Daniel Hamilton Belson

Unknown - Says it's March 17th and whatever year makes him 27 (currently 1997)

Male

Demisexual Biromantic

Bartender

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.

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.

✔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.

_{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.

Dana King - [Not Related]

Faraday Heights - 26B

N/A

Mordred Hame

His Wikipedia Page says December 21, 1990

Male

Pansexual

Musician

Six feet tall but barely a hundred and twenty pounds, Mordred prefers to keep on the waifish side(though his demonic strength ensures that he is still not to be pushed around). His features are immaculate, as is his platinum hair. Though the former is natural(or unnatural, rather), the latter is bleached and has to be meticulously maintained. His natural hair color is more medium brown. He has steely gray eyes and full lips, which tend to be smiling or grinning. His teeth are a break in his perfection; though reasonably straight, they are stained from his long time smoking habit.
His clothes tend on the expensive side, even when they don't look it, and he usually dresses in layers, to allow for multiple pieces in any given "look." During the day, sunglasses are ever present.

Two of those may seem opposed, but Mord is the sort of person who can charm even as he annoys; he makes it endearing. He considers himself larger than life, and sometimes even manages to fit that description. A gregarious person by nature, he likes, and tends to be liked by, crowds, particularly those of the drunk variety. He is a people-pleaser, and though this often leads to altruism and even true compassion, the root of that desire is in the quest for attention.
Mordred's attention seeking behavior is anything but small scale. He's a man(or the approximation of one) who wants to get somewhere, but he's gone backwards before and is wary of it happening again. He'll take a risk, but not before calculating it over and over to himself. Though he's a greed demon, money is just a means to an end for him. He wants fame.

✔People(generally speaking)
✔Colder weather
✔Night Time
✔Smoking
✔Company
✔Nice clothes
✔Cars

✘Intoxication
✘Being alone
✘Sweating in his nice clothes
✘Cats
✘Rain(doesn't mind snow)
✘Waiting for texts
✘Sun glare

About the time his current birth certificate says he came into this world, Mordred was already a failing musician. His persona of the time was a prototype to the one he displays today, with the major discrepancy of being an open occult advocate. He considers that to have been the thing that sank his career at the time. So he bode his time, until the similarities between that old obscure artist and this new up and comer would seem coincidental at most.
His recent incarnation came to light when he joined the nascent London metal band, Cloak of Shame, replacing the less than spectacular lead singer that had been standing in. With his drive, charisma, and otherworldly talents, Mordred has brought the band a good steady string of gigs to line their pockets and get the word out. Very recently, with the reveal of Others to the world at wide, the supernatural themes of their music have become a source of ambivalence among the public that used to frequent their shows. Some have tried to step away from that sort of music, but they have been more than replaced by new fans who want to satisfy their curiosity for the Other in the "safe" setting of a metal concert. This influx has made Mordred(who passes easily for human) consider openly revealing his nature to the public. At the moment, he considers the risk too great, what with the general fear of his kind and those like it. Still, the guaranteed publicity is sorely tempting to him.

None

Not yet decided

Opallum

1936 - Unknown month and day

Male

Heterosexual

Currently unemployed.

Opallum’s assumed form is that of an African male around 5’9” in height with a considerably athletic build and heavy stubble spanning from his sideburns and curving about his chin in a clean, chinstrap fashion. In regards to heftiness, though, Opallum maintains a somewhat healthy body weight of 135 pounds. Age-wise, he looks to be in his early twenties. His posture when standing is upright and resolute, and he sports a fairly large, black afro which retains a relatively kempt and properly picked out fashion. When sauntering about the district of Edgetoun, no matter the weather or day, his body is adorned in baggy khaki pants which is usually a size above his actual fitting, and held up by a gray fabric belt. A plain white tank top covers his torso, and two black, beaded necklaces hang around his neck. The only other type jewelry he has in possession are two gold, hooped earrings which he is always seen wearing. Often, the only type of shoes he's known to slip on are a light brown pair of moccasins or black ankle strap sandals. On most days, Opallum prefers to slip on a pair of overbearing Versace sunglasses.

As for his true form (which isn’t all that impressive), there are few -- but noteworthy -- differences. Stubby tusks protrude from his upper jaw and outwards till it reaches the front of his upper lip, and the color of his eyes are altered -- black sidera, with pupils and irises a distinct carmine color. This form has no real function other than to serve as a means of identification to prove that he is, indeed, an Other, or to intimidate when necessary.

More often than not, Opallum is spotted with a light frown which commonly signifies his usual state of boredom. Even though he's fairly young, all the experiences that he's endured and the individuals he's met have seemed to finally take its toll on him. It's likely that he was far too eager to face the intricacies and wonders of the world in his even more youthful stages of life, and now all those encounters over time -- sensual, combative, or dire -- have ultimately resulted in the exhaustion of his initial fervor.

