Lieu: Faraday; Appartement 26B; Cat s'étirant dans un nouveau jour
Interagir avec: Aila ; Ethan 


"Le dimanche est sombre, mes heures sont sans sommeil, les ombres avec lesquelles je vis sont sans nombre. Les petites fleurs blanches ne vous réveilleront jamais"
Les doux mots de Billie couraient dans la statique de la radio, allongeant le silence sombre installé dans le salon. Anna Ross—Non, ce n'est plus juste. Anna Cooper était assise sur l'extrémité opposée de leur canapé en rotin, un verre de gin dans sa main et ses jambes cousues sous elle, cachées dans un tissu vert mer. Ses paupières étaient fermées, douces dans la lumière jaune qui braillait la pièce, et sa voix sortait dans un hum qui vibrait sa gorge. Une légère teinte de rose a culminé sous son blush et un sourire plus doux a porté sur ses lèvres.
Le calme confortable suspendu dans les nuages de fumée au-dessus d'eux n'a pas trop bien démenti la situation - pourquoi leurs mains remplies d'alcool dur. Daniel avait eu la chance d'être stationné quelque part juste en dehors de Londres, et encore plus chanceux d'être stationné avec le nouveau mari d'Anna. Pourquoi elle n'était pas avec lui, il ne pouvait pas... il ne s'est pas permis de déchiffrer. Il a assis son chapeau sur la table basse en face d'eux et s'est tenu, une profonde respiration laissant dans un sifflement fragile. Anna s'est levée pour rencontrer ses yeux.
« Ce n'est pas aussi mauvais que ça en a l'air », chuchotait-elle, douce sous la voix hantante de Billie Holiday. Daniel a sillonné son front et s'est agenouillé pour voir la contusion qui couvre l'œil droit d'Anna. Pourquoi n'a-t-il pas pris ça? "C'est pas si mal, Danny."
"L'enfer ce n'est pas," il gronda et se tint dans un piège vers le frigo, "vous ne comprenez pas. Tu n'es pas un putain de chasseur MMA, Ethan; tu choisis les combats avec ces connards et je ne peux pas être là tout le temps."
Ethan.
Daniel s'arrêta, un paquet de pois dans sa main et se retourna avec un sillon dans son front. Le garçon en question se tenait maintenant, expression pétulante et ses bras croisés sur sa poitrine. "Ils t'appelaient une fée du goth," la mâchoire d'Ethan s'est serrée et il a pu voir les muscles lisses de son changement de visage et se pencher sur la douleur qui lui a causé, "ils ont oeufé votre voiture. Ils avaient l'intention de vous sauter après Clar...
-- Alors, vous pensiez qu'il était sage de prendre cette raclée pour moi? Daniel l'a coupé, claquant les petits pois sur la table - ça n'a pas vraiment fait le bruit qu'il voulait.
"Ce n'est pas... tu ne comprends pas..."
"Éclairez-moi."
"Ce n'est pas ça. Daniel, arrête de me patronner. Je savais ce que je faisais quand je les approchais. Je le referais encore. Et encore. Et encore. Ne me regarde pas comme ça. Je ne vais pas prendre une autre conférence de toi, quand tu n'es pas meilleur putain"
Respire profondément. Une. Deux. Trois.
C'est arrivé en une semaine. Daniel poussa le talon de ses paumes dans ses yeux et laissa sortir un bâilleur sifflant pendant qu'il s'étirait. L'air frais a frappé la peau exposée, soulevant des boules d'oie le long de la chair de son épaule et de ses bras et descendant ses clavicules dans un frisson. Un autre bâilleur a racké son corps alors que Daniel s'est mis à s'allonger sur son estomac, sentant la longue et profonde poussée de sang qui s'est échauffée jusqu'à ses orteils et à ses doigts et la traction profonde de ses muscles. Son dos s'est cassé et son cou a sauté avant qu'il se considère modérément prêt à s'habiller et à faire face à la journée.
Il ne s'attardait plus sur ses rêves. Ils ne l'ont pas gardé debout la nuit, qu'il a pris comme une bénédiction (ironique) et ils ne l'ont pas vraiment laissé chaud et ennuyé et incapable de regarder son parfait, mâle spécimen d'un colocataire dans les yeux. Aila l'attraperait dans un battement de cœur, soit chorter son chemin à travers la maison ou lui tirer sur des regards de pitié. Daniel ne pouvait pas prendre non plus.
Écrasant sur un pull (jumper, ils l'ont appelé ici), Daniel s'est serré dans le plancher de bois dur et froid de leur salon-cuisine-salle à manger combo, a vu Aila enroulée sur elle-même dans le coin du canapé et a immédiatement su que ce n'était pas une bonne journée pour personne. Il a atteint le dos pour donner à la fille un pic sur la tête et arracher la télécommande de l'intérieur d'un des coussins de siège, a allumé les nouvelles et sourit au café disposé pour lui et Ethan. Il ne serait pas au travail aujourd'hui, du moins pas à moins qu'ils l'appellent, ce qui lui laisse assez de temps pour faire... bien, rien. Probablement pourquoi ils ont aimé l'appeler un chat; il a fait des siestes partout où il le voulait, en plus de tout ce qu'il lui plaisait.
Prenant une profonde inspiration de son café, Daniel savait immédiatement qu'il en aurait besoin de plus. La neige qui faisait rage à l'extérieur signifiait qu'il ne pouvait pas se mettre dans une fumée, même s'il pouvait noyer le friche gelé. Ce n'était plus les années 40 et il aurait probablement une sorte de regard sévère d'Ethan s'il s'éclairait à l'intérieur. Aila ne dirait rien, mais Daniel ne prendrait pas le risque de la mettre mal à l'aise, surtout pas comme ça.
"Tu manges encore, Buttercup?" Il a appelé de chez lui sur l'île de la cuisine, en ramassant son café pour qu'il descende à côté d'elle. Il ne savait pas si elle avait besoin d'espace ou pas, donc il s'est tenu assez près pour le confort, mais pour assez loin pour... bien.. confort. Ses yeux rugissaient au-dessus de ses traits, ce qui ne lui en disait pas grand-chose, mais sa posture raide et éparpillée insinuait une sorte d'inconfort. Ce n'était pas son boulot, ce n'est pas son thérapeute. "Je suis sûr que je peux arracher quelques œufs avant qu'Ethan ne mange tout ce que nous avions stocké."
“When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened. It is sad to go to pieces like this but we all have to do it.”
~ Mark Twain
| Demon | Beelzebub | Envy |

