Diabolical Daemonic ’s Comments (group member since Dec 07, 2011)

Diabolical Daemonic ’s comments from the The Curse That Keeps Me Bound group.

God be damned, but Chastain had managed to land them a spiffy gig. It wasn't everyday you got to perform at the Eiffel Tower, 'specially if you were a member of Carnaval du Diable. Lucky if you got to stand in a half-baked rock concert most of the time.

But, well, damn things were looking up. Though the suit was a bit annoying, and he wasn't the only one to think so, if the myriad of uncomfortable shuffles were anything to go by.

Playing with her lighter, the residential fire-breather Geneviève looked fit to kill as she cussed lowly beneath her breath. She'd never done good 'round rich dames, really. Made her feel self-concious. Whatever, at least her anger wasn't directed at him, goodness knows he'd had enough strips torn off his hide to last him a good decade.

"Well, ladies and germs, shall we mingle?" Waggling his singed eyebrows with manical glee, Brice (the residential midget) skipped off into the crowd, no doubt to cause mischief.

Shrugging, ever casual, Jean wandered off as the group splintered off, hoping beyond hope that his swords were being carefully handled back-stage.

Okie-dokie~ Would it be all right if I send him as a performer?

SeaTheFiend wrote: "Ezra"

Okay, where's she at?

Cool :) What's her name?

So, anyone willing to take a gander at Jean? He's 27 and a dude, and bisexual :3

Jean-Baptiste Béliveau || 27 || January 22nd || Sideshow Performer || Thou shalt not commit adultery (Lust)

[General Appearance] Though he's never been the fair angel his mother used to tell him stories of, Jean once took strongly after his pale, blue-eyed mother. He was often teased because of this, often referred to by his brothers' as their "sweet little sister." It was degrading for a boy, at any age, and as he got older, he shaved away the blonde curls. Physically, he now resembles his father. He stands at a little over 6'2" and weighs 150 lbs.

[Distinguishing Marks] There are many distinguishing features that makes Jean his own unique bundle of joy, but one of the more prominent marks is the head-to-toe tattooing that he has painstakingly ensured covered every square inch of his body. People really don't get past that, usually. Other than that, he has a septum and bridge piercings (the nose, that is).

[Personality] While he can be a little intimidating, Jean is nowhere near as intimidating as he would like to come off as. Because, deep, deep, deep down inside he's just a fluffy ball of kittens.

That's probably an exaggeration. Actually, more than likely an exaggeration.

Well, he won't bite of your head, at least. Jean really doesn't know how to have fun, or really know what fun is, and takes things too seriously almost all the time. If and when he can sum up a measure of humour, it is usually dry and obscure, and more than likely to be misunderstood.

Overall, he is not a person who will step out of his way to be mean to you, nor will he make an effort to be nice. But, if attempts are made to get to know him, he is an invaluable friend.

Even if he doesn't know exactly what being friends entails.

[History] Having worked as a sideshow performer for near the whole of his life, Jean never quite experienced the level of normality people so desire in their life. He was engaged to marry Geneviève Desjardins, but it was broke off when she discovered he had been sleeping with her brother. (short but I'm drawing a blank, might come back to change it :\)

[Soul Mate] Open

((That last part XD))

"Well, a student of Guerilla warfare would be interesting, at least." He stuck out hos tongue in distaste, the many horrors of his high school years surfacing with a frightful ease. "I could never stand school, I asked too many questions and not on the right subject, either."

When he had uncovered the affair between the English teacher and the secretary, there had been hell to pay, especially when it had been front page news of the usually boring little scrap that was the school newspaper. Alas, he had been suspended for two weeks for publishing private matters and both the teachers had been fired for doing their hanky panky on school property. It had been his win in the end, the English teacher had been on him since the beginning.

"So, what do you major, if you don't mind me asking?"

Outside, the pitter patter of rain wetting the side walk filtered through the café door as a patron breezed in, a slim, feminine man, cursing lightly in French as he slid into the stall.

"Its nice to know that I still appeal to the younger generation," Ismael half-laughed. His last trip to Japan had been so long ago, nearly three years, and it had been the end of a long story he hadn't want to let go. But, like the bird she was, she had left him without a second thought.


