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bigapplesauce
The Player
Name/nickname: Cully
Age: 24
Pronouns: she/her, generally, but I won’t take offence if I get others
Contact: im.going.nowhere.very.slowly@gmail.com, Culumacilinte on AIM
Experience: I’ve been RPing in various forms since 2007, both in communities and out. I specialise in EPIC ‘VERSE BUILDING via AIM. Think probably 1000+ pages of AUs branching upon AUs. Lots of sex and tragedy, more often than not.
Currently played characters: Charley Pollard
The Character
DW account:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anguiform
Name: Unknown, and presumably unpronounceable. When written, it’s represented by a ‘complex, wiggly sigil’
Alias: Crawly, Anthony J. Crowley, many, many others, as he’s lived on Earth for the best part of 6,000 years. Mostly just goes by Crowley. (Incidentally, that's Crowley pronounced like the occultist, not the character from Supernatural)
Age/Birthdate: The beginning of creation, give or take, so at least 6,000
Species: Demon-- which is to say, formerly angelic, since fallen and acquired an affinity with snakes
Canon: Good Omens
Canon point: Post-book
Played By: Kunal Kapoor
Abilities: Extensive matter-manipulation, including miracling things into existence out of nonbeing. Includes statically physical things like clothes and food, but also apparently energy sources-- he's only bought petrol for his car once, and he at one point sustains it through sheer force of will, and has never plugged in his refrigerator-- and sound-- his stereo system has no speakers and does not need them. His own physical form is included in this. While it's stated that bodies are given out by Below (such that if he's inconveniently discorporated, there would be paperwork and red tape required to acquisition a new one), Crowley still has the power to shrink himself down to the size of a molecule, or shift into an eldritch horror involving maggots. He can also bring things back to life on a small scale-- his canon doesn't elaborate on this ability, but I'm taking it to be restricted to animals; things without souls.
He also has powers of mood manipulation and hypnosis. The former can be used as it was originally intended-- provoking wrath, making a temptation a bit easier-- or for inducing divine ecstasy, if he happens to be doing work for two. Once through the Rift, he'll be cut off from all contact with Hell, and, like everybody else, unable to leave Manhattan.
Appearance: Ambiguously South Asian, tall and lanky, with excellent cheekbones, Crowley looks more than a little like the higher class of used car salesman. He tends towards immaculately tailored, incredibly expensive-looking suits. He’s also, unlike his angelic counterpart, visibly not entirely human. He wears sunglasses all the time, even at night, because the eyes behind them are yellow and slit-pupiled, and those flashy, slightly tasteless snakeskin shoes he’s wearing? Yeah, they’re not shoes. He also has a tendency to hisssss ‘when he forgets himself’. One may feel free to imagine what sorts of circumstances that entails.
Except in times of extreme emergency, he’s generally got an air of being a louche bastard; he slinks, he lounges, he sprawls. He also, though he mostly keeps them tucked away, has a pair of rather magnificent (and always neatly groomed) wings in iridescent, banded green/yellow/orange.
Personality: Crowley’s a demon, but these days doing evil is more or less purely a punch-clock sort of affair. Sure, he still gets a little thrill at a bad job well done, a judicious dose of chaos, but more than anything he’s just a guy trying to get on and do his own thing, coasting in the comfortable range in between doing well-enough-not-to-be-reprimanded and not-so-well-it-attracts-the-attention-of-the-Powers-That-Be. Crowley doesn't like his bosses much. He’s got a healthy disdain for the decidedly Mediaeval methods and attitudes of his fellows down below, and prides himself on having adapted so smoothly to the modern world.
Since the advent of the second half of the 20th century, he's put a lot of effort into seeming like a particular kind of human-- young, hip, all the latest gadgets, flat right out of an IKEA catalogue, flash car-- and he has no plans on stopping. He's a hedonist, something which may have originated as an intentionally demonic affectation (the Seven Deadlies being heavy on physical pleasures, after all), but now is mostly just common or garden variety epicureanism. He likes the world. He likes the indulgent lassitude of sleep, he likes getting drunk, he likes sushi and Classical music, he likes stupid little trinkets like pens that can write underwater.
