth it, but he'll make that hurt if you offer yourself. A bit of a necessary sadist, in this man.
Now, despite all this or in spite of all this, Silvo does have softness in him, or rather the ability to feel that's not hampered. Whereas he essentially began this new life with a bang, and whereas he definitely has the cutthroat thing down to a T, it doesn't rule out emotions or his feeling capacity. Silvo doesn't flare up with emotions easily. He takes his time feeling, and he remains a man of a few words when it comes to feelings. Not a tactile creature at all, his touches are always poignant, and otherwise he scarcely addresses if he feels anything at all. Fonder of everything subtle, he will confess to loving you only just by behavior, meaningful many actions that will require you to read between the lines and even then he'll likely not confirm it's true because he's not simply the type to. He's private. It was something always second to his skin, even furthered by all the rampaging and killing he has done, creating a man who doesn't actually feel entitled to feeling love, it's not his duty, not his goal and therefore even his care, while it may come, will be first met with the thick wall of his denial and nonchalance before he acts on it. Even in love, this means, he remains chilling. And quite intense.
And he is now random. Whatever he is, truly evil in many ways and words, and capable of killing at the snap of fingers, Silvo is premeditated, and purposeful. Whatever he does has its reason, and he will not be moved by whim. But his intensity hides well behind his calm veneer.
Dislikes: he's likely that weirdo who really dislikes everything and everyone in his own special way, whilst also liking everything in a similarly very illogical and special way.
Quirks: he feels particularly fond for a special brand of aimless in others.
Silvo would be born into the ashes of Numidia. Mauretania had just been annexed into Rome, and would be divided into two provinces years later, Tingitana and Caesariensis, when he'd be born into the former, wearing the name of Sulaiman that he'd later, much later end up changing. But before he did he'd find himself born into a predetermined fate that had been written into stone by none other than himself. Sulaiman wouldn't find out immediately that he was reincarnated, or that in his previous life he had been the first ever vampire in existence-- but in time, he would. Until then, he'd live a safe life.
Sulaiman's parents were the usual sort, only he was genuinely followed and protected by the members of his religion since a boy. Located and identified as their reincarnated master once he was three-four, he was from that point on until his abduction kept under strict supervision, permitted to live out his own life and to walk his own path until he was ready to become himself. He was to be watched, and the oldest followers of his religion, one indeed wearing his name and founded by his previous incarnation, were curious and tense to see if this second him would be anything like their leader. Doubt was strong among several, mostly if they both desperately wanted their leader back, and feared that if he was, what would really, really happen?
Sulaiman would end up resembling his past self eerily well. As a child, he quickly began to forgo games. As a teenager, he seemed less of that lost, wandering soul searching for their purpose. He had no interest in the bodies of others. A Roman scholar, he'd begin to dedicate his earliest days to wanting to secure himself a better life by swearing loyalty to those who needed to hear it before accepting him among their ranks. Sulaiman wanted influence. He wasn't a Roman by face or heart, and his soul belonged to his homeland. Mauretania Tingitana. Regardless of his natural affiliation, he was a man driven by his intellect, a Jewish man no less and a part of a very humble Jewish community in the land. When he was 37, they were done waiting. Sulaiman would find himself taken from home, in a place he'd never been to, looking out onto mountains he didn't recognized. They laid it on him then.
He was the intended reincarnation of the first vampire ever. When the world was young, he was made into who he was via a manner he had never shared with a soul. And he fathered a thousand of them, and left them all to scatter in every direction. Those who valued their gift the most would trace their sire-line back to him hundreds of years later. Like children in a need of a parent, they'd surround him, and stay with him, and beg to learn from him because he was the father of them, the oldest of them, the strongest and best of them in a row of superlatives he shamelessly supported. And like any self-proclaimed divinity, he let them become his children, and he taught them. Brainwashed and tied them to himself and they'd form one of the first true nests.
