Age: 51 (The effects of aging have been nullified due to the Spell of Life therefore he retains the appearance of someone in their early-twenties ) Species: Amenti Dynasty: Sakhmu Hekau (Magical Path): Effigy
Powers/Skill: Dorian is an Amenti (also known as an undying), which is the outcome of the Great Rite where the spiritual remnants (Tem-akh) of a mummy from the Dark Kingdom of Sand binds with the recently deceased soul of a mortal who has Hamartia (or a hole within the soul). Unlike Vampires, Amenti are alive; as the have been restored to everlasting life by the Great Rite. Therefore, like mortals the need to eat, sleep, and breathe. Though, they no longer age and retain the vitality of a young adult. The physical vessel of an undying can be destroyed on this plane of existence like any mortal, but the Spell of Life ensures that they be resurrected. However, for an Amenti to experience true death one would have to either employ powerful spells/ rituals or expose the Amenti to a nuclear strike. In the hierarchy of the Amenti Dorian’s dynasty was determined to Sakhmu, which instills him with a powerful Khu (auru) allowing him to gain greater insight into matters than other Amenti. However, this powerful Khu makes him uniquely memorable even to mortals and it is impossible for himto go anywhere unnoticed. Effigy is magical path governing connections between things. Dorian can extend Sekhem (Lifeforce) to create small figures known as Ushabti to serve a servants, spies, or even soldiers. He can also craft a miniature replica of an relatively complex object (like a sword or a car) that can be turned into a full-sized object when activated.
Appearance: Before his re-emergence Dorian carried himself like royalty with an air of pretentiousness; he was a finicky and precise dresser, only clothing himself in the finest garments money could buy. His visage was usually plastered with a look of smug assurance or haughty boredom. However, since his impromptu sabbatical in Egypt something clearly changed about Dorian. He no longer walks with his nose in the air, he instead moves with unexpected humility and obeisance. The emotional mask he wore around others has given way to displays of genuine emotion. When he needs to exert power in an interaction, he does so subtly by speaking slowly and deliberately, slowing down the pace of the interaction, making others wait for him. If one were to stare deeply into his pale blue eyes, one could almost become lost in them; they are confident yet comforting. Despite the changes in his demeanor after his “trip” Dorian retained his alluring androgyny.
Before his overdose and subsequent death Dorian lived a lavish lifestyle on his parent’s dime and certainly was not afraid to flaunt it; humility and humbleness were virtues unknown to him at the time. He found humor and pleasure in his cruelty towards others. People were disposable to Dorian, even those he is initially attracted to, there exists plenty of spurned lovers of his whom he rid himself of when the initial thrill of relationship subsided .The vastness of his parents’ coffers only fueled his persistent lack of ambition. Being narcissistic he was intrinsically afraid of failure and could not accept even the slightest piece of constructive criticism.; he exclusively surrounded himself with flatterers and bootlickers in order to never be challenged.
However, after readily accepting the offer of another chance at life as proposed by a Tem-akh he was fundamentally changed as his soul was relived of Hamartia and his eyes were opened to the reality of the world around him; everything…everyone was connected. How could have he been so self-centered before? Though as a mortal he never heard of Ma'at (the cosmic principle of virtue, justice and balance), it still beckoned to him and throughout his life he purposely ignored its call to instead pursue his vices. He joyfully wept at the thought of redemption. After years spent in Egypt after completing his Hajj Dorian returned to Los Angles with a new outlook on existence. His smugness was replaced with sincerity, his ennui with enthusiasm, his emptiness with fullness. His proverbial cup was running over with unbridled passion and boundless creativity. For the first time in his life Dorian had a purpose. He is a gentler wiser person than he once was. He is no longer a slave to his vices and addictions.
Dorian was born into a life of wealth and privilege; the first-born son of a famous political family he was dotted on by his parents. The Amarinth political dynasty in California spans about a century in length and young Dorian was expected to carry on the family business per say. He spent his formative years having his every whim tended to by an army of servants and learning from the best tutors’ money could buy. He began drinking heavily and experimenting with heroin even before enrolling at Yale, and had an unsuccessful stint in rehab during his first semester. The responsibility for gaining a future political position was thrusted on to his more capable younger brother Oliver. Once he dropped out of university he was practically disowned by his family but was never officially cut off of his parents money in exchange for staying out of the spotlight.