 


| Name |
Daniel Hamilton Belson
| Date of Birth |
Unknown - Says it's March 17th and whatever year makes him 27 (currently 1993)
| Gender |
Male
| Sexuality |
Demisexual Biromantic
| Occupation |
Bartender
| In-Depth Appearance |
Well, it's usually hard to identify any appearance for a shapeshifter of any type, however, Daniel seems to be the exception to that rule. The imagination, even for a demon, can make long strides toward 'perfection' but that's not necessarily what Danny looks for. Maybe perfection in his objective sense, that he's gotten a look that satisfies him on a whole. Even from his weird amnesiac stunt, this seemed to come to the forefront of Danny's mind and that may hint to exactly the type of person Daniel sees in himself.
A 5'11" stature, usually of a lithe, muscular variety (definitely smaller than his health nut of a friend). He keeps his hair short cropped and coiffed too perfection. He's not really a fan of how his grey eyes look, so he doesn't like to bring too much attention to them, which helps when you're perpetually tired with a half-lidded outlook on the world. That being said, Daniel tends to attract darker tones to his wardrobe and he tends to teeter on stylishly posh (hipster is what Ethan calls it) to unbelievable punk that it hurts (he counts how many times Ethan yells for him to turn off the Ramones everyday). His voice comes off baritone, cream and air and just generally very smooth despite his penchant for smoking (his morning voice is what Ethan calls a mix of Boston chain smoking hooker and Gilbert Gottfried; he takes offense to this to the extreme).
Even with the ability to shapeshift and change his form, Daniel seems to find himself unattractive and that could very possibly be rooted in his personality. Regardless, the form he keeps, the one he considers truly him, holds too much sentimental value. What he looks at in the mirror reflects what he used to be back when times were simpler. When a particular gal shot the shit with him in a smoke filled parlor room somewhere in a hotel lobby down in California.
Oddly enough, the form he holds down is actually vaguely reminiscent of what his demonic form looks like. Not much changes on the overall layout. A pair of ram's horns sprout from his temples, curling over his own ears with another sprouting just beside it on his forehead, curving along the skull before pulling up in a point; a dark green, near blackness pools over his eyes, smoking emerald into the air around the corner; black, almost tattoo like lines if not for the sheen of wetness (they aren't actually wet) that makes it look almost like blood coat his body in harsh, jagged, yet symmetrical edges; his hands can curl up into claws that look more like knifes than fingers. Most of all, in and out of his demonic form, Daniel has the flexibility of a cat and often attributes himself to such mannerisms.