But whether planned or not, he'd succumb to the insanity of the old age, when he was around three thousand years old. He'd begin to, rather. But that was his own fault. First their leader for a thousand years, he tired of the anchor position and passed the nest down onto his most trusted, and remained lone even whilst in the company of his religion. They were a cult, and they were his cult. And though he wasn't the leader of the two nests that formed around him, later a third, he was still seen as their god. But perceptions did him jack shit when his extreme age caught up with him, and when the cracks in his psyche appeared, he quickly summarized what was happening. Instead of realizing he ought return into a nest quickly, he concocted a plan that would rather cure him off this entirely... than see him depend on anyone. After all, with his advanced age, he knew that he'd always have to remain in a nest, and even a year apart would be killing himself.
No God depended on his herd to be sustained.
When he died, it was all planned. From who'd kill him-- he would, to what would happen to his body-- drain and preserve it. To how he'd become himself, all in a plan that was, in fact, a lie to all of them. He didn't tell them the truth. He said he had to be reborn.
Every God lies, after all.
Sulaiman both believed this and didn't. A whole load of nonsense this all was however with a dark speck of truth that he thought was his own ego wanting him to be, after all, that special. And so he agreed, if nothing else, to what they suggested next, since his own memories in entirety had been plucked from hm before dying and were ready to be transferred over to him. Bit by bit, piece by piece since no bitch can survive over three literal thousand years worth of history.
They let him have his first hundred years back and everything changed.
It was the first hundred years of his life. Not the last, as was planned.
... Or as they thought was planned. But it was enough.
Sulaiman immediately understood that in this past life, he'd really been someone special. He understood that his past self had wanted him to begin like this, from the beginning in hopes of assimilating the past and present self if he was to be taken down the gradual journey to the man who'd decide to kill himself. And Sulaiman, the wise man he was, agreed with that. He agreed with every detail.
He believe this story had the potential to be honest.
It took years.
Every two or so months he'd get more memories back, a century, or around. And god, did it take a long time. Did it all work, though. He was still a human, contained over in Spain in a city where he learned to speak the language, always escorted by two or three of his cult who'd lost him before and wouldn't now. Quickly Sulaiman learned that the tensions in his cult were owed to his hundred years of absence. He'd gone to the purgatory after death, and then been reincarnated as he had predicted although he still didn't know how he had planned it, how so well, and nobody else knew and so nobody could tell him. He'd find out eventually. Still, he understood that some welcomed his return, but some were reluctant for ten or so reasons; the fear of a god who'd be stronger than before without the curse of madness, the hate for bowing down to someone who would be, after all, in terms of power just a boy and yet placed into the standing of a lord, and some were just hungry, really, for being a god in place of him. Some wanted to pull away from the cult that consisted of around sixty vampires between the ages of five hundred to a thousand.
Sulaiman, indeed, was a smart person.
If they had sought him out centuries after first being made... how come most of them weren't in the similar age he'd been at the time of his death?
Cold, and manipulative. These traits found him naturally and as he grew to understand himself better. He got off on his smarts a lot. On realizing he really had been, in the past, such a smart man. There was still the risk that he actually wasn't his own reincarnation. He was a random schmuck essentially erased from existence by the weight of a creature that had once existed for over three thousand years. Was it so cheeky to believe he'd been the oldest person alive, then?
Sulaiman would be 45 when he was turned into a vampire. He was still missing the last three hundred years of his memories, but he'd be turned. Years he'd spent studying his kind, learning about them from his memories and from those around himself. A time spent in intrigue and slow-burn and gradual contempt over his own. Those in his cult, after all... were so inferior.
Sulaiman would be turned using his own blood. He drank the century old blood that had been magically preserved for his person, and he took his own life without ado.
He beat them to the punch when some conspired to have him killed.
Forty-five years old and he was like wine. He became a vampire, sired by himself. And nobody else. And then, he accepted the last three centuries of his memories shortly after his first turn, and those that had wanted to kill him were shocked to see he had fed on the blood of one of theirs, and drained him.
Vampire cannibalism. Forbidden... because he had said that.
Little, little children should have asked WHY. And then.
Then, Sulaiman knew the truth.