With a practically unlimited budget Dorian retreated further into his vices died of and in a flophouse bathroom on the eve of his twenty-first birthday he succumbed to an accidental overdose of a mix of drugs including heroin, cocaine and amphetamines. He was for all intents and purposes dead. However, before his soul could be judged he was approached by a Tem-akh who offered to merge with him in order to give him a second chance at life.
When a tem-akh and a mortal soul join, the process is often traumatic for the mortal soul which temporarily cedes control of their body to the Tem-akh. The Tem-akh has control over the body and attempts to travel to Egypt to receive to receive the Spell of Life; this journey, is called the Hajj. Despite the low success rate the Tem-akh with help from those agents in the employ of the Ashukhi Corporation managed to reach Egypt to receive the Spell of Life and cement the bond.
Dorian Amarinth spent thirty years in Alexandria training and accumulating to his new eternal existence. He came to view the city as his second home, but Amenti are not expected to stay within the Web of Faith forever; reborn they have to leave the proverbial womb eventually. He was sent to help the Amenti and their allies gain a foothold in Los Angeles by driving out the minions in service to Apophis’ champion Set.
It normally appears to be a small hand-carved figurine of a Baboon, but Dorian can will the trinket to take the form of a living baboon servant. Once transformed the Ushabti would grow in size and would be indistinguishable from a flesh and blood baboon. He affectionately calls him Zaius.
Name: Oliver Amarinth
Occupation: Representative for California's 34th congressional district
The second-born son of a famous political family. Oliver attended military college at The Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina. Due to his stellar grades, he was accepted and graduated from Harvard Law School. The Amarinth political dynasty in California spans about a century in length and young Oliver was expected to carry on the family business in his brother’s stead. He always despised his older brother and was happy to overtake him as the prodigy of the family. When his lush of a brother disappeared all those years ago Oliver certainly shed no tears. After a few political setbacks at the age of 31 launched a successful bid for a seat in the United States House of Representatives. An intricate schemer Oliver worked with the various factions of Los Angeles to ensure his victory, though he is still unaware of their supernatural origins. An envelope recently arrived from a trusted benefactor while he was Washington helping to draft legislation, it contained a time-stamped polaroid of a figure resembling his presumed deceased brother departing a plane at Los Angeles International Airport; on the back of the picture written in black sharpie was a number to call. After a brief conversation Oliver was on a plane heading back to Los Angeles.
Name: Selim Basara
Occupation: Human Resources Agent for the Ashukhi Corporation
Selim Basara is officially listed as Egyptian National in the employ of Los Angeles branch of the Ashukhi Corporation; he allegedly works in the human resources department, but it seems he never has office hours. Selim Basara is Dorian’s official minder and bodyguard for the time being. He is not only there to help the Amenti gain a foothold in Los Angeles by driving out the minions in service to Apophis’ champion Set, but to also ensure that Dorian does not stray from the path of balance. A deeply religious man one can usual find him in the local mosque embroiled in a lengthy discussion with the Imam during his limited free time. He shares little about himself or his past, but it can be gleaned that he underwent some type of military training at some point during his life.
Tribe: Bone Gnawers
Occupation: Leader of the "Diamond Dogs"
If the Bone Gnawers are considered the lowest rung of werewolf society then in hierarchy of those supernatural elements present in Los Angeles the "Diamond Dogs" would be the lowest rung of the lowest rung; even amongst other Bone Gnawers they are considered a joke much to the chargin of the leader of the street gang Sings-In-Shadows.
Sings-In-Shadows status as orphan given up at birth, is the lens through which he views society; despite his usual sardonic demeanor he intrinsically longs for connection and acceptance. Originally from Michgan he was shuffled around the state's Foster care system for years until he was placed in a youth detention center for petty crimes; in retrospect the youth's behavioural problems probably stemmed from his werewolf heritage. This rejection bred a lingering contempt for humanity and a society that he could never be a part of. He experienced his first change after escaping the confines of the reform school. On the run from the law he encountered a group of wandering Bone Gnawers amongst the dirfters he encountered; they sheltered him from the hardships of the road and took him in as kin. Eventually the group made it to Los Angeles where they incorporated themselves into larger Bone Gnawer community there.