  


| Personality |
♦ Snarky ♦ A Punk ♦ Overprotective ♦ Disrespectful ♦
What's there to say?
Not a man on earth that could whip a wit sharper than him. (That's a bold faced lie)
Prickliest might be an apt way of describing Daniel. It's not far off, like the tongue snapping with another remark no one asked for. That turns into a half-smile from his corner with a glass of whiskey and a cigarette for a chaser. Always half-unwanted but always there to throw a comment, a one-liner for effect before that mouth zips shut and his eyes roam. He's an addition, but unforgettable enough to be a regular one. The snark rabble with the leather jacket, often called a joke even if he's far from it. Maybe that's a good definition, not a lie like the ones off his tongue. A regular drifter, finds himself in a group and floats away. Comes back at the same time, wanted or not.
Snark and crass beyond the semi-act that it is, makes a half. The other half sits someone who fancies watching people and remembering. Deep drags of smoke that taste like bombshells and wooden dance floors. Nostalgia makes a big part of the second half. Specific points the float hems of dresses and burning soles on his nose. Having to stand up and act the part, or stand up and ready a fist.
Loyalty. (It's jealousy)
Protection. (That's just another word for overbearing)
Doubts find themselves chilling a glass of hard liquor and shooting a liver that can't help but hate him, even in its lack of decay. Projection staining his teeth with cigarettes because he forgets he can change that smile. All the things that bury an envy for simpler days in his stomach, cause him to look back every chance he gets. Letting go is for children.
| Likes & Dislikes |
✔People Watching
✔Cigarettes
✔Sitting on Balconies Watching Sunsets/Sunrises
✔Mornings
✔Coffee
✔Mints (Cause his breath smells bad from coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol)
✔Hard Liquor
✘Reckless People
✘Doing Dumb Shit
✘Loud/Obvious Assholes
✘People Being Assholes To His Friends (Only he's allowed to be an asshole)
✘Fucking cats man
✘Fae (Not really, just their fucking sparkles getting on everything)
✘Shedding. Fucking Man. Fuck.
| History |
Forget me. Forgive me.
It'll only break smash break your heart
Bleed the sun through the roof red crimson blood maroon
Hot like your skin colored freckled shoulders
Whisper wind whistling in my ears
Cold cold blue cold blue blue blue blue
Yellow sun dress tiny waists
Bleed green shirts green green like eyes like envy
Time frames itself in a circle, sometimes a string; it depends on who you ask. For a primordial being—vanity's close enough, sure—time only means watching mountains waft into dust and mole hills, metaphorical and not, turn into mountains. That doesn't matter much, the old days, that is—it doesn't matter beyond birth, shit happening, and then suddenly modern-times. Well, unimportant to him, at least.
Like any dumb romantic whatsit, the world seemed dull until boom they came in to color the world in pretty reds and blues and yellows. You know, the usual. And yet, he often brushes that moment off like it didn't affect him—like it didn't drive a pole through his blackened heart and colored it red and blue and yellow. They started as friends, meeting in a grocery mart in Sacramento. She worked for a big law firm, a secretary for a man that smelled of Cuban cigars and too much piss-cologne. At that moment, he found work as an editor to a publishing company downtown a few blocks away. They both lived in neighboring apartment complexes in east Sacramento.
She wore knee-length dresses, fitted to the best of her ability around a too thin waist, and an assortment of hats despite her lack of a shoe collection—either the deep, lipstick red heels or black loafers. She'd sing under her breath, whisper tones of Billie Holiday or Bing Crosby. And she'd smile over the kitchen counter, a finger of whiskey in her glass and gossip on her tongue, a complain not far away. He didn't know he'd fallen until she'd slipped out of his fingers, dancing along the floor in red toes and a the hem of her dress caught in her hands, dipped in the arms of another man.
Envy. Funny how it never strolled too far away—his in a green button up, gripping her waist soft but firm.
Opportunity to dissolve into the very being he was created to be came in vast numbers. Yet, he'd been softened, his heart less black than years before. He took none until he found himself vowing to protect the little shred of happiness she'd been awarded. The two, minus he, took up a family before the war hit hard and, well... her happiness meant more than his petty envy, even if he still tempted on the sly.
