Name: Crowley PB: Mark Sheppard / Eva Green Fandom: Supernatural Canon Point: SPN 12x23 Date of Birth/Age: Unknown/360+ (canon is ambiguous)
Personality: Kind, unselfish, magnaminous, charitable, virtuous, affable. All words that wouldn't describe Crowley. In laymans terms, Crowley is an irritable, arrogant bastard with Mommy issues, trust issues, etc. He's brilliantly clever, to an almost terrifying level, and a master strategist, always ten, twenty, thirty, one hundred, infinite steps ahead. He can be charming when he wants to be, and is never afraid to speak his mind, even when in the face of certain death. Pain doesn't really faze him that much, he's been through every method of torture you could imagine and then some that you really couldn't. His moods can be extremely volatile, from surly and grumpy to a rage burning hotter than the pits of Hell. He has more faults than virtues (which he claims to have none) but he does have his moments where he truly can be reasonably good, at least given there's something in it for him. He has few friends (if you can count the Winchesters and company as friends, which changes depending on which season you're tuning into) but if you're good to him, he'd never forget it and he can be loyal to those he trustsrespects tolerates. Some might call him cowardly, but there are moments where he is as brave as any flannel-clad hunter, and stubborn though he may be, it means he wouldn't back down from a fight if needed. Sins/Crimes: Assault, blasphemy, breaking the law, causing others to sin, dishonesty (though he would argue that he never lies), endangerment of human life/safety, envy, extortion, failure to care for children, gluttony, greed, hatred, lust, misotheism (to a degree), murder, oath breaking, practicing sorcery or divination, pride, sacrilege (to a degree), self-abuse, suicide, theft, wrath, and lots more involving being a demon and pansexual and etc. History:here. His suicide sacrifice for the Winchesters was the main thing that catapulted him to this place basically as well. Other Game History (optional): Uhhh he's met Aphrodite before and a few others (?) perhaps,
Powers & Abilities: Telekinesis, witchcraft (amplified when he's in his female vessel), possession, saucy red smoke to separate him from the other demons, increased strength, fluent in Enochian and many languages (some of which are dead languages), other abilities are on the wiki link up there.
Out Of Character
He still remembered the first time he died, when the Hellhounds ripped him to shreds, his soul damned for reasons that were known only to him (he didn't need any extra help down there, despite what he said, the demon who took his soul was long since dead and nobody knew or cared the real reason). But when he was slaughtered by Hellhounds and damned for the first time, he-- Fergus, that was, was drunk as a skunk and if the Hellhounds hadn't finished him off, the alcohol poisoning would have done so first.
Dying hurt. Dying at your own hand hurt more, dying for people that would sooner see you dead (and happily said it not twenty minutes earlier) hurt plenty as well. Feeling the knife hit his heart was more excruciating a pain than anything he had ever felt, but he embraced it, welcomed it. He was done fighting. He had nothing left to live for, nobody would miss him, this was not a sacrifice it was suicide, and a middle finger to his nemesis in return. He twisted the knife slightly as if to hasten his demise.
Suddenly, the world disappeared under his feet and he tasted a strong, familiar taste of metal, felt an overwhelming silence, before he hit the ground once again.
Crowley was a very learned and skilled demon and knew full well what happened to his kind when they died, by their own hand or not. He had heard of the Empty, the absolute nothingness where his candle would be snuffed out and he would just suffer eternal sleep without dreaming, where there was nothing in his future.
But... this was not what he expected. He hadn't opened his eyes, but he felt carpet under his hands, from where he was sprawled on his face on the ground. He twitched his fingers and felt it move-- a rug. He was sprawled on a rug. His eyes twitched open, he was not in that apocalyptic world anymore. He was in a hotel room.
Surprised, shocked-- he slowly made his way to his feet, as he did so he saw himself in the mirror. He was wearing his familiar suit, however it was unblemished, clean, not even a puncture from where he'd stabbed himself. As he looked down he could still feel he had his demonic powers, yet they were muted. He knew without knewing that he would not be able to teleport as far as he normally would. Where ever he was he was trapped-- to an extent.
The room was... shabby. But he couldn't complain. He was alive. If he didn't already know Purgatory firsthand he'd say he was here. But then again, perhaps this was someone else's idea of Purgatory. Or maybe the place had had some sort of existential upgrade.
His eyes caught a basket resting on the bed, certainly not blending in amongst the ugly overtly floral pattern. He moved over to it, looking through everything. Cellphone, keys, Glencraig.... he would polish that off quite hastily he was sure, and a few other important things, though his eyes went to a paperback book. He pulled it out, reading the cover.
How to Live a Moral and Upstanding Life.
He couldn't help himself. He laughed, harder than he had for years.
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