David Laurids Prinz

David Laurids Prinz carries himself with the quiet gravity of someone who has been shaped by both loss and loyalty. He is a young man forged by hardship—a rugged figure with tanned skin, a square jaw, and sharp gray eyes that seem to pierce through any attempt at deceit. His dark hair is always a mess, like he’s too busy surviving to worry about appearances. The patches on his worn Town Watch jacket mark years of service and struggle; the old knife on his belt is a relic of his father, a constant reminder of the life he lost. To most, he looks like any other watchman—disciplined, dependable, and strong—but those who know him see the deeper cracks beneath that surface.

David’s world has always been defined by duty. His hearing has faded over the years, dulling the chaos of the world into something quieter and lonelier. But where his ears fail him, his eyes take over—keen, analytical, constantly scanning. People say his gaze feels heavy, as if he’s reading their thoughts or anticipating their next move. He’s learned to rely on visual cues, body language, and instinct, which makes him uncannily perceptive, sometimes to an unsettling degree.

He treats his uniform, insignia, and weapons with almost reverent care, polishing them every night as if in prayer. To David, they are not tools—they are gifts of the Watch, symbols of structure and safety in a world gone mad. He believes deeply that no innocent should suffer for the arrogance of the powerful, and it is this belief—his ideal of protection—that drives him forward. The chain of command, the laws of the Watch, the walls of Camp Hope… these are the things that hold civilization together. To question them feels like blasphemy.

And yet, that faith has cost him.

David grew up on the streets after sickness claimed his parents. What little he remembers of them comes in flashes: the smell of medicine, the sound of coughing, the weight of fear. He and his siblings survived the only way they could—together, scraping by, learning to rely on one another. But time and circumstance have driven them apart. His older brother, Markus, still looks after him with that infuriating blend of rivalry and love, always pushing him harder, never letting him forget who came first. His sister, Izzy, refuses to forgive him. She believes he abandoned the family when he joined the Watch, that his loyalty to authority came at the expense of loyalty to blood. And perhaps she’s right.

The deepest wound, however, comes from his youngest brother, Abe. The quiet one. The one who turned out to be an Other. David still remembers the night Abe left for Dark Syde, a sanctuary for those like him. The Watch teaches that Others are dangerous, untrustworthy. But David can’t reconcile that belief with the boy who used to follow him everywhere, the one who laughed at his jokes and looked up to him. Guilt gnaws at him—a constant, silent ache. He wonders if he could have protected Abe, if he could have chosen differently. But then, the chain of command doesn’t allow for “if.” It only allows for “obey.”

Despite the rigid structure of his life, David has found connections that keep him grounded. His closest ally outside his family is Handy Andy, the uncanny automaton who repaired David’s battered truck when no one else could. Their friendship is built on quiet respect; Andy’s precision complements David’s practicality, and the two share long stretches of wordless work in the shop, understanding one another without needing much said.

In the Watch, David’s circle is small but loyal. Jonas “Jono” Keller is the loud one, always humming old-world tunes, his cheer a constant reminder that laughter still has a place even in Camp Hope. Sami DeWitt is his opposite—calm, distant, almost eerie in her awareness. She always seems to sense danger before it arrives, a gift David doesn’t question but deeply respects. Together, they form a strange but capable team.

Then there is Nico Verano. Sharp-minded, confident, and quick with a grin that makes David forget his worries. Their relationship began during training, when Nico started giving him subtle visual cues to compensate for his hearing loss. Over time, those small gestures grew into something more—something they have to hide. In Camp Hope, the Church of Hope frowns upon such love, branding it unnatural. So they keep it secret: shared glances in the barracks, quiet conversations after curfew, a brush of hands during patrol. For David, who has built his life around obedience and duty, Nico is both his greatest comfort and his greatest risk.

David has seen both triumph and tragedy in the line of duty. His bravery during the rescue of civilians from a collapsed building earned him a Medal of Merit, a rare honor among the Watch. But even his accolades can’t drown out the static hum in his ears, the whisper of loss, the doubt that creeps in late at night. His truck—the old, stubborn thing that still sputters to life after a century of rust—is his one sanctuary. He maintains it religiously, the way some people tend to altars. It’s the last piece of his parents he has left.

Beneath all his discipline and duty, David Prinz is a man trying to make sense of a world that took everything from him and demanded more. He believes in protection, in service, in the Watch—but those beliefs are constantly tested by the people he loves and the truths he can’t ignore. Every morning, he straps on his belt, polishes his badge, and steps into the gray light of Camp Hope’s streets. And every night, when the noise fades and the silence presses in, he wonders whether he’s protecting the innocent… or just protecting the illusion that he can.