It was purely by hapenstance that Sings-In-Shadows and the "Diamond Dogs" became involved with the Ashukhi Corporation; the group managed to intercept a correspondence meant for a rival gang offering them employment as emissarys and fact finders. Filled with previouly unknown charisma and charm Sings-In-Shadows managed to hoodwink the odd foreigners into using his gang instead.
As of late Sings-In-Shadows finds himself mesmerized by Dorian, who recently arrived from Egypt a few weeks ago. People seem naturally drawn to the mysterious figure as opposed Sings-In-Shadows whose curse drives most people away. He has been trying to talk to Dorian without his chaperone present in order to discover his secret.
Esmé lay on the floor motionless for a few seconds before he let out a barrage of coughs, allowing the fresh oxygen to enter his lungs. It was a welcome sensation to say the least. Oh, how he missed the ability to voluntarily breathe. Of course, his masterstroke worked like a charm and the hideous hussy released him from her death grip. It was just natural that his innate majesty would overpower her simple peasant brain. That wicked women probably went of somewhere to wilt after witnessing such a spectacular display of power knowing full well that she could never top it. Even if she dedicated the rest of her pathetic existence to improving her quite limited skill set all her future efforts would still fall short of his glory as he was the Sun King and she was nothing. It would probably kill her to know that this was just the tip of the iceberg regarding his powers; unlike her who clearly peaked his potential was unlimited. Vile degenerate. How dare she lay one of her dirty fingers upon him as who knows where it has been. Probably somewhere filthy. At this moment he absolutely loathed her. Because of her unprovoked assault on his personage his outfit was undoubtedly ruined, and he had to temporarily blind himself. Bon, très bon. He wasn’t particularly planning on exerting himself today. Last time he would attempt to offer any of his treasured advice to these plebeians as it was clear it was going over their empty heads. He made a mental note to use smaller words when he was forced to interact with these simpletons lest they become enraged at what they could not understand.
He was aware that some other imbecile entered this den of horrors sprouting off profanities in an immature cadence while looking to do God knows what to his prone body. Ah, it seemed this loose coalition had another genius amongst its ranks. Marvelous. Simply Marvelous.
On the subject of rather irritating morons that populated this merry band of rejects Esmé could not help briefly thinking of the embodiment of annoyance that was Monsieur Jacques. If he was recalling correctly the braggart's power was to do machines or something to that effect. The oblivious twit only mentioned it at like every possible opportunity, so Esmé begin to just tune out the fool's hotdogging and grandstanding. Similar to a child seeking attention it was sad and rather pathetic. If his recollection was indeed true, he regretted not demanding that the pompous tryhard make him a pair of glasses that could reduce the side effects of his light manipulation. Regular sunglasses could only do so much and temporarily blinding himself was an inconvenience to say the least, though maybe it was preferable to engaging with the walking toolbox and hear him prattle on endlessly. Esmé considered telling the self-aggrandizer to tone his cool guy personality down about roughly ten to twenty percent, but he tired of expending his good advice on those that did not deserve it.
His train of thought was interrupted by some booming voice echoing from outside claiming to be from that alphabet soup agency from the conspiracy theories that dealt with all the mutants and chuds. As if anyone would fall for that apparent trick. Esmé audibly sighed. What this sad bitch needed right now was a big box full of blow. Cocaine always made things more tolerable around here and this lucky bitch new where to find some.
After a few unsuccessful tries Esmé still relatively blind rose to his feet. It was time to leave this mess in the not so capable hands of whomever this third person was. Stumbling and teetering he made his way to the doorway arms outstretched. He arms eventually made contact with whomever was blocking the doorway.
“Excusez-moi. As you can clearly see, we have quite the emergency as your beloved teammate and overall ungrateful…”, Esmé does not even finish his insult or wait for a reply as he pushes his way past the figure in the doorway.
As he shambles down the hallway only falling and bumping into walls a respectful number of times his vison eventually recovers. He swiftly makes his way to that junkie-from-earlier’s room and enters through the unlocked door. Being sure to close it behind him he begins to sift through her meager belongings. Ugh, she did not own one cute top that he could confiscate. For real. What a train wreck, who owns just t-shirts and jeans. Poor thing certainly needed a fashion intervention as half of this wardrobe seriously needed to be discarded. After what seemed like eons searching through what he presumed was trash Esmé came across a seemingly discarded small baggie of something white and powdery. Was it Christmas already?
