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Fagin Sochet Cagliostro

"I am a thistle sifter, a soul collector, a flawless lover and a terrible husband. Let's get rowdy, shall we?"

0 · 173 views · located in Purgatory.

a character in “Purgatory Remix”, as played by Tæfarós

Description

Image
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

So begins...

Fagin Sochet Cagliostro's Story

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((Jesss! Still trying to figure this out, yes I am.))

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((Yep... oh wait. I got it. Over complicating things is not cool, kiddos.))

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((Referring to myself, of course.))

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((Wizardry! D: Hope we get things straightened out. I loved how that scene was going.))

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((Surreal! And veddy classy. Great performances from all the departments; our cult of art hipsters even had work displayed via slideshow. Still waiting on it to sink in, honestly, but mostly looking forward to playing with you gais~))

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((Bumrush sounds mighty harsh.))

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((Oooh, one of those guests. Ya did good. And now I shall shuddup before I flood the tab with any more nonsense.))

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((Merp.))

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The entrance of Calliope's Tavern was flooded with a tumult of glitter, and following this was the odd sound of a wall choking on its own embarrassment. Fagin's head popped in next, looking about before he fully stepped in, shirt aflutter and parted open to reveal skin adorned with painted marks. He was a product of the current festival, and he was not ashamed of this. He was so unashamed, in fact, that he whisked his way over to the muse herself, planting his face in front of hers. This was awkward. "My dear, you look fetching tonight, but not as fetching as I had been just moments ago. Why, there I was, prancing along, when..." He sniffed. He smelled the scent of ignorance and current-generation tunery. Then he turned, eying the fiery haired woman as if she were the oddest thing in all of Purgatory. "And who is this?" he asked, grinning with pointed teeth. "A stowaway?"

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"Yes, you," he reaffirmed the stranger. He blinked at her, holding back a laugh. Such flowery language. "Ah, the ever-classy Red Flame Gang. The epitome of ganghood. I see you're quite skillful at putting holes in the walls. " Fagin bowed and took one of her hands in his, planting a kiss upon it. "I am Fagin Cagliostro, but you've probably heard of me before. And if you haven't, well, then that's a shame." Smiling wryly at Calliope, he glanced round the room, lips pursed. "Edward, eh? Hard to be surprised at that."

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Rising from his bow, Fagin listened intently, and the mention of Fox had him amused to no end. This Flo was quite a character--a laughable one at that. And then came the inquiry. Strange? In Purgatory? Eel carts were only strange in the mortal realm. The absurdity of the notion tickled him to the point of laughter, but further thinking silence him; the true dealings of his business played briefly on his tongue before the words were replaced by falsities: "If you're talking about the wandering souls, then I suppose that counts. They're certainly more relevant than lampshade nudists."

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*than, herpaderp

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"Of course," he said, pushing strands from his face, as if the answer were obvious. He gave Florissa a disapproving glance, then continued in his mock bored, languid tone, "The Bureau is as proficient as a pride of loons. I would be daft to be unaware of them, especially when they interfere with my work."

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Getting riled for a killing--how inappropriate. How wonderful, he thought to himself, letting a smile be drawn on his thin lips. "Yes, a paradox. The greatest of all devices. It's a cause for celebration, I'd say." Calliope displayed her ruffled feathers, and he put up a dismissive hand. "Steady on, my dear. You know it's true. If you're feeling bold, I'd love to see you try. Have a go if you like, or keep strumming that Fender. I could teach you a thing or two." At Florissa's inquiry, he pouted. "The kind of work that shouldn't be meddled with by birds like you. Nothing personal."

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((Did anyone just experience 502 errors? Buh.))

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((Ah, okie dokie.))

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"I have to agree," Fagin chipped in. "Besides, you can't throw her away just yet. She's far too entertaining."

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"He does have a wonderful sense of humor--I'll give the bastard that." Fagin leaned against the bar, watching Calliope pluck at guitar strings to no avail. "I wonder what he thinks of this mess. Well--" he gestured to Florissa "--messes. Probably too waste-deep in shit to swat tail at it."

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((Ohshhh!)) Fagin was perfectly content being the irritating, ambiguous third wheel of the underworld. He muttered a haughty "I'm sure you are, Pyro," as his dopey head swiveled about to see Edward staring at them. This evening--morning, brunch, hell if he could tell--was turning out to be ever so pleasant. "Please do. Show us your stuff."

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"Wait's over, my dear," he replied, and he suddenly had the elated feeling of being in the right place at the right fuckin' time. "'Rissa, get your gun. Your prey's out the door--was that head start intentional?" He contemplated following, just for the hell of it. No backstory needed, no motives given, no logic for cheap thrills.

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((Aww, I'm gonna turn in. My brain doesn't want to make Fagin run. Plus I need to pack for the road. It was lovely, though! I heart you guys.))

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((I'll try! Don't die!...And stuff!))

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After the muse, the Kit, and the fiery trap had decided to sit for metaphorical tea, Fagin had stepped out for duty, and what had resulted in close calls and uncertainty left him craving gin. Conveniently, Calliope lingered in the corner of his eye. He couldn't believe his luck--or his misfortune. As of yet, he wasn't quite sure. "Calli, my dear," he called to her, and he had the pale look of a leper on his face, "whatever you've been drinking, I'd love to have it."

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It took no more than a second or two of thinking for him to answer, quite bluntly, "Probably." He shrugged, dallying behind the bar to pour himself a drink. "It's a swinging place if you're desperate. Hit it up often when I wasn't so smart. We should head there some time, you and me."

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"Splendid!" he said, with a large grin and a shot of voddy. Fagin then peered more closely at her: "Though, I must say, you seem to be in no condition to play Holmes at the moment. Here," and he took the bottle and glass away from her. "All better."