Although in theory, he shouldn’t have free will, Crowley is fairly prone to turns of philosophical thought and questioning the status quo. He wonders on several occasions what the point of the whole Heaven vs. Hell thing is, and it is he who first suggests the notion that the Apocalypse might not have to happen, and who comes up with the initial idea for how to prevent it (however ineffective it may have been). He’s also rather more sensitive than he might like to let on. When he discovered what the Spanish Inquisition was getting up to, rather than being properly demonically pleased, he left the country and got drunk for a week.
Despite any amount of philosophical pondering and the occasional moment of horror at the human race, Crowley is fundamentally an optimist. ‘If there was one rock-hard certainty that had sustained him through the bad times— he thought briefly of the fourteenth century— then it was utter surety that he would come out on top; that the universe would look after him.’ (Good Omens, p. 304). He refuses to acknowledge any poorly thought out heroic tendencies on his part.
He is also a MASSIVE DORK. As per this exchange: ‘[Hastur] raised his voice. ‘All hail Satan,’ he said./ ‘All hail Satan,’ Ligur echoed./ ‘Hi,’ said Crowley, giving them a little wave.’ (Good Omens, p. 18) He also cultivates plants by systematically threatening their lives, has chosen for his given name ‘Anthony’, once acquired James Bond bullet-hole windscreen transfers for his vintage Bentley, and when he loses his carefully cultivated cool, turns into a mess of ‘um’s, ‘er’s, and other single-syllable sounds. Adorable dork.
History: In the beginning, Crowley was an angel who found himself in amongst the wrong crowd and ‘did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downward’. Immediately after his Fall, now known as Crawly, he became the Serpent in the Garden who tempted Eve to the fruit of the Tree, though he always had an inkling that he may have accidentally done the right thing, which demons really ought to avoid.
For some thousands of years after that, he stayed stationed on Earth as one of Hell’s agents, employed to tempt and wile and generally lead humanity into sin and depravity. He and his opposite number, the angel Aziraphale, fought with some frequency, until, around the turn of the first millennium AD, they came to an Arrangement. By this point they had both become quite fond of the Earth, and whatever righteous (or unrighteous) drive they may have had in the beginning towards their respective goals had mellowed considerably. After all, what was the point in fighting all the time if they could just cooperate and get the same thing done either way? It would considerably cut back on discorporations, which were bloody inconvenient no-matter which way you sliced it.
The Arrangement turned into something like a friendship (occasionally peppered by a bit of sex here and there, another thing which initially started as Crowley being a tempter as per his job, but one could hardly call a thing temptation anymore after a thousand years), and they both settled very comfortably into their lives. Lunch at the Ritz, getting drunk in various places all over the world, one occasionally accompanying the other on a mission in the name of thwarting it. Crowley became quite complacent; he liked the Earth and everything it had to offer, even if humanity frequently baffled him, and though he technically knew the Apocalypse was scheduled to happen, it’s not the sort of thing one thinks about.
Until the year 1989, when he was given the task of delivering the Antichrist to his appointed family and seeing that he was raised into his role. Crowley, needless to say, was none too chuffed about the imminent end of the world, and so persuaded Aziraphale into helping him prevent it. Their efforts were mostly not of much account, and the whole affair was a bit of a farce, but in the end, the Apocalypse was, in fact, cancelled, and that’s what matters.
Crowley gets nabbed by the Rift some months after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t.
Writing Sample:
Crowley is, all in all, rather pleased with himself. Not that his presence had necessarily had much effect at all, other than his being an accessory to watching Adam Young very neatly put shot to the whole Apocalypse thing. He can’t decide if he’s smug, embarrassed, or horrified in retrospect about the fact that he’d faced down Satan with nothing more than a tyre iron and an angel at his back, which he’s dealing with by not thinking about it any more than he can help.
The result, in any event, is the same. No Armageddon, the world free to continue on as it always had. Granted, they now had an Antichrist who was about to go through the throes of puberty to consider (it had never been in the plan for the boy to have time to actually grow up) whom he and Aziraphale seem to have accidentally found themselves sort of in charge of keeping an eye on, but it could be worse. Yeah, it could be a-- somewhere of a lot worse
At the moment, they’re celebrating the continued existence of the world by getting absolutely ratted. Crowley loves wine. He really, really loves wine.