“Oh, Esmé. You naughty bitch”, he says to himself before placing some ‘snowflakes’ on his tongue to determine the purity.
Esmé was shocked, mostly by her rather gruesome appearance rather than extent of her injuries. He thought he specifically told the Herb Hooker to verbally tell him of any disfigurements before letting him gaze upon her. He was about to chastise her about it, but that is when she lunged at him. Caught up formulating further critiques of her unsightly countenance Esmé had no time to offer up a proper defense. He was certainly surprised to say the least.
As he felt her hands wrap around his neck Esmé felt revulsion at the fact that a woman was touching him, worse yet a woman with such filthy hands. He always presumed that cleaning under one’s fingernails was a given, but the depravity was the underclass apparently knew no bounds. And the less he thought about her open wounds oozing in his general vicinity the better. Oh, god did the filthy degenerate want him intimately. He knew he was rather irresistible, but he was way out of her league. He would have let out a scream if he was not being strangled.
He attempted to struggle against her grip, but it was unsuccessful, a pathetic display really. She had him pinned down and there was little he could do. As he slowly lost the will to fight back as the oxygen depleted, he felt a righteous frustration. How dare this plebeian insect dare attack him. He was her rightful better, she should be in awe of his majesty. Well, at least he would make a beautiful corpse on such a nice day. The birds were chirping and the Sun was shining in through the hole in the wall. Sun…Light. Oh, right he had powers.
Using his little remaining strength. He focused on an area between his face and his attacker's. It was his last chance before he suffocated. Manipulating the light would temporarily blind them both and hopefully she would let go of his neck in shock. And if that failed at least he could die not seeing her haunting visage. He smirked as the light between them erupted like a silent flash bang.
Esmé suddenly found himself ungracefully positioned on the floor of the bathroom; his ringing ears and pounding head told him that there was some sort of explosion. Oh, God these bloodthirsty morons are going to get him killed. “Typical Americans, always looking to make every single confrontation into the Alamo. It is like they never heard of gracefully making an exit.” Esmé muttered under his breath as he shakily rose to his feet.
He felt relatively unharmed, but upon closer inspection much to his horror he chipped a nail on his left hand. “Merde Merde Merde”, he swore in anger.
Where was he going to find a skilled beauty technician in these trying times. This was truly the most grievous injury received in this conflict for sure. Savages, the lot of them. The thought of the bunch of barbarians killing each other outside over some petty disagreement that they could barely comprehend only slightly improved his ever-souring disposition. Now would certainly be an ideal time to slip away before the rival gang of brutes associated him with these delta-human dummies. He secretly stashed away a Comme des Garçons overnight bag just for occasions such as this. He swore to himself he would only take the essentials, but who was he kidding everything he owned could be considered essential. It would be a heartbreaking process to sift through his numerous possessions again and only keep what he could comfortably carry in his luxury overnight bag. Esmé vowed to burn what clothes he couldn’t carry as to protect them from the less fashionable. He was sure even God couldn’t tolerate the unfashionable and there was a special spot in damnation saved for them.
Before he could slink to his woefully dismal quarters and start the tedious process of packing. He felt a tinge of morbid curiosity coupled with the uneasy feeling regarding what the group of degenerates would do him if he was caught deserting in a time of conflict. He peeked his head out the bathroom and once assured of his safety made his way down the hall. He peered in the rooms he passed guaranteeing that they were indeed empty. He pauses when he gets to near a room that looks like it has certainly seen better days. Looked like it was torched and bullet riddled, probably one of those ingrates’ meth lab exploded. Now which of those dullards occupied this room. He crouches down outside the charred entrance to the room ready to run back to safety a moments notice.