He tilting his head to watch the pedestrians outside, woman in fine summer dresses and men in suits rushing from natures falling tears. It was rather amusing to him, and, had he been set up for a shot, quite an impressive photo. Instead, he turned back to the blonde, rubbing his stubbled chin.

"You sound more cut out for this business than I am, I've never been one to outright demand something..." he mused, "ever done Debate Club at school? Or maybe Drama..." he trailed off, scrutinizing her closely for the first time. She didn't have the hard lines of a potential Politician, nor the curling speech of an Actress..."Or art?"

Distantly, the warning bells Ismael that had been set in place years ago tinkled in suspicion, the years of working with sly, fork-tongued politicians tuning his senses to lies and skirted truths to a fine pitch, but to find such a thing in a young woman was a surprise to him, and he shoved it off rather irritably. It was one thing for out in the field, but he was merely talking to a rather interesting girl. No harm could come to him...

Pushing the matter aside, he smiled slyly. "Well, with how the French are, I do hope it was entirely appropriate, don't want my doppelgänger revealing too much."

Underneath her gaze, he reached down to where his camera rested, stroking the lens almost fondly. "Yes, I work for Montreal newspaper, I was sent here to interview the Russian Prime Minister, but my boss botched the meeting. I'm waiting to call the management."

His eyes widened, then slimmed into crescents as he grinned pleasantly, giving an affirming nod. "Now how did you know that?" he laughed, "I'm Ismael, but my friends call me Izzy, what about you? Not that I'm a stalker or anything..."

Unconsciously, Izzy reached up a hand to stroke the steel loops, but stopped himself halfway and rested his freckled hands back on the tabletop, lacing the fingers to prevent them from moving without his permission again.

Hearing her stuttered apology, he waved a hand, grin turning cheeky. "Don't worry, I'm used to it."

He smiled slight at her laughter and nodded in understanding, folding his hands lightly in his lap. "Well, at least they want the best for you, no? Not many get to say that they went to school in France...well, as long as your not a Parisian."

The clock ticked away, and his fingers drummed a beat of his own, slowly changing to that of some unnameable song he had heard on the radio earlier.

"Hmm, well, I guess it isn't a surprise to see an American here, Paris is always crawling with tourists." He folded his hands beneath his chin, watching the curling steam rising from his cup, waiting for the tell-tale beep from his mobile that would signal lunch hour was through and he'd be able to get through to the hotel, but the clock against the opposite wall ticked sluggishly towards 12:40, and he knew it would be a long wait.

"So, you visiting relatives or sightseeing? Its my second time in France personally."

On

The usually stoic man blinked, once, then twice, grey eyes boring down into hers. "I'll have you know that I'm from Montreal." Izzy finally managed, letting his chair fall back into place. "And I won't be the one paying for damages, mademoiselle."

He raised his cup to conceal his twitching lips, and swallowed a mouthful of the burning liquid, relishing in the small burst of energy he would receive in payment later.

"I take it your not French, then? Your accent sounds English."

Coaxing the frayed strands of the poncho over his chin as he pondered his situation, the child's sudden screaming coaxed his attention away from the situation at to that of the poor kid. He grumbled quietly to himself, eyelids closing over in the otherwise relaxing atmosphere.

There were many ways to soothe a small girl. She could promise her a sweet or gift, or that they would go to the place later, once the exhausted woman caught her breath.

He sighed again, flicking his eyes back to his neighbour and her partially concealed graffiti. Letting his curiosity get the better of him (what kind of reporter would he be if he didn't?), Izzy leaned over the back of her chair.

"Pardon, but I don't think the owners would appreciate your artwork," he said, hoping his own dialect of French wouldn't render the comment indecipherable.

((You are among some of the best roleplayers I've ever seen, no joke.))

"Merci," Ismael smiled, inclining his head in gratitude. The heady scent of the cappuccino filling his senses and a blueberry muffin balanced in his hand, he slid past the stares (he knew he was foreign looking, but did they have to forget common courtesy?) and into a chair that was slightly off-balance, one leg wobbling lower than the other as his slight weight settled onto it. The sickly, neon yellow of the table was a bit of a turn off, but it was a small slight in the otherwise picture perfect cafe.

