[h2][center][color=red]Dagmar Hahn[/color][/center][/h2]
[center][img]http://41.media.tumblr.com/502d1c3b3f2007e78568982be4572359/tumblr_nf9o48xNqk1rogx6xo1_1280.png[/img][/center]
[center][quote=Dagmar][i]“Monster. . . ? Ah, those are fighting words, my dear! I’d mind my tone, if I were you - prices aren’t the only thing I can cleave in two, you see!”[/i][/quote][/center]

[b][color=red]Alias[/color][/b]
 
[indent]Monarch[/indent]

[b][color=red]Race[/color][/b]

[indent]Pure-blooded werewolf[/indent]

[b][color=red]Age[/color][/b]

[indent]27[/indent]

[b][color=red]Occupation[/color][/b]

[indent]Information broker/hellraiser[/indent]

[hider=Appearance]
[indent]
[url=http://40.media.tumblr.com/f128beb8f0ba42110eb4e9d889c1bddf/tumblr_nppr1mB5zs1u5mh73o1_400.png]1[/url] | [url=http://41.media.tumblr.com/836a45c6913d144d5541c22e7f3532de/tumblr_njukkbdqha1u5mh73o1_1280.png]2[/url]


Tall and lean, almost unhealthily so, Dagmar possesses a sharp, almost distinguished sort of gauntness about him. This lankiness, born of a preference for sweets absolutely devoid of any nutritional value, a relatively time-consuming occupation, and a lack of interest in food altogether, means Dagmar doesn’t cut much of a figure at all, much less one of an imposing nature. He emanates this unnerving, almost repellent sort of aura - the cheerful sort of defiance that only a hardened criminal or an absolute maniac might bear.

His pale face is molded into lean angles, sharp lines carving out prominent cheekbones and emphasizing his smile. Thin lips usually rest in a cheerful, yet oddly unnerving grin, or wide, unnaturally peppy smile, soured only by the condescending gleam lighting up his eyes. A long, slightly downward-sloping nose partitions his face evenly. He’s got a striking sort of face, unusual enough to be almost attractive - certainly enough to warrant a second look. 

Down-turned, slightly droopy eyes give him a whimsical, casual sort of look. This, paired with his ever-present grin, ought to make him seem warm and friendly, but oddly enough, not a single laugh line marks his face. His eyes themselves are silver and sharp - much like the rest of him - and carry an odd, almost bitter hardness, though only occasionally.

His blond, perpetually tousled wavy hair rests in a mop, falling diagonally across his face, partially obscuring his right eye. The side-swept fringe flips out slightly at the ends, messy in a deliberate, almost artful sort of way.

His voice is a lilting, cheerful sing-song, often condescending and mocking and all kinds of patronizing.

His lycanthropic heritage has bled into his human form, manifesting as a slender, black-furred [url=http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ll08eoebUJ1qk0fwpo1_500.jpg]tail[/url] that protrudes from the base of his spine. The tufted tip is fluffy and swells out into a slight curve.[/indent][/hider]

[hider=Personality]

[indent]It has taken Dagmar a long time to come to terms with the fact people like him were born to end lives. 

Eternally smiling, be it his typical condescending, unsettling grin, a scathing, derisive sneer, or a mutinous, dangerous smirk, Dagmar’s wreathed himself in an air of his own truly baffling whimsy. Working tirelessly to shroud himself in enigma - not for any contrived, cliched desire to be “mysterious”, mind you; he just enjoys seeing the stupid looks of consternation on people’s faces - he imparts little more than the bare minimum on whomever he allies himself with, yet does it in a way that makes it seem like it’s their fault instead of his.

Surprisingly deceptive despite his mischievous, childlike demeanor, Dagmar can effortlessly blend into even the most unlikely crowd. He’s well trained at employing some casual misdirection, be it throwing a stone or offering a few paltry words of incrimination. This lends well to his favorite pastime: popping out of nowhere to frighten the living daylights out of random passersby. There’s something so delightfully comforting about their screams - a joy, really.

Incisive remarks or petty insults don’t really bother him; he’s always got that infuriating grin plastered across his face. Ever the prankster, he’s quite fond of feigning a complacent sort of supremacy to push some buttons, usually addressing the person in question with, “my dear”, to piss them off. He tends to talk down to others as if he’s reprimanding a wayward, unruly toddler. His speech patterns are a tad archaic, as well, and his mannerisms are reminiscent of someone constantly surprised by the stupidity of mankind.

It’s rare to spot Dagmar engaging in the mundane. Even sitting down has to be addressed in the most unorthodox, complicated manner possible. It’s a massive waste of everyone’s time, and he knows it. He despises boredom and reviles all things ordinary, because boredom leads to a wandering mind and a wandering mind leads to wallowing in regret, and he doesn’t much like whining about things he knows he can’t change.