“Umm…Mademoiselle…Uh…Plant Person…Vine Vixen…Weed Wretch…Hollyhock Harlot…no, let me guess your name is probably something pedestrian like Rose. Ha! How droll. Well, anyways regardless of your uninspiring name I am just ensuring that your dea…okay. Just checking your condition before I escap...help the others. If you’re not dying and need assistance, make some kind of noise. No, no sweetie I am not an angel just your bett…teammate. Well, ‘teammate’ probably elicits a stronger connotation then we have, I would say ‘associate’ is a better word in this case. If you think that your current situation would make me ill fellow associate, please also indicate that. Like I do not handle hideous deformities well. I mean, to be perfectly honest I normally find your fashion sense and looks to be a peg or two above absolutely revolting but compared to the rest of the reprobates that populate this establishment you are stunning. You don’t hold a candle to me, but then again who does. What I am saying darling is when you put in the effort you certainly look decent. I consider myself a bleeding heart when it comes charity cases such as yours, so if you want you could certainly hit me up for some fashion tips if you’re not dead that is. Shame, we can’t do anything about the height, though it could be a hidden strength in the right hands. Oh, listen to me prattle on. You’re probably dead though. Here I am talking to a corpse or a soon to be corpse and wasting all my good advice. C'est la vie. If it is any condolence my nail was chipped earlier, I find our two regrettable situations to be comparable. Well not really.”
Esmé was engrossed in a trashy romance novel when the shots rang out. Slowly inching towards the window he mirthlessly smiled as he observed the confrontation between the garishly dressed individuals from the relative safety of the rundown room he currently occupied. Usually he wouldn’t be caught dead in a flop-house such as this, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He winced as he heard one of the drug addled derelicts that he was forced to share this shack with roll out of bed. Typical delta-human junkie. As he listened to her pass he briefly considered scoping out her room for some cocaine for himself to ease his ennui, but decided against doing so while she was still alive as not to trigger the intrinsic animalistic violence that he presumed existed inside any lower class person. He heard the clamor of others jumping to action and assumed if he lived such a miserable existence as of the lot of them, he would have a death wish as well.
He audibly sighed as he ruminated on the past few months. When, the crisis hit the first few days were a haze of drug inhalation and intimate encounters; it was like a holiday in pagan Rome for Esmé and his well to do cohorts. Despite the loss of his club in the disaster, social order hadn’t collapsed yet. Though a lot of people lowered their inhibitions, he even managed have a tryst with of all people Issac Crawford; which if you travelled in Esmé circles was a huge accomplishment because supposedly the only man in Issac’s life he was intimate with was Jesus Christ. He bit his bottom lip; those were good times indeed. It was a shame that the poors had to ruin all of fun. It was natural for the lower classes to be jealous of the opulence of the rich, but the police were supposed to maintain social order when all else failed. Esmé thought the LAPD should have used more force to ensure the groveling masses returned to work and ceased rioting. Because of their incompetence he was stuck in this decaying city until his parents found a way to get him out. He was more than willing to call this American experiment a bust and return to France; the first thing he would do when he returned to his homeland would be to go to Paris and start the arduous process of rebuilding his wardrobe.
He looked around at his numerous possessions. All things considered he managed to accumulate a sizable selection of outfits living in the hovel much to the chagrin of the others. It is like they all expected him to exert himself in gathering things for communal use. As if. Why put in effort in providing for inferiors, he is indispensable while they are not. Though he learned not to verbalize such thoughts, lest he get a tongue lashing from one of these deviants. He decided to show restraint and hold his tongue with these degenerates, until the moment a better opportunity with more civilized individuals presented itself.
Being careful to keep his head low and make as little noise as possible he managed to pick out an outfit that summed up his mood as of late. Ivory Slim-Fit Tapered Wool Suit Trousers, Wyatt Suede Chelsea Boots, a 14-Karat Gold Diamond Bracelet, and a pink Cotton-Gauze T-Shirt with the phrase “Let them Eat Cake” printed on the front in white lettering. He made his way to a bathroom and changed clothes. Despite the situation clearly requiring urgency he was taking his time not only perfecting his look, but clearly stalling so others could deal with the potentially messy situation. He thought about snooping around some of the others’ rooms again. One of these lowlifes were bound to have some cocaine hidden away or coffee. Oh god, he missed a good espresso. The group needed to acquire him an espresso machine. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror for longer than is healthy and once done admiring himself wondered if it was worth the risk to go back to his room and pick out some lipstick.
" Why yes, I do quite enjoy being the living embodiment of everything you are not."
▼ | BIRTH NAME : |
Esmé Mercier Delacroix
▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |
The Sun King- A self-proclaimed title due to his ability to manipulate light. While, he quite enjoys being addressed as ‘Your Majesty’ by those he considers beneath him few outside of a handful of devoted sycophants do so without prompting or implied sarcasm.