They’re in the middle of a rousing (and increasingly muddled) discussion on the merits of toasting one’s spices before cooking with them (having arrived on that subject by way of the British Raj, previously by way of Oscar Wilde, previously by way of the confusing morass that is human morality) when a space-time event happens to Crowley. Crowley knows what it feels like to have all one’s molecules disassembled in a moment and reassembled somewhere else. He knows what it feels like to have his physical being squeezed down to the size of an atom and zip through the aether. The thing is, if he’s not the one doing it himself, he usually has at least a little bit of warning. Not so this time.
One moment he’s coiled over a tatty couch in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop, the next, he’s been left blinking and staggering in the sun in some park. He puts his hands out to balance.
‘‘Ziraphale? The...’ It takes him a few moments to settle on the right word. ‘The fuck is going on? Oi, angel!’
Crowley spins around to see if the angel is anywhere in evidence, and promptly falls flat on his arse.
‘Nnngrff,’ says Crowley, and shoves his face into the grass. ‘Bugger. ‘m too drunk f’this.’
And with an immense effort of will, he sobers up, every particle of alcohol in his system abruptly… no longer in his system. Immediately, intoxication is replaced by a ferocious hangover headache, which he similarly miracles away with a (more more casual) wave of one hand. Pulling himself up off the ground, any newly-acquired stains on his suit get the same treatment, and he takes a moment to adjust himself back into clean, sober lines. The centre button on his sportcoat buttoned, creases brushed out, sunglasses adjusted. There we go; much better. Now he’s prepared to figure out where he is.
It doesn’t take much figuring; Manhattan is instantly recogniseable, and Crowley scowls down at the grass. ‘Couldn’t you have given me some warning?’ he gripes.
Although, now he thinks on it, just plucking him up like that and chucking him around the globe is hardly Hell’s style. His superiors Below generally prefer to just tell him what to do and leave the actual getting-it-done to him. Not to mention, that kind of transport takes effort.
He continues glaring at the turf. ‘Oi! Dagon! Malthus? Labal, anyone? No-one listening? What is this, a relocation? I’ve got an Antichrist to look after, you know; I don’t see any of you clamouring for that job.’
His mobile’s in his pocket, but there’s no answer from Hell.
Name/nickname: Cully
Age: 24
Pronouns: she/her, generally, but I won’t take offence if I get others
Contact: im.going.nowhere.very.slowly@gmail.com, Culumacilinte on AIM
Experience: I’ve been RPing in various forms since 2007, both in communities and out. I specialise in EPIC ‘VERSE BUILDING via AIM. Think probably 1000+ pages of AUs branching upon AUs. Lots of sex and tragedy, more often than not.
Currently played characters: Charley Pollard
The Character
DW account:
anguiform Name: Unknown, and presumably unpronounceable. When written, it’s represented by a ‘complex, wiggly sigil’
Alias: Crawly, Anthony J. Crowley, many, many others, as he’s lived on Earth for the best part of 6,000 years. Mostly just goes by Crowley. (Incidentally, that's Crowley pronounced like the occultist, not the character from Supernatural)
Age/Birthdate: The beginning of creation, give or take, so at least 6,000
Species: Demon-- which is to say, formerly angelic, since fallen and acquired an affinity with snakes
Canon: Good Omens
Canon point: Post-book
Played By: Kunal Kapoor
Abilities: Extensive matter-manipulation, including miracling things into existence out of nonbeing. Includes statically physical things like clothes and food, but also apparently energy sources-- he's only bought petrol for his car once, and he at one point sustains it through sheer force of will, and has never plugged in his refrigerator-- and sound-- his stereo system has no speakers and does not need them. His own physical form is included in this. While it's stated that bodies are given out by Below (such that if he's inconveniently discorporated, there would be paperwork and red tape required to acquisition a new one), Crowley still has the power to shrink himself down to the size of a molecule, or shift into an eldritch horror involving maggots. He can also bring things back to life on a small scale-- his canon doesn't elaborate on this ability, but I'm taking it to be restricted to animals; things without souls.
He also has powers of mood manipulation and hypnosis. The former can be used as it was originally intended-- provoking wrath, making a temptation a bit easier-- or for inducing divine ecstasy, if he happens to be doing work for two. Once through the Rift, he'll be cut off from all contact with Hell, and, like everybody else, unable to leave Manhattan.