It wasn't... only because of going lone, really, that he'd helped himself to madness. Well it had helped, sure, but how was it a vampire as old couldn't go a goddamn year without going crazy?
Because he'd fed off his own. Because he'd changed his diet entirely, and had for years consumed only his own and because as the true and original sire of all the vampires, he'd had the compulsive powers to make them forget that originally, they'd had over a hundred in their ranks. That there had been more nests. And their numbers had dwindled.
Nobody would know that their God had been a cannibal. He had preyed upon the blood of his own and rather than bow to a nest where he risked being discovered he'd died and risked never coming back but chanced, too, a new body, a fresh, healthy body and a mind and this WAS him, this was him really reincarnated, him in body and flesh and he found out the strangest truth when he remembered.
He... had had a lot of followers. Some more loyal, some a lot, some... exceptionally, true zealots and they had indeed taken his orders far and beyond.
Sulaiman was his own father. Born of a seed that had been taken from him, and then planted into the womb of his woman. Just to draw his soul to this body here. Just to ensure that he'd come back. And those followers responsible for that act quite morally reprehensible had always known that it was him from the moment he was born. From his own flesh, his own son and born of himself and Sulaiman was all too proud of his children... He was proud of them.
And he was back.
Sulaiman was quickly placed into the position of their nest leader. The fact that he belonged there was indisputable, though some of his would turn out to mind his return. This end was eventual. And a given. For a leader as cruel and Machiavellian, that he'd kill them personally and suck them dry once he was back to ruling them-- that, that was a given. But this time, Sulaiman was wiser. Although his hunger was great at this recent point of his return, his mind was sharper than ever. Electing to learn from this mistake, he'd not just kill them. And drain them. He'd do it quickly. He'd hang them upside them and slowly bleed them from their neck to keep his glass fill. He'd mix their blood with human, and he'd get his own little room of traitors. Most of them were believed to be dead. Some were believed to have escaped.
Sulaiman began his reign by sowing fear, by reviving respect. By becoming great again, even if it would be slowly, and it'd be in a way that made sense only to him. Sulaiman would hire witches. As he grew older, and years passed, he hungered after a way of preserving the force of his foes, and to be able to suck it in and keep himself stronger. He had wanted this new body... but he wanted power, as well. He shamed he'd sacrificed his previous skill. He wanted to be above all. And he'd feed himself on his enemies, and he'd do it cruelly, but without laughing. To him, his throne would have to sit on all those who thought to take it from him. He'd punish, but he'd punish fairly. In his eyes, he believed that by turning his opponents into mere cattle showed them what they used to be before he inspired their ascension into a vampire.
They owed him.
And Sulaiman wouldn't let them forget it.
The cult dwindled to forty, eventually. It was still going strong, and purposefully Sulaiman kept the news of his return secret. He stayed in Spain for a while, for a good few decades, before he realized that he actually missed this place he'd called his home for a while before his eventual awakening. He wanted to go back.
Sulaiman would return back to Mauretania, a province of Roman, there proving the most troubling and unusual ability to feel fondness towards other than himself. He spent several decades there, traveling between it and what would become future Spain at numerous points, using most time to grow in power and relearn focus. Little of his ways changed. Although, as it would turn out, being reborn did humble him in a part, and change him in another, he was still both largely himself and a bit of a different man. Those that had been close to him recognized him in every he did. They would also claim that there was an otherness to his character clearly stemming from his rebirth.
Sulaiman would take them and his little cult/nest as he traveled East of his home in 200s, skirting all of the coastal provinces of Rome found in Africa until he reached Arabia. He visited Library of Alexandria. Stayed there for a while. From there, he sailed north, finding himself in what would later adopt the name of Turkey, and began to traverse all of the Roman Empire whilst it was alive. In some places he'd stay several years. In some, weeks. It depended. He traveled all of the Empire, though avoided wars where they happened. Such a turmoil and any direct involvement were a bad choice. Sulaiman was mostly smart. He picked up new faces where he went, although we early on began to naturally turn away from turning others. He had his most trusted, he needed fresh blood but his legacy would no longer rest in those he sired, but his actions. His own sired others. Sometimes on his orders. Other times, he had the potentials murdered by the means of declining the request of turning them. Other times, not.