▼ | GENDER : |
▼ | AGE : |
⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷
"If you are going to ogle me at least wipe the drool from your mouth first b**ch."
▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |
▸ HEIGHT : | 6’0 ft. ▸ WEIGHT : | 140 lbs. ▸ ETHNICITY : | French. ▸ HAIR COLOR : | Black. ▸ EYE COLOR : | Blue.
▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |
Esmé carries himself like royalty with an air of pretentiousness; he acts like he owns everything and everyone in any room he happens to walk into. He exudes an aurora of unearned pride and pomposity, even if the situation does not warrant such a display. Even his body posture during daily conversations betrays his arrogance; his arms are usually crossed, and he only makes eye contact with others to display dominance or to inspire fear. He is fond of overexaggerated displays of impatience such as rolling his eyes or audibly sighing. His visage is usually plastered with a look of smug assurance or haughty boredom; the type of looks that are highly irritating to most people. Prolonged exposure to extreme annoyance causes him involuntary facial tics. Esmé primarily equates one’s personal worth to their physical attractiveness and therefore undergoes an expensive and extensive skincare routine every morning in order to maintain his youthful appearance. He unabashedly adorns his face with high-end makeup to further increase his attractiveness. He is considered conventionally attractive, though quite feminine for a male. He has very soft hands due to his cushy lifestyle. While, as of yet never undergoing conventional plastic surgery he has had Botox injections in the past to reduce the appearance of facial wrinkles. While, no longer in the active fencing circuit, Esmé still practices the diet and workout routines he learned in his youth; this accounts for his slim build and muscular thighs.
▼ | ATTIRE : |
For Esmé possessing an impressive wardrobe is as important as maintaining his physical looks. He loves making an entrance and luxurious attire are a part of that. His personal assortment of clothing only includes pieces from the World’s foremost fashion designers. The only thing he hates more than wearing the same item twice in a row is wearing the same thing as somebody else, he is known to pay designers heftily for one-a-kind outfits. His fashion sense to average person would come off as exorbitantly priced and needlessly flamboyant. Esmé also controversially prefers real animal fur in his clothing, he also is a proponent of using alligator/crocodile leather in boots or handbags.
⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷
" I live in the grip of vice and pleasure. What is so wrong with that?"
▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |
Esmé lives a lavish lifestyle on his parent’s dime and isn’t afraid to flaunt it; humility and humbleness are virtues unknown to him. He finds humor and pleasure in his cruelty towards others. The vastness of his parents’ coffers only fuels his persistent lack of ambition. He is not above feigning progress or lying to his parents to secure his monthly stipend. People in general are disposable to Esmé, even those he is initially attracted to, there exists plenty of spurned lovers of his whom he rid himself of when the initial thrill of relationship subsided. Being as narcissistic and self-centered as he is, he is intrinsically afraid of failure and cannot accept even the slightest piece of constructive criticism.; he exclusively surrounds himself with flatterers and bootlickers in order to never be challenged. If he happens to not get his way, is upstaged, or loses he is prone to throw a tantrum.
▼ | SKILLS : |
Proficiency with a Sabre – Esmé was trained in the art of fencing at starting at a young age, specifically he specialized in using a sabre as opposed to a foil or epee. He was surprisingly competent and in boarding school he even earned accommodations for competing in regional tournaments. Had he further applied himself to the craft and grew out of his immature views on losing, he could have potentially made France’s Olympic Team later in life. However, at eighteen he decided to study abroad in America and lost any passion he had for the sport. For nostalgia purposes, he will sporadically pick up a sabre and spar with an opponent, but only if he is guaranteed a victory over them.
