Real name & age: Caledonia, 20
Experience: see previous audition for bryn_caleigh
Where did you find out about us?: same as above
Character name & age: Dajan Ukurugenzi, 31
(There are kinks to work out of this, but it’s a start. Feel free to post objections/suggestions.)
Dajan was born in a tiny, primitive tribal village in the savannah of Africa. One of the few remaining villages of its kind, technology was completely unknown, and the ancient ways of life followed. The robust child survived the endless dry summers and the predators of the African landscape, seemingly an ideal child, quiet, obedient, and brave. But there was something unsettling about the boy, something disturbingly powerful in his onyx-colored eyes. As he came into manhood, he began to exhibit strange characteristics. He had an uncanny knack of knowing exactly what others were thinking or doing, even if they were far from his sight. Some were drawn to him, for with experience, he learned how to effect change in the minds of others. For those lost in sorrow, he gave solace, for those boiling over with anger, he was a cooling balm. The elders of the village eventually took notice, and deemed his abilities dark and unnatural. He was cast out with nothing, no clothes, no water, left to wander the endless, rolling hills of the savannah. A group of researchers found the teenager, near unto the doors of death, and nursed him back to health, giving him not only strange new clothes and food, but tales of distant lands of towering metal structures, of roads traveled by blindingly fast things called cars. He assisted the researchers until the close of their studies, at which point they conceded to take him back with them to America.
After many years of traveling, and also of learning the depth and breadth of his skill, he settled in New York, by this time having acquired a modest fortune, made through his extraordinarily popular clinics. The funny thing was that no one was really sure exactly what they were for, only that life tended to be just a little better afterward, after having sat under the unblinking black gaze of the tall, enigmatic African man. On the side, in the shadows, one might say, he had made a business of straightening out errant immortals and creatures of the night of many varieties, for his gift had the peculiar twist of being able to draw on the powers of vampires and lycans and demons, and of turning it against them if he was threatened. He operates a sort of half-way house for both those who come to seek his help, and also those who he is often asked to bring in by certain interested individuals.
Part therapist, part jailer, part parent, part hunter, Dajan is one of the more curious individuals that has come to inhabit the nighttime world of New York. Strangely enough, he is not often feared, for little to no harm comes to those who fall under his care, or even those who he obtains through force. Regarded with skepticism by many, respect and awe by some, no one is sure what his motivations are.
LJ name for character: _dajan_
One man carrying another through the night-darkened streets of New York: though not exactly commonplace, it was not enough to warrant more than passing notice. It was a rather fortunate fact, as the bearer reflected to himself. The unconscious one had already drawn more attention than was healthy for any of the city’s secret citizens. The object of trouble lay limp over the man’s shoulder, his arms waving bonelessly, brushing the backs of the carrier’s knees, head bouncing to the rhythm of the man’s footsteps.
“Goddamn kid. I warned him, but did he listen to me, no, thought Blake was an idiot. But I told him if he made too many kills, I’d take him to Nighthaven. Can’t afford to be drawing too much attention these days.” The diatribe was delivered quietly, and ceased if another person passed by. At times, he would feign a grunt of effort and perhaps shift the deadweight of the unconscious young man.
He followed a winding path of alleys, eventually making his way to one of the warehouse districts of the cities, though one perhaps more rundown than most. He reached his destination, stopping in front of a rust-stained door with a battered metal plaque above it that was inscribed with two letters, D.U.
A booming knock broke through the quiet gloom of the building. It was utterly empty, a huge, echoing space, the smooth, dusty expanse of the flop broken only by the boxy shape of a caged lift some few yards from the door. The substance of the building, beneath its ratty façade, lay in the honeycomb of rooms beneath its floors.
A solitary individual deliberately folds the newspaper he has been reading and drops it near the door, which he opens, features schooled to cool disinterest. Blake was disappointed to see that it was a stranger’s face, and quite Caucasian at that. Business had been booming for Dajan, it seemed, and he had had to start hiring staff. It had lost that pleasant feeling of being owned and run by one man. Ah, well, no matter.