Opallum's djinn classification is a distinct green, denoting mischievousness and playfulness within the mystical djinn society. Although he might not always seem to fit this frame on the surface, he is, at heart, one who seeks to derive entertainment from those around him and eventful occurrences. Opallum is a djinn who simply tries to enjoy life whenever.

On approach, Opallum is a generally affable fellow. A kind greeting would come to those who wished to speak with him, and he can hold a relatively decent conversation no matter the topic. At any point which he can interact with others tends to alleviate the burdensome wave of ennui that had previously struck, and thus his suffering is lifted for a time. However, if someone manages to bore him (which isn't quite difficult to do), he has no qualms with outright ignoring them and ambling off elsewhere -- one of the ruder gestures he's recently taken up. It's rare to ever see him become enraged or even slightly perturbed, but it is possible if enough effort is exerted in order to invoke that reaction.

✔Spicy and savory foods
✔Humid or mild weather
✔Underground locations and decrepit, rundown city buildings
✔Large dogs (e.g., great danes, mastiffs, and St. Bernards)
✔Dark fruits
✔Wines and sweet liqueurs
✔Loose-fitting clothes
✔House music
✘Felines
✘Horror films
✘Witches
✘Tight or wooly clothing
✘Winter
✘Awkward situations (one thing he really cannot deal with, no matter how many times he's experienced them)
✘Country music

All that was needed to birth Opallum into the Earthen realm was a somewhat medium burst of fire not covering a span of even five square meters in the dank, murky underground of subterranean London’s tunnel system. At first, he was a humanoid being of pure flame, but within less than a minute of existence, the flames cooled, ash and dust from his surroundings began to coagulate about his form, bringing him skin, flesh, and other bodily necessities took their position and resulted in the body which he . The entire process was over in less than two minutes. When he was finally imbued with the concept of sentience, a name reverberated throughout the chambers of his mind: Opallum. The unfamiliar and booming voices were unrelenting in their verbal assailment, until the newborn ifrit had decided to utter the name. It was then that the voices halted. Allowing himself a moment to recuperate, the ifrit staggered back against the curved tunnel wall, very nude and confused. Looking about warily, Opallum murmured a query primarily directed towards himself.

“Now what?”

Since his unexpected birth (and finally managing to escape the vast array of tunnels that obstructed him from reaching the surface), Opallum was able to amass enough knowledge from citizens on the street to gain a fundamental understanding that he should be clothed, first. Afterwards, the rest of his life was spent being a vagabond -- perpetually confused for the first fifty years of his life, Opallum had decided to take advantage of the lack of boundaries and overwatch kept on him and indulged in whatever curious wonders the world were offered. Over time, he picked up on rumors which detailed the existence of Others. Promptly, with an attraction akin to a magnet, Others eventually managed to bump into him throughout his life, and he was exposed to the world of Others. Ghosts, demons, faefolk, and other various types of creatures and eldritch entities were known to him. His endeavor to learn about the world came to a satisfied fruition after gathering enough information on both the psyche and inner workings of the humans and the Others. Still wondering the streets of England, he eventually came upon the somewhat friendly district of Edgetoun.

The idea to stick around for a while rather than move on struck his mind quite suddenly. Others have been spread out in England for quite some time, but now, here in Edgetoun, there was a proper gathering that could potentially usher in a period of peace with their interactions, or one of chaos with a new target being placed on them by humankind. Both outcomes pleased Opallum greatly, and so he decided to stay grounded for the moment, awaiting the introduction of any observable conflict or tranquility.

Father - Nafran
Mother - Mah'jan

Relationship? Opallum is incredibly estranged from the both of them. After his manifestation into the human realm, his parents came to the mutual decision to abandon him and return to enjoying their existence within the ethereal realm of the djinn. Given the exclusivity of these two elder ifrits, not much is known about their nature, personality, or influence.

Homeless.

Novice Fire Evocation Fire evocation is the practice of evoking fire in different shapes and forms from using the infernal energies imbued within an ifrit's body. Due to Opallum's origins as an entity of fire, however, the skill should come naturally . . . Unfortunately, with a lack of training and relative inexperience with his own physiology, the most he can do is light a cigar with a brief spurt of flame.

Flying: The ability to hover and weave through the air with ease is by far one of the more useful abilities Opallum has. While he might not be able to soar up to the clouds and travel through the skies at Superman-level speeds, flight has gotten Opallum out of tense and dangerous situations a multitude of times. Due to his level of skill, though, he may only stay afloat for a maximum of fifteen minutes.