nothingupmysleeve: (dem eyes)
Please talk with me OOC about: plots involving permanent physical or psychic damage or death, mind control or alteration, sexual assault, severe degradation, captivity, enslavement, or sexual kinks. I also prefer to talk about combat scenes so we can keep on the same page. :) Also be aware that Daimon is a very competent telepath and can usually sense when people are trying to use telepathy on him, if not block them. Contact me if your character wants into his mind! 

I will not play out: Gorn, extreme BDSM, anything that belongs in the toilet, rape, intense body horror/mutilation, futa, tentacle porn, bestiality, assumed romance/cr out of nowhere. 

Your characters may freely: debate with, flirt with, propose illegal shenanigans, talk with about any damn thing really, attack, attempt to follow or surprise, cold read/read expressions and body language, hug/make physical contact with, and plausibly use their powers on this character. He can donate blood to a vampire if it's not too messy, though he only does this for friends.

This character has severe problems with: extreme violence, sadism, gore, mental and emotional control and abuse, blood, animal flesh and anything decaying (physical reaction), anyone trying to steal his sparklie.

HMD and IC/OOC Noteboard for Daimon
Please toss up crit, plots, IC/OOC messages, questions, and any other thing you want in comments below.
nothingupmysleeve: (dapper)
London had changed a lot since the century turned, Daimon thought as he stepped out of his hired coach and looked up the grand sweep of stairs leading to Lord Roxbury's mansion. But some things never changed. Here in the Year of Our Lord 1903, rich Westenders still offered up their children to each other like they would any other bribe--selling off daughters and occasionally sons for the sake of money and connections. Granted, they packaged each step of the transaction nicely. Like tonight's gathering: young ladies swanning around in ball gowns, alcohol flowing, more food laid on the dining tables than the whole of the East End saw in three days. Awkward interactions between teens and twentysomethings--and the occasional aging and somewhat predatory widower, whom the girls often tried unsuccessfully to avoid. Lord Roxbury, a skinny half-Frenchman with floppy dark blond hair, a prissy mustache and an annoyingly nasal voice, would be out tonight in force, leering at women a third his age. This despite his fourth wife being in the ground for barely a month. Men like Roxbury were why Daimon hated the rich with such passion. And tonight, he intended to take the bastard down several pegs. 

He tipped his driver well, instructing him in low tones to return at eleven sharp and wait near the servants' entrance at the back of the building, and then loped athletically up the stairs with his cane under his arm, earning a few gasps and comments from the hoi polloi. Let them fuss a little, he thought as he smirked to himself. It was the only warning they were getting of what was to come. His plan was simple: quietly run a telepathic con game against the worst people here, take them for whatever he could, make sure they didn't remember him--and then cap the evening by humiliating Roxbury as an amusing distraction, while he quietly slipped upstairs to replace some of the man's jewel collection with glass replicas.

He heard a few comments on his race as he topped the stairs, and made a mental note of the speakers--an older woman and a nervous redheaded man who turned out to be her son. Hearing "Shouldn't that wog be going in the servants' entrance?" was common to him, but nowadays he didn't have to just put up with it. He paused near a pretty brunette and glanced back at them, a sly smile on his face. Tonight the two were going to get ridiculously drunk and air every bit of dirty laundry their family had gathered for three generations, and she would develop a lingering impulse to punch police officers in the face. He looked between them as they stared at him, and then he turned on his heel and headed inside, pausing only to tip his hat to the young lady.

"Did you see how that bloody Wog looked at me? The nerve of him!" The woman had swelled up to half again her size, looking a bit like an angry pigeon in her lavender and grey ensemble. 

"Yes, Mother, I know, that was terribly rude." The redhead raised his hands in a conciliatory manner, just trying to calm her down before she made a gigantic scene. He was clearly terrified of her.

"I should summon the police at once! People like that should know their pl--" She paused. A puzzled expression crossed her face, and her features and manner relaxed. "...I...Cecil, what was I talking about?"