Protecting not only her, but the man she came to love, all the way in grey toned France remained difficult. He expected such. And when things died down, turned in their favor, he took a chance; he'd be okay, so would she. He wouldn't. A being of his power, well, faking deaths just came natural—natural just another word for simple, in this case. He'd turned up later, boarding a ship out to America with a different face and sought to detach himself from what had driven so deeply in his skin, like barbs on a hook.
Barbs don't leave easy. A year later, he found himself a woman, literally, and bought the empty house across from theirs. And years past. And years past. Everything hurt. And then they didn't. And then they hurt again. Eventually, she died and he moved on to watch her only child. It became a routine, watching a kid grow up and then watching that adult make the same mistakes as their mother or, well, eventually grandmother, and looking back again and again and growing a seed of hatred, letting it blossom and fall away into the eyes of another child.
He was content to do that, sure, until this particular one coming up at age 8 teetering alone on the edge of a playground. A friend. He'd fall for the same shtick again later in life, but the risk was worth it if it just meant this kid could have a friend. He'd promised, held that vow to his heart despite it growing stone cold again. And in doing so, he let everything but the essentials just wash away—things like remember what song she liked to listen to while washing the dishes, or what it was like to see her eyes when she laughed. Everything but a vow and the very important fact that he wasn't human, locked up in a tiny box and shoved in the back of his subconscious for later.
Growing up having to remember to actually, consciously change features into the face he used to have, came easier than expected. Daniel. Daniel Belson. A trouble child who got into too many fights for hanging around a weird kid. Who started fights and thrived off the energy of jealousy they brewed. A little demon and, as the years passed, that realization became a fact even with the lock on his memories, the instinct still remained and the nostalgia, however odd and out of place, staid put. Envy of the past, he called it with a cigarette in his sixteen year old lips, nabbed from a man on the subway after a hasty move to the UK. It made the boy laugh for some reason or other. That's all that mattered.
That's all that ever mattered. Hearing his quiet whispers to Frank Sinatra go into full bursting moans to Adele or Journey. That taste in music could be better, but not as good as seeing a full row of white teeth begging him to join. Daniel followed wherever he'd take them or staid put whenever asked. More swinging, dancing, feet bouncing off hard floor instead of wood in converse instead of dance shoes, throwing back colorful drinks instead of sipping at bourbon. This time he caught himself. Fool thought it would help.
But like a key, the raging storm ready to swallow him and the rest unlocked what he pushed back. And they all flooded in and he reeled back, scared now. His truth came to him as the entire truth flooded the world. Beasts like him with flood lights shone all over cast large shadows that couldn't be painted away. Panic and fear set in people he used to blend in with, a literal demon, black against the backdrop of colorful humanity. And he found himself scared those thoughts of fear and panic would spread to him, of it happening again like a wheel, a circle he found himself slotted in.
Envy, after all, came in green tones.
| Family |
Dana King - 
A young witch who works at a bookshop/book repair shop just a few blocks from the apartments. She lives far enough away that she has to take the subway to work every morning. She stays over if her day ends super late; she brings the cat, who absolutely despises Daniel. Dana also tends to have a bum boyfriend who comes over, one of those 'men stuck out of time' deal from the middle ages. He's odd, but not in the way one would expect; Lionel actually fits in perfectly with this world and that creeps the shit out of Daniel the most. He's quirky and odd and has a penchant for bringing in stray dogs, which doesn't help his situation because Ethan's a fucking dog hoarder too.
| Strengths |
Compulsive Liar
Perceptive
Elusive


| Weaknesses |
Self-Deprecating
Temperamental
Overbearing


 
 


| Theme |
Roses – The Chainsmokers
” Deep in my bones, I can feel you
Take me back to a time only we knew
Hideaway
We could waste the night with an old film
Smoke a little weed on the couch in the back room
Hideaway
Say you'll never let me go ”
| House Number |
Faraday Heights - 26B
| Extra Information |
Shapeshifts, which is really it.
He denies it, but pet his hair and he'll fucking conk out immediately (Ethan says he purrs but that's totally dumb. Stupid. No he doesn't. Shut up.)