Ahead of him, a woman (girl?), was carving lightly into the table, her pretty face screwed into thought as she sipped idly at her drink. She fit in well here, the scene of it all. He laughed quietly to himself. It would seem his modelling friends were beginning to rub off on him.

He sank his teeth into the fluffy flesh of the pastry, soothing the gnawing pangs in his stomach and soothing his frustrated heart. He needed to look at the situation calmly, he realized. Phone the hotel management, get the to straighten it out, and if that didn't solve the issues, then contact his boss.

Yes, that should work.

He tipped back in his chair, tugging at his collar and rubbing at his ear piercings. It was a nervous habit he had, and he had yet to break himself of it.

I'm going off, night all.

((Sorry, had to have supper. And the hotel is called Beauté de Paris, he was just referring to the fact that it looked like it was locked up like Fort Knox))

Giving the final shove to break through the stifling group of gawkers and petty paparazzi, Ismael doubled over, taking a few deep breaths as the bellboys squawked at him in the horrid French-French accent, spitting out as many words in two seconds as he did in twenty.

"Excuse me," he said, "but I'm a part of the official press assigned to Monsieur Alenichev, I should be signed under M. Géroux, from the Montreal Journal."

Eyeing him beneath a cap of red, the younger boy signaled for his companion, a sprite with sky-blue eyes, to rustle through the sheaf of papers, twelve or so names of past acquaintances jumping out at him as he did so.

"I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Un moment, Monsieur." The boy replied, finally looking up with a shake of curly brown locks. "I am sorry, Monsieur, but we do not have a Géroux on our list. You can contact the management to see if they have made a mistake and come again at a later time."

"Merde." He cursed, imploring them to check it again. The answer was even a firmer shake of a head, the bellboy informing him that he should leave the premises.

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his exhausted features. Taking the steps two at a time, swallowed up by the crowd in seconds. All this way for nothing. Nothing. He'd been forced out of bed at two a.m, forced onto a plane in old clothes, and made to shuffle through Paris for nothing. Trust his boss to make sure the one easiest fucking step was secure.

Cowboy boots clicking on the cobblestone streets, he emerged slightly ruffled on the opposite side of the street beside a petite cafe. He made to move into the coffee shop, but the insistent tug on one of his scarves drew his attention to a chubby-faced, blonde angel, her rich, brown eyes meeting his own. Giggling. the four year old tugged again at the sandy cloth, mumbling something about cowboys.

Figured. Can you not be from the Americas and not be mistaken for a Texan? He was from Montreal!

Sighing, a smile tugging at his thin lips, he bent down to the girls height, tugging the clothe from his neck and fixing it around her own, returning her sweet smile somewhat reluctantly.

Fingers sticky with some foreign substance, the girl gave him a hug, tripping back to her mothers side, who was too busy chatting with a handsomely dark man to notice that her daughter had been at the side of a stranger. Figures.

Pushing back his dark bangs, he entered the small shop, reveling in the bitter scent of ground coffee and the buttery smell of cooking pastries. His stomach let it known just how hungry he truly was, and he went to the counter with little regret.

"Excusez-moi." Ever polite, Ismael "Izzy" Géroux pushed through the rather obnoxious crowd of Parisians, keen eyes finally picking out the vague form of the hotel's doorway, the rather hassled forms of the bellboy's guarding it like their lives depended upon it. Which it did, what with Russia's Prime Minister lurking within.

That was one of several reasons why Izzy had been shipped post-haste to the aristocratic world of Paris, his editor like a pouncing lion when it came to this particular story, the Russian and French governments coming together to talk over Nuclear Power and the benefits that could be gained or lost if they closed down the numerous plants littering their countries.

Personally, he found it all a tad bit boring, maybe if their were some rioters or hippies hanging around, but no. Yet here he was, camera slung around his neck trying to get through the front doors of what had become Fort Knox.

Gods, sometimes he hated his life.

I'm on...