Lucas Crowley

Name: Lucas Anthony Crowley

Birth-date: Nobody really knows. By now, even he's forgotten.

Birthplace: Somewhere in the firmament

Gender: Male

Age: Several thousand years at least, perhaps even more.

Apparent Age: Mid-forties

Occupation: Fallen Angel and playboy in his spare time

Height: 6'1''

Weight: Not sure.

Build: Extremely well-proportioned, neither too heavy nor too thin.

General Fitness: Very good health, though he doesn't actually do anything physical to deserve it. One of the perks of his position, one might say.

Eye Colour: Changeable, literally. Catch him off-guard, and they have no colour whatsoever.

Hair Colour and length/style: Brown, slightly on the longish side, with the occasional bit of grey.

Distinguishing Characteristics: Cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and his eyes are also rather unusual. And a voice to melt anyone’s insides.

Residence: Beverly Hills, CA, officially, in one of those Old Hollywood mansions that, just before he arrived, was on the demolition list for unsafe construction. But he's usually somewhere between LA and Sunnydale, what with his official business and all.

Nationality/accent/native language: No nationality, really, and considering his origins, he's proficient in whatever language he chooses. At the moment, he sounds vaguely British, having just spent quite some time there.

Species: Former Angel.

Good/Bad: Bad, I suppose, though he usually refrains from doing things that are *truly* evil unless given a decent incentive. Likes people a great deal more than he ought to, and occasionally regrets how evil he's been in the past, but that usually involves immense amounts of liquor.

Weapons/Magic Items: Well, his car is pretty magical, but that's only because he powered it that way. Never stuck in traffic, gives all carjackers a really nasty shock, never needs gas...that sort of thing. Just conveniences.

Fighting style if any: Tends to avoid fighting, choosing to talk his way out of problems, and usually succeeding, based on people unable to resist his voice.

Skills/Talents: Persuasion, manipulation (he's a master at that), lying, creating illusions, changing forms, the usual devilish stuff.

Known Relatives: Very distantly related descendant in New York, but he’s never actually met the guy.

Hobbies: Reading, listening to music, long walks on the beach.

Knowledge of Demons: Well, he *is* one in the most classic sense…

Marital Status: Single

Romantic Involvement (s): Only one of any real importance, back in 1676, where he made the rather unforgivable mistake of falling in love, and found himself cast back down in worse straits than when he left. (Though he did leave behind a child, whose descendants were gifted with the most curious strain of musical virtuosity...) Then, toward the beginning of the twentieth century, while on an assignment of sorts, he caught sight of a woman, the very double of his previous love, but his attempt to have her for his own went quite terribly wrong, and he swore off romantic involvements altogether.

Religious Affiliation: None

Superstitions: Never make bets with Angels, if that can be considered a superstition. He did it once and it ended badly.

Personality: The few people that actually meet him find him surprisingly likeable, if a bit off-putting at first, what with the money and the intimidation and the charm, and occasionally the weird occurrences that happen around him. But generally, he's just a guy that's been around for a long time and likes to stir up mischief because he's bored.

Education: Knows what he needs to know in any given situation.

Special Abilities: His voice, shape-changing, occasional ability to do things that are literally impossible (like making his home safe to inhabit), getting inside people's minds and dropping hints. He can't actually *make* anyone do anything, but he can "strongly persuade." Along with that, he’s managed to inject himself into the collective memory on several occasions, so people usually know who he is.

Weaknesses: Gorgeous redheads. ::grin at Sar:: And virtuosi. Oh, wait you mean actual weaknesses. Well, he has very little against humans in general, which one could call a weakness in his line of work. And though he doesn't get emotional very often (once in a few hundred years or so), when he does, it's bad.

Reason for Being in Sunnydale/Los Angeles: He's been ordered here by his superiors to stop all the bad publicity about the Hellmouth, and keep people from opening it. Sort of a "we don't want their kind of scum down here" approach. Not that he’s fond of the idea. He does like the weather in California, though he's convinced one of his colleagues is responsible for the traffic.

Local Associates: His lawyers are (surprise!) Wolfram and Hart, but he doesn't have much in the way of contact with them. And he's a bit suspicious of this "Angel" guy he keeps hearing about in LA. Thinks he may be an old friend.

Fears and Phobias: None really.

Psychoses: None

Neuroses: Can be obsessive about some things. Occasionally short attention span.

Loves: To quote from above, gorgeous redheads and virtuosi. Also well-stocked bars, nice libraries, and the occasional burning boat. Just as a conversation piece. And a big white, fluffy, and extremely spoiled, Persian named Snowflake. He loves irony too.

Hatreds: Umm...he hasn't hated anything recently. Though he's still extremely miffed at the Archangel Michael for that incident in 1676, and he's not at all fond of the Triarch. Thinks they're a boring set of hags.

Background (Family): It's a well-known story. Originally one of the brighter Angels; not quite on the level of Lucifer, but pretty high up, named Mephistopheles at the time. Then his boss fell, taking all the employees down with him. Lucas is also slightly irritated at his boss for that. Though he didn't care for the harp music, he claimed he couldn't find a decent crème brulée south of the Pearly Gates.

Background (Personal): He mucked around for several centuries, not really doing much. Had an encounter with this guy named Faust sometime during the Middle Ages, but the outcome of that really depends on which version you're hearing. Kept getting blamed for things during that period, though he claims the Black Death was Beelzebub's fault, and that he was taking the air in Bermuda at the time.The Incident of 1676 started as a simple bet between him and the Archangel Michael, when Michael proposed that Mephistopheles couldn’t go six months without stealing a soul if given his angelic form on earth. Naturally, this sort of slander couldn't be brooked, so a wager was set, and if Mephistopheles managed it, he'd get a flaming sword. If Michael won, he'd be able to be very holier-than-thou (not that he wasn't already. He'd just get to do it a bit more obnoxiously). Unfortunately, when Michael granted Mephistopheles his angelic form, he accidentally dropped a little bit of human in there. And so, at one point while on earth, Mephistopheles (going by the name of Luciano at the time) fell in love. In all technicality, he won the bet, having spent eight months on earth without stealing any souls, and at that point, he’d actually decided he liked it there and wanted to stay. The trouble started when he granted the soon-to-be-mother of his child a wish. Word got to the top ranks, and Mephistopheles was cast back down to Hell. This made him rather bitter, so he took it out on the French government until about the end of the nineteenth century, when he found himself on a couch in Vienna, spilling his heart out to some kook named Freud. After that, he just decided to blame it all on God, and move on with his life. Another slight altercation in 1912, but he recovered from that and decided to hibernate for a little while, sleeping through both World Wars, taking one look at the 1960's, cringing, and going back to sleep, waking up only in 1997, when he received a memo, saying that people kept trying to open up the Mouth of Hell, and it was very bad publicity, and could he please go and hush things up? He haggled with his superiors for some time, claiming that the Hellmouth was very difficult to open and why should they even worry about that? But finally, after several almost-openings, he's been sent to California, not a very happy camper.

 

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