“Yeah, hi there, the name’s Blake. I have one of our pack’s newer members. He’s been hard to, eh, school,” Blake said, a bit of a sheepish smile on his mouth. The man who stood within the open door waited expectantly, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.
“Oh, yeah, right, forgot,” Blake muttered, and, shifting the weight of the body over his shoulder, rolled up one of his sleeves. The doorkeeper took a small pocket-knife from his pocket and flipped it open, dragging it lightly across Blake’s exposed flesh. Bright blood beaded quickly on the surface, its vivid shade muted by the dreary lights shining down from the distant warehouse ceiling. After a few moments, the doorkeep used a clean kerchief to wipe away the blood, revealing a line of smooth flesh beneath. The nameless man gave Blake a brief nod, then led him to the lift.
Once within its walls, and a balefully gleaming red button depressed, the lift sank into the depths of the underground with the clanking of some great, lumbering metallic beast. It spat the three out of its maw, depositing them in a softly lit, oddly well-decorated hallway.
Like a womb was this refuge, warm, most of its surfaces soft, curved. Though it would serve quite adequately as a bomb shelter due to its inordinately strong structure, this underground warren was employed in a far different occupation, protecting the world outside from what lay within rather than the other way around.
“First door on the left is the office,” the doorkeeper imparts before returning to the warehouse above via the lift. Blake proceeds to the indicated door, a beautifully carved barrier of gleaming reddish mahogany. Blake raps on the door once with the hanging end of a brass knocker, fidgeting almost nervously.
He had met Dajan, the enterprising and strangely gifted human who had started this business, several times, and never felt directly threatened. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he still felt some apprehension. Mere human that he was, the ebon-skinned man had the ability to unnerve anyone he chose to. The damnedest thing was watching him with an innocent, a weakling. He would seem to transform into a huge teddybear. What Blake and most of the city’s powerful creatures met was a horse of an entirely different color, though as long as you kept you abilities and your hands to yourself, he did the same.
These thoughts danced through Blake’s mind even as a velvet basso rumble signaled entry from within. Blake turned the knob and pressed inwards, taking in with interest the décor in Dajan’s office. It was here more than anywhere else in his life that the African man displayed his heritage. Dajan had returned to his homeland many times in his adult life, though he had not ventured back to his village, and likely never would. The décor reflected his affection for his homeland. Elaborate masks stared down from the walls, animal skins lay draped over dark, worn leather armchairs, and paintings and photographs crowded much of the remaining space. It was overstated and bold, but it brought him some solace and comfort in this barren cityscape.
Blake nodded respectfully to the powerful figure that sat behind the heavy, almost crude-looking desk that dominated the room, though less so perhaps than the man himself. Well over six feet tall when standing, his scalp shaved smooth as polished ebony, his build was powerful without giving the impression of being steroid-enhanced. His white collared shirt was slightly rumpled, the first few buttons torn off: he had had a bit of a tussle with one of his other clients earlier that night.
His onyx-bright eyes quickly took in Blake and his burden. He liked the werewolf well enough: he dealt fairly with human and lycan alike. He knew how to keep the status quo. He rose from the heavy leather armchair that had been his resting place and came around the desk, one of his long-fingered hands extended courteously. White teeth flashed brilliantly in a narrow smile from between the characteristic full, dark lips.
The two men shook hands, Dajan speaking first. “Blake, my friend, how have you been? A little trouble in the family?” he asks, his smooth voice conveying little or no foreign accent, nor even that of New York.
Blake nodded, his heavy, dark forelock falling to brush his forehead, mildly surprised that the man was using his first name. That was a new development. “Yeah, I am afraid so, er, Dajan.” He tests the name a bit tentatively, relaxing when a wide smile forms on the other man’s features.
“Well, let’s get your boy settled in, then we can discuss arrangements.” With that, Dajan led them from the room and out into the hall, a heavy hank of keys jingling merrily at his hip. Blake followed after amicably, reflecting that perhaps Dajan wasn’t such a bad fellow to have around after all.
(I know that very little of this actually focused on my character, but I felt like it was important to set up a bit of outside context. I’ll focus more on his character for a following post if you all deem his rudimentary form worth working on.)