Top illustration credited to YiLee of Tatoom City.
"I never said I was deep."
Name: Fagin--that is with an "ay" sound, not unlike the Jew, which he is not entirely; as in "Fae," whom he loves dearly, but who share no love in return--Sochet--that is one alias for Sobek, the Egyptian god, who was known to throw parties in the Nile--Cagliostro--that is like the Italian count, who is less remarkable. Also known as Crocliostro. Do you see where this is going?
Age: 54... in theory. He'd rather count profits than years.
Backstage Pass? Pff, rock gods are the stage. Grand City invited him for a show one day. He has yet to return to the surface.
Frankly, this is the abridged version. There's some longer tripe about being the bastard smidgen of Sobek, born from the murky waters of the Thames to forever travel to Hell and back, but this is boring. Along the way, he picked up on sight reading. Quite lovely, really.
Physical Description: Cagliostro is a croc of a man. Other times, he is a man of a man. This is all very profoundly shallow, as both former and latter statements are meant to be taken at literal and face value, and here's why: He can transform into a crocodile (!), often to grand, mildly terrifying results--mildly because, in either form, the scoundrel still has a fondness for flowery dress that would make David Bowie blush with pride. The most common method of witnessing this animal visage is by visiting a dark alley, preferably alone, in which crazy shit will emerge from the shadows, sharp teeth and all. You could also try relaxing by some body of water or other, although you would be mad to do so in such a purgatory. As a last resort, try pissing him off; it's certainly not impossible to do, and with a little persistence, you will be confronted with rows of pearly whites. Well, they're more like an off-yellow, but there you are. Occasionally, he'll sport the savage head, tail, even the full body for the sake of croc swag, croc strut, croc pimpitry.
What a croc.
Immortality has teased him, but not necessarily evaded him. The human Fagin is one who is highly aware of his looks, batting long eyelashes at any variety of genders or species. He has hooded occulars that are known to hypnotize beyond the realm of literary cliches. In spite of this, he somehow manages to come across as masculine in his effeminacy, which shouldn't make sense (and probably doesn't), from those long, slim fingers, to that long, slim build, and... yes, masculine. His face is often unshaven, plastered with a beard of peppered gray, and oily brown locks frame his head, falling past the nape of his neck. From those unfortunate enough to have fallen to his charms, there have been claims of rough skin and rougher play, though this is to be expected. He is pale, unhealthily so. His grin is the stuff of nightmares--just ask any downtrodden child.
Personality Description: Everyone knows Fagin--involuntarily, everyone's seen a bit of his antics, whether by catching a glimpse of his bare tush on stage, attending happy hour, or associating with The Fox. Notorious for committing crimes against the lord's will, Cagliostro seems to spite him in jest, his true intentions no deeper than child's games. He must not be mistaken as daft, however; after all, he's survived many a confrontation, and he always carries his wits about him. He is known for his adoration of women, simple pleasures, and little else. The flamboyant musical figure is said to be a guise for his true nature and the ever-present void in his soul; a gentleman's touch can instantly turn fatal if words are spoken in haste. Is there a softness to his ways? Hell if he knows.
History: Fagin is credited with introducing rock and roll to Purgatory.
He is also credited with an abundance of stolen children.
It is a general motif to be afraid of the dark. Monsters, bogeymen--their dues get paid, too. The mid twentieth century was a period populated by young'uns who feared an oddity as much as they loved the rebellious tunes that dominated the airwaves. A whole generation deathly frightened of drowning in bathtubs, of teeth in the night invading their dreams, all caused by a single man--or beast. The same presence they imitated with air guitars.
Fancy that.
He thought himself a hero. Led to premature deaths, whisked away from unfavorable lives, youths entered Purgatory by the masses worshiping this cult leader who taught them to pickpocket in exchange for their survival. A low price to pay for a man who, past the novelties of an afterlife, treats them with little regard. There is no power like power drawn from the naive and the uncouth, no satisfaction like influence over the innocent. They fuel the spirals in his eyes that lead to their downfalls; they breathe life into his palms, allowing him to manipulate the water they drink from. Only the epiphanies of adulthood may break their chains, but there is no guarantee. Quite the hero indeed.
Themes: Further Complications | This is Hardcore