Cecil looked relieved for a split second--and then the strange confusion settled into his features as well. "I um...well...honestly I can't remember. I must have gotten distracted."

She scowled at him. "Well, come on, then, don't dawdle about like an idiot. We'll catch our deaths out here!" She heaved her way up the stairs, brushing rudely past the young lady near the entrance as she did so. "Mind where you're walking!" she snapped at the girl.
nothingupmysleeve: (Default)
OOC Information
Player Name: Becca
Player Age: won't see thirty again
Player Contact: AIM=doctressamnesia plurk=anakimwriter
Player/Character HMD: here
Other characters in game: none

IC Information
Character Name: Daimon Winter
Character Gender: Male Age: 125 Apparent: 30s
Canon Point: Daimon appears here as he does at the very end of his canon, which is based on a novel of mine I'm currently revising. This allows him to be more settled emotionally, have his alcoholism under control and generally helps him be much more pleasant company. :)

Character History
The Life and Times of a Big-Hearted, Hammy Telepathic Thief )

Character World

The Anakim Universe and How Daimon Gets Along in It )
Character Personality 
Both a naughty kitty and a nice one. )

Character Abilities
Powers, Skills, and Weaknesses )

Character Inventory: Very nice vegan leather jacket, shoes, gloves and wallet, black silk-wool blend trousers and turtleneck, tasteful gold jewelry, silk socks and underthings. Wallet contents include cash, calling cards, condoms and a tiny lockpicking set. Smartphone full of pictures he's snapped of different places on Earth, funny YouTube stuff, legal comics and manga downloads (in Japanese), as well as his recipe database and collection of psych and philosophy e-books.

Daimon's one mystic item is the Necklace of King Ravana, an amulet in the form of a two-inch-long, spectacularly reflective, natural diamond crystal set sturdily in gold and hung from a heavy gold chain. The diamond glows and throws up refracted copies of Daimon's face around his head when used, and he generally only resorts to it in emergencies. The Necklace holds a portion of Ravana's power, and is used as a power amplifier, also giving him access to his shapeshifting ability while wearing it. Daimon is very protective of it and never lets anyone else use it, usually masking it in an illusion to make it look like an ordinary charm. However, it stands out a little to both magic and psychic sensitives. Daimon always knows where the necklace is, and can project his mind through the stone. Touching the diamond, especially when he is wearing it, forces a temporary psychic link between the character and Daimon, which will be disorienting and uncomfortable for both unless entered willingly.

Daimon, newly arrived and taking it fairly well, takes time out to help a young lion feel a bit more settled.

Daimon sat quietly on a bench in one of the small parks, watching a rainbow of what looked like large fantailed goldfish chase the crumbs he tossed in. Their minds were so simple--their memories short, their emotional needs easily satisfied. A few crumbs of bread put them into an excited bliss comparable to that of a golden retriever puppy with a new ball. Their environment was always new and exciting to them, and every time the sunlight danced on the water or they managed to catch a bug, it was the first time.

Focusing on them, on the low-level mental landscape of fish and birds and the occasional squirrel or roving dog, he was able to get his mind off the dreams that had woken him up that morning. But not for long. He had been here two days, sleeping in that strange bed, and last night he had dreamed of being back home--home, with his duties and fears, and both his friends and those who had hurt him the most. Yet what he had felt most upon waking was not, surprisingly, regret that the dream wasn't real. Instead, it was relief.

Relief to be away from the endless struggle and risk of his work, away from having to deal with Lilith, from having to watch Cerise and Morgan look at him like a stranger. Relief that he had been dragged off somewhere not-too-bad, out of need instead of malice, with nothing asked of him that wasn't natural for him anyway. It felt like a forced vacation. No, it was a forced vacation.

...or at least, that was what he decided he would take it as. A faint smile returned to his face as he tossed the fish another handful of crumbs. Any worry and guilt for being away from his duties, he could deal with. He always did. For now, he would simply focus on making sure the place really was as nice as it seemed. If it was, he'd do his best to see how he could contribute. If not, well. He was very good at taking care of himself.

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