Appearance: Ambiguously South Asian, tall and lanky, with excellent cheekbones, Crowley looks more than a little like the higher class of used car salesman. He tends towards immaculately tailored, incredibly expensive-looking suits. He’s also, unlike his angelic counterpart, visibly not entirely human. He wears sunglasses all the time, even at night, because the eyes behind them are yellow and slit-pupiled, and those flashy, slightly tasteless snakeskin shoes he’s wearing? Yeah, they’re not shoes. He also has a tendency to hisssss ‘when he forgets himself’. One may feel free to imagine what sorts of circumstances that entails.
Except in times of extreme emergency, he’s generally got an air of being a louche bastard; he slinks, he lounges, he sprawls. He also, though he mostly keeps them tucked away, has a pair of rather magnificent (and always neatly groomed) wings in iridescent, banded green/yellow/orange.
Personality: Crowley’s a demon, but these days doing evil is more or less purely a punch-clock sort of affair. Sure, he still gets a little thrill at a bad job well done, a judicious dose of chaos, but more than anything he’s just a guy trying to get on and do his own thing, coasting in the comfortable range in between doing well-enough-not-to-be-reprimanded and not-so-well-it-attracts-the-attention-of-the-Powers-That-Be. Crowley doesn't like his bosses much. He’s got a healthy disdain for the decidedly Mediaeval methods and attitudes of his fellows down below, and prides himself on having adapted so smoothly to the modern world.
Since the advent of the second half of the 20th century, he's put a lot of effort into seeming like a particular kind of human-- young, hip, all the latest gadgets, flat right out of an IKEA catalogue, flash car-- and he has no plans on stopping. He's a hedonist, something which may have originated as an intentionally demonic affectation (the Seven Deadlies being heavy on physical pleasures, after all), but now is mostly just common or garden variety epicureanism. He likes the world. He likes the indulgent lassitude of sleep, he likes getting drunk, he likes sushi and Classical music, he likes stupid little trinkets like pens that can write underwater.
Although in theory, he shouldn’t have free will, Crowley is fairly prone to turns of philosophical thought and questioning the status quo. He wonders on several occasions what the point of the whole Heaven vs. Hell thing is, and it is he who first suggests the notion that the Apocalypse might not have to happen, and who comes up with the initial idea for how to prevent it (however ineffective it may have been). He’s also rather more sensitive than he might like to let on. When he discovered what the Spanish Inquisition was getting up to, rather than being properly demonically pleased, he left the country and got drunk for a week.
Despite any amount of philosophical pondering and the occasional moment of horror at the human race, Crowley is fundamentally an optimist. ‘If there was one rock-hard certainty that had sustained him through the bad times— he thought briefly of the fourteenth century— then it was utter surety that he would come out on top; that the universe would look after him.’ (Good Omens, p. 304). He refuses to acknowledge any poorly thought out heroic tendencies on his part.
He is also a MASSIVE DORK. As per this exchange: ‘[Hastur] raised his voice. ‘All hail Satan,’ he said./ ‘All hail Satan,’ Ligur echoed./ ‘Hi,’ said Crowley, giving them a little wave.’ (Good Omens, p. 18) He also cultivates plants by systematically threatening their lives, has chosen for his given name ‘Anthony’, once acquired James Bond bullet-hole windscreen transfers for his vintage Bentley, and when he loses his carefully cultivated cool, turns into a mess of ‘um’s, ‘er’s, and other single-syllable sounds. Adorable dork.
History: In the beginning, Crowley was an angel who found himself in amongst the wrong crowd and ‘did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downward’. Immediately after his Fall, now known as Crawly, he became the Serpent in the Garden who tempted Eve to the fruit of the Tree, though he always had an inkling that he may have accidentally done the right thing, which demons really ought to avoid.
For some thousands of years after that, he stayed stationed on Earth as one of Hell’s agents, employed to tempt and wile and generally lead humanity into sin and depravity. He and his opposite number, the angel Aziraphale, fought with some frequency, until, around the turn of the first millennium AD, they came to an Arrangement. By this point they had both become quite fond of the Earth, and whatever righteous (or unrighteous) drive they may have had in the beginning towards their respective goals had mellowed considerably. After all, what was the point in fighting all the time if they could just cooperate and get the same thing done either way? It would considerably cut back on discorporations, which were bloody inconvenient no-matter which way you sliced it.