When the Roman Empire separated into two, Sulaiman didn't doubt that only one would prevail over the other, and though he spent a good few decades in the Eastern one, as the one on the West rushed towards its ultimate end, he relocated there, lived in the Kingdom of the Suebi, the first Kingdom to separate from the Roman Empire and gain independence. He remained there even as it was later made into the sixth province of the Visigothic Kingdom of Hispania in 585. He maintained position well until 712, living in the northern region called the Kingdom of Asturias which was established after the Umayyad conquest of Hispania, until he traveled out once more and away from the religions; they'd prove fatal, and Sulaiman wasn't keen to tease their power. Passing through Francia as it too fought against the Umayyad conquest, he traveled for a short while, first finding himself deep inland, before aiming south of his position, skirting the borders of the Byzantine Empire and trespassing into its territory. It was fairly weakened by then, but he'd exist in modern day Turkey from 714 for a long while. There was so much to do.
He dabbled in art and literature, actually, becoming one of its beloved artists artistic expression was often means of luring in people, stealing attention, power, testing his own limits and even just actual pleasure. His cult, by then, was quite weakened. Many had just genuinely died due to alternating circumstances; their own choice, their arrogance, a mere misstep-- Sulaiman's closest also dwindled in numbers, the times culled them like sheep but the core remained, and when he sent out some out to spread word of power, belonging, and everything that their kind missed, it necessarily removed a good number of his bodyguards, but Sulaiman wasn't shy to make more. In Turkey, his power would shrink and then grow, shrink and then grow depending on who crossed him, and what happened. He mostly remained in Constantinople though it wasn't always, and not consistently his home through his stay there. He was never to be seen, for example, when the Crusades were happening. Although Christianity winning did go against his great plan, whatever it was, he actually wasn't stupid enough to mingle with the fighting mortals.
He wasn't there for Latin Empire either for example, aka when Constantinople was captured after the Fourth Crusade. He was in the Kingdom of Italy, though then it was a part of the Holy Roman Empire, changing places of residence several times and definitely dodging the ever ambitious England and France. When the plague hit, again he was nowhere to be seen though he'd return to Italy, living in Rome since 1400s and enjoying the most of Italian Renaissance. Somehow, he'd changed a lot of his ways in the meantime. For example, he no longer sent out people to... whatever he used to tell them to do, he hadn't in over two centuries at that point though he was always a part of a nest, his neck, however big and small and only because he was smartly avoiding teasing the whole madness thing he didn't want to get in in way once more. But he seemed humbler even, less of a megalomaniac as though the centuries art had tamed his soul somehow...
... Nah. But his priorities had shifted and the sort of a monster he was evolving into would not need cheap manpower to add to his influence. His closest were still by his side. Now, only twenty remained, and then some others who came and went in time. But Rome was gorgeous. And in there, for a genuinely long while he remained. Doing what? Moving the underground of the world, being a figure of mystique who took refuge in there and was just a rumor. Many would end up hearing about him over the years. Many would end up looking for him. Meet him face to face and not know it was him. He became a mystery, one that many rumored should never be cracked and discovered since who knew if it wasn't be a door out of whatever was keeping him underground, and one also sought after just to be understood, to see if anything held true at all that people whispered. Personally, Sulaiman didn't mind. By then, he wasn't even Sulaiman. He was Silvanus since the 1400s, and from 1600 point on--
Silvano, or Silvo as he was typically called, didn't change his MO greatly over the years though as before he continued to evolve. In his behavior, he seemed somewhere between a calm, seemingly generous benefactor often inserting himself in the plights of others from distance. But at the same, he manipulated a great many people from the same distance, and wasn't shy to kill when it suited him. When he traveled to China in 1700s, staying there for several decades, he discovered his true calling, and the final direction of his philosophy. Yin-yang.