▼ | BACK STORY : |
Esmé was born into a life of wealth and privilege; the only son of a wealthy French shipping magnate he was dotted on by his parents. Due to their problems convincing a child his birth was considered a miracle to his devote Roman-Catholic parents; it is said he simply sparkled when he emerged from his mother’s womb. He spent his early years on his parents’ estate nestled in the heights of Roucas Blanc overlooking the harbor of Marseille; his every whim was catered to by an army of servants. It was here he was instilled with the belief he was better than those around him and others existed to serve him. His parents’ influence enrolled him in the best boarding schools in Europe where he mingled with the upper crust of society. As was a long-standing tradition in his family he was trained in the art of fencing, but Esmé had no love of the sport outside of it being a way to inflict sanctioned violence on others. Esmé manifested a tentative grasp around his powers around this time; he exerted little control over light, but he certainly felt a connection to it. Esmé had of course heard of delta-humans, but from what was circulated about them at the time he considered them to be a mixture of circus freaks and lepers. His fears of being part of the undesirables were dissuaded when he indirectly brought his concerns to Father McDonagh in confession. While far from a devout Catholic as Esmé was quite proud of his sins and vices, he was always respected the majesty and supernatural authority of the church could grant someone. Father McDonagh while confirming Esmé’s suppositions that the large percentage of delta-humans were abominations, also mentioned that God could certainly bestow powers as a sign of His divine favor like He supposedly did with certain characters in the Bible and even members of the pre-revolution nobility. That was all the justification Esmé needed regarding his mysterious powers. He came to the United States at age eighteen to pursue a business degree at Yale on the insistence of his father, but immediately dropped out to pursue a relationship with a male singer in a local punk band that caught his affections. When the relationship ended a year later in a bitter breakup, Esmé who was that point cut off from his parents’ money re-enrolled in order to return to their good graces. His re-enrollment was short lived needless to say as he left to pursue other fleeting passions. At twenty-one he arrived in Los Angeles and convinced his parents to buy him a nightclub to run. While, he shortly became bored of the operations side of his nightclub ‘Versailles’ and passed managerial duties to someone else, he quite enjoyed the social aspect of it. It became a local hotspot for the city’s well-to-dos and in four years Esmé gathered a devoted following of hangers-on, groupies, gold-diggers, and toadies. In certain circles he was relatively famous and Esmé loved the attention. When the buildings began to fall Esmé was predisposed with wooing a prospective future employee of his fine establishment. The naïve thing came all this way to Los Angeles from some fly-over state to pursue his dreams of being a famous moviestar, how quaint. Esmé would be more than happy to offer employment to this future star of stage and screen in the meantime provided the man was able to satisfy his desires. When he relayed his proposition to the starving actor it clearly flustered him. Esmé bit his bottom lip in anticipation. Then the ground began to violently shake.
▼ | PERSONAL ARC : |
Esmé will have to come with terms that post-disaster despite his wealth and privilege there is no special bailout waiting exclusively for him. No special rescue operation is being mounted. His parents’ money cannot buy him reprieve this time. He is the same situation as everyone else stuck in the city, perhaps he is slightly worse off than some as the little social-bonds he had pre-disaster have dissipated; those that were his allies either abandoned him in their own quest for survival or were just unable to adapt to the new order and perished. No one is holding his hand through this crisis.
⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷
" It has been a long time since I had to actually exert myself, but you see the immeasurable gap between us only continues to grow darling. Just give up already."
▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |
▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |
Light Manipulation - Esmé can use and influence visible light to his own benefits. He is able to use pre-existing light to create blinding strobes, flashes, or disorienting displays that are detrimental to other people's equilibrium. He mainly influences ambient lighting to make himself more attractive or create an impromptu spotlight on himself. His powers only further reinforce his delusions that he is superior to the rest of the world.
▼ | LIMITS : |
Esmé can only control existing light as he is unable to spontaneously generate light of his own. He would theoretically be most effective outside in direct sunlight or in well-lit areas. Outside of temporary blinding someone as a prank or manipulating the light in a room to make himself seem more photogenic he has never used his powers in an offensive capacity, so most of his boasts about mastery over light are unproven to say the least. He does not actively practice improving his powerset. He once managed to create a sabre out of light, but the process required intense concentration and the construct lasted for only a brief instant.
▼ | WEAKNESSES : |
Esmé’s powers are a double edged sword as if he happens to be looking directly at the light he is manipulating when making strobes, flashes, or disorienting displays he would be suffer the ill efects as well, such as temporary blindness. His narcissism juxtaposed with his hubris are potentially fatal weaknesses psychologically speaking. He is prone to underestimating those around him as he sees most people as inferiors. Flattery even insincere flattery will endear one to him. He loves to have his ego stroked. He is generally paranoid of those around him, but his regular use of cocaine only heightens this paranoia. He foolishly puts undue trust in those he finds attractive.