Not all of Dagmar’s childish immaturity is an act, however. He’s actually remarkably obstinate, foolish enough to believe he can shoulder every burden on his own and stubborn enough to do everything himself. His excuse is Mr. One-Man Show can’t have a partner, or else he might actually have to give credit where credit is due, and that’s just a sad, sad travesty. He’d hide an injury to avoid drawing attention, to avoid garnering sympathy, because he believes one who’s committed the same heinous atrocities as he doesn’t deserve the pleasure of a sincere smile. Mr. One-Man Show has got to keep up a good act, after all, right?

He tends to opt for the easy way out, heedless of the consequences, because he’s already got a karmic list a mile long tailing him, so why not see how much of the universe’s luck he can waste on his own, right? Besides, he’s not quite certain he knows what sincerity is - he’s seen it in action, so of course he’s got to believe it exists, but he’s yet to experience it himself. He fancies it’s something like believing in ghosts - futile, fruitless, and an absolute waste of time.

He’s also quite wistful, even if it’s expressed in his own sardonic sort of way; he’s currently attempting to atone for the aforementioned atrocities he’s committed, and if that means death, why, it’s certainly welcome to join him on the ride. (Except not, because while he’d never openly admit it, the man who openly declares his longing for death has seen and caused quite enough of it to know to be terrified to die. Besides, what would a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker like him do with an eternity to himself? Certainly nothing productive, of course!)

Dagmar often refers to himself as a fool - even teasingly - in conversation. Also, he’s quite insulting. For example, upon seeing someone he knows, he might remark, “Oh, why, it seems the circus is in town! What a revolting surprise!”

He’s got a certain disdain for battle and bloodshed, viewing them as uncouth and foolish.[/indent][/hider]

[b][color=red]Bio[/color][/b]

[indent]A purveyor of prevarication. A master of misdirection. A liar. A cheat. A professional ass with more credentials than scruples. 

Donning both a skeleton-print [url=https://31.media.tumblr.com/32a7924a5cd3f47265c3b60b6d981a6f/tumblr_inline_nf9sboSY8c1r6kvq6.png]mask[/url] and the moniker Monarch, Dagmar’s been running covert information operations - everything from blackmail to bartering to besieging distinguished corporations with a battalion of threats and taunts - since his mid-teens. An artisan by trade, he prides himself on weaving only the most ridiculous, devastating tales; he’ll turn an absent-minded typographical error on an advertisement into a conspiracy devoted to the conquering and eventual mutiny of every prominent family, company, and crime syndicate within the immediate vicinity. 

He slanders his opposition with reckless abandon - those who pursue honest labor bear the “truth” of most matters, and therefore pose the greatest threat - delights in publicizing leaked secrets for the entire world to see, and generally possesses approximate knowledge of most of the illicit happenstances cropping up within Santa Somabra’s borders. All of these he’ll share for a fairly hefty price - altruism is certainly a handy attribute, but a virtuous nature doesn’t pay the rent. He is a dastardly, despicable bastard, but he’s a businessman first and foremost. 

However, he may be persuaded into cashing in a certain favor or two and ruining someone entirely free of charge, depending on the nature of the request and the client in question. If he encountered two babies with two different pieces of candy, he’d distract the babies, steal the candy, and swap the pieces just to watch them fight. 

He’s fairly reticent about most facets of his past, but one can infer that, like most residents of good ol’ [i]Satan Soma-blah[/i] (a nickname of his own invention), his upbringing wasn’t all diamond-studded delicacies on a silver platter. A black cloud of rumors swirls around his questionable background like vultures on carrion. The mainstream rumors allege the being known as Monarch has had contact with the Hunters, and the underground whispers say there's a price on his head as large as the werewolf who demands it. Snitches get stitches, as the saying goes. 

He carries a pocket watch - anchored on a golden chain - containing a photograph of a young man with vivid red hair, a wide, radiant grin, and tart green eyes alight with the coy glimmer of mischief. Perhaps this impish fellow plays an important role in Dagmar’s life?[/indent]

[b][color=red]Other[/color][/b] [list]
[*]Dagmar simply abhors the color red - it reminds him of blood, and placing a werewolf in close proximity of any sort of blood has, historically, never ended well. Naturally, he makes a concerted effort to wear it as often as possible. 
[*]Due to Dagmar’s disdain for combat, and the physical enhancements born of his lycanthropic lineage, he remains unarmed at all times. He can't abide heedless bloodshed - has a difficult time maintaining a steady hold on his faculties when he gets a whiff of freshly-spilled blood, you see - and he loathes the acrid reek of gunpowder. 
[*]So as not to remain totally defenseless - he can’t exactly toss someone across a room without arousing some suspicion - Dagmar’s chosen a weapon complementary to his flair for unconventionality. He carries a small bag of individually-wrapped sour candies, most of which contain a deadly poison. The green ones are commonly regarded as the worst, most sordid, vilest-tasting flavor ever to desecrate the sanctity of candy itself, and those are the only ones not tainted. (The green ones are Dagmar’s favorite, and the only ones he’ll eat, so this does wonders for dropping his target’s guard.)
[*]Dagmar has imbibed demon's blood only three times in his entire life - during three extremely dire situations, of course - and all of those times were the only instances in which he instigated the ensuing carnage. He's still haunted by the aftereffects to this day. 
[/list]