He reigned a cold and bloodied reign in China, learned from their philosophy, embraced their language, visited the very far corners of the country, and it'd be also the time that he came most in contact with the fae. It was in the 1700 that the supernaturals came out, as well. A fact that he ignored, not caring to reveal his own nature. But it would be the time of tangles with the faes, over land, over beliefs, over rumors, over killing their own, and a lot of microwars with their kind he'd conduct in a land neither could claim as their own although it was more his than it'd be ever theirs. It'd be there that he gained a lot of fae friends, a lot of fae enemies, emerging himself in turmoil with peoples from behind the veil and receiving the due recognition from some of them that would curl his mouth in amusement. After many years of killing their own and losing his, they'd agree on a treaty... some form of it, and after all it wasn't a treat with their king or queen, just a small... detached partition of them. It was a chapter like from a fantasy tale.
He was its villain.
From China to every end of Asia, until he circled back whence he'd come from, and in 1861, he returned to his once home. In Italy he lingered only for a bit longer to tie all the loose ends-- he did also happen to return with more people, increasing the number of his ranks before progressing onward and laying waste to several settlements without purpose. Saving some, grabbing and enticing several to accept the bite and follow. Silvo would never force it on a purpose. The couple of times he let it happen, it was never his blood and he was nonchalant about the situation, though never too impressed. Having been forced into being a vampire in the first place, it hardly tickled him... well, sometimes it did. Choosing to turn deep inland for his next adventure, he traveled north, and ended up walking into the freshly established Austro-Hungarian Empire. It was 1867.
Electing to be viewed as nothing more, nothing else than a foreign delegate, he yielded to his nesting urges and settled in Vienna for many years, enjoying the luxury of the times reserved only for the higher ups. He knew how to... borrow from others but also how to make genuine money. He perused, as was his MO, all the libraries of the land, indulging in his old passion for literature. It was literature and art now. In a way, he actually didn't lie. Although no great foreign land sent him to represent them, Silvano was a foreigner, and the wisdom he had acquired over his travels made him a fascinating attendee of the royal court, and any blue-blooded visitor showing at his door. He lasted there until 1911. He was a confirmed supernatural and in 1890s they whispered he was a vampire. In a world still so-so struggling to accept the influence of these others, it was nothing they wanted to consider honestly, and everything actually real... and unnerving. And exciting.
He was gone out of there years before WWI broke out. He got a bad hunch and was out. He and his nest moved to the US, actually, and while most would have flocked to NY, he passed through it before moving far west, settling in San Francisco in where he's remained since then. His reasons varied. But as in any other city he visited previously, even here he first checked out the underground, getting cozy in its shadows and blending in as hardly a man you'd ever suspect of what he was. He went smartly about his move, too, if just twenty vampires moved here without ado there would hardly be any point in caution. One after another they were summoned, taking several years, five, in fact, to move here in here until nobody was wiser. They all joined either nest, and for many, many long years, Silvo was without one.
In 1920 he joined one. He'd keep up with the pretenses. A lot of about him on the paper is a lie. His name, logically, though people don't get hanged for changing their name.
His age is, though. Who he is. Nobody really knows. In the 1920s his passion for knowledge returned him to human colleges, and although he was saddened slashed amused by the need to go through the country's schooling to be recognized, he also adored the way he was received among the younger students. By 1930, he was teaching. And by 1940 he'd collected a number of titles. He was taking his time. With a degree in history, in literature, liberal arts and history of arts that he all tackled one at a time, though the WWII breaking out did stop his streak, Silvo built himself a man of a mere scholar. Inconspicuous, unassuming, a confirmed supernatural who wasn't letting his otherness speak for him. In 1960, he was a name among the scholars in the city. He was doing what many expected him to; publishing. It seemed to prim and proper in comparison to his past, it almost wasn't him.
Getting the position of the Dean would have been easier maybe had he compelled a few bitches or pushed someone down the stairs. Silvo wanted to get nice and fair because it tickled his ego. And in 1986 during a lovely event organized by the city, he received a most disappointing news of the previous Dean's resignation, very sad, but this would mean his interest in taking the position could very well be his after all this hard, hard, haaaard work he had done for the school, tsk.
He got it in the same year.