The Arrangement turned into something like a friendship (occasionally peppered by a bit of sex here and there, another thing which initially started as Crowley being a tempter as per his job, but one could hardly call a thing temptation anymore after a thousand years), and they both settled very comfortably into their lives. Lunch at the Ritz, getting drunk in various places all over the world, one occasionally accompanying the other on a mission in the name of thwarting it. Crowley became quite complacent; he liked the Earth and everything it had to offer, even if humanity frequently baffled him, and though he technically knew the Apocalypse was scheduled to happen, it’s not the sort of thing one thinks about.
Until the year 1989, when he was given the task of delivering the Antichrist to his appointed family and seeing that he was raised into his role. Crowley, needless to say, was none too chuffed about the imminent end of the world, and so persuaded Aziraphale into helping him prevent it. Their efforts were mostly not of much account, and the whole affair was a bit of a farce, but in the end, the Apocalypse was, in fact, cancelled, and that’s what matters.
Crowley gets nabbed by the Rift some months after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t.
Writing Sample:
Crowley is, all in all, rather pleased with himself. Not that his presence had necessarily had much effect at all, other than his being an accessory to watching Adam Young very neatly put shot to the whole Apocalypse thing. He can’t decide if he’s smug, embarrassed, or horrified in retrospect about the fact that he’d faced down Satan with nothing more than a tyre iron and an angel at his back, which he’s dealing with by not thinking about it any more than he can help.
The result, in any event, is the same. No Armageddon, the world free to continue on as it always had. Granted, they now had an Antichrist who was about to go through the throes of puberty to consider (it had never been in the plan for the boy to have time to actually grow up) whom he and Aziraphale seem to have accidentally found themselves sort of in charge of keeping an eye on, but it could be worse. Yeah, it could be a-- somewhere of a lot worse
At the moment, they’re celebrating the continued existence of the world by getting absolutely ratted. Crowley loves wine. He really, really loves wine.
They’re in the middle of a rousing (and increasingly muddled) discussion on the merits of toasting one’s spices before cooking with them (having arrived on that subject by way of the British Raj, previously by way of Oscar Wilde, previously by way of the confusing morass that is human morality) when a space-time event happens to Crowley. Crowley knows what it feels like to have all one’s molecules disassembled in a moment and reassembled somewhere else. He knows what it feels like to have his physical being squeezed down to the size of an atom and zip through the aether. The thing is, if he’s not the one doing it himself, he usually has at least a little bit of warning. Not so this time.
One moment he’s coiled over a tatty couch in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop, the next, he’s been left blinking and staggering in the sun in some park. He puts his hands out to balance.
‘‘Ziraphale? The...’ It takes him a few moments to settle on the right word. ‘The fuck is going on? Oi, angel!’
Crowley spins around to see if the angel is anywhere in evidence, and promptly falls flat on his arse.
‘Nnngrff,’ says Crowley, and shoves his face into the grass. ‘Bugger. ‘m too drunk f’this.’
And with an immense effort of will, he sobers up, every particle of alcohol in his system abruptly… no longer in his system. Immediately, intoxication is replaced by a ferocious hangover headache, which he similarly miracles away with a (more more casual) wave of one hand. Pulling himself up off the ground, any newly-acquired stains on his suit get the same treatment, and he takes a moment to adjust himself back into clean, sober lines. The centre button on his sportcoat buttoned, creases brushed out, sunglasses adjusted. There we go; much better. Now he’s prepared to figure out where he is.
It doesn’t take much figuring; Manhattan is instantly recogniseable, and Crowley scowls down at the grass. ‘Couldn’t you have given me some warning?’ he gripes.
Although, now he thinks on it, just plucking him up like that and chucking him around the globe is hardly Hell’s style. His superiors Below generally prefer to just tell him what to do and leave the actual getting-it-done to him. Not to mention, that kind of transport takes effort.
He continues glaring at the turf. ‘Oi! Dagon! Malthus? Labal, anyone? No-one listening? What is this, a relocation? I’ve got an Antichrist to look after, you know; I don’t see any of you clamouring for that job.’
His mobile’s in his pocket, but there’s no answer from Hell.