“ the world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper ”
michael alexander smith
(ALSO KNOWN AS MICK, MICHAEL PENTLAND)
age: 35
pronouns: he/him
sexuality: heterosexual
occupation: writer
species: old soul/warlock
faceclaim: armie hammer
death tw, kidnapping tw, murder tw below the cut
Michael Smith grew up knowing little of demons. Magic, on the other hand, was all around him. His mother, though she had no talent for it herself, made sure he was well trained and lived up to all his potential. Magic was always something they could bond over; it was the one time his mother seemed truly invested in him and it made him strive for greatness. She’d never told him where the powers had come from, had clammed up any time he’d asked, but it hadn’t stopped the curiosity. His imagination roamed wild, creating tall tales to explain it all to to himself and hunting around the house for proof whenever his mother was at work. He was a natural story-teller just as much as a magician; he started writing young, inspired by the tall tales he told himself and the vivid dreams of other people’s lives that he found himself wrapped in at night. No matter how many stories he wrote, part of him always felt that something was missing from them, just like there seemed to be a missing piece of his own story.
He’d travelled, met people, experienced all that life had to offer and yet none of it seemed to be the missing piece that fit into the puzzle. JJ had come close; he’d felt a softness for her that he had almost mistaken for love. He knew from the moment he’d proposed that it was a mistake, but then the two pink lines had made it impossible to back out. He’d have felt worse, had he not suspected Julia felt the same way. He knew she loved him, but in the same way he’d loved her—as a friend, as family. It all came together one horrible night in the kitchen of his apartment. It was the first time he’d heard his mother speak of demons and the first time she’d ever told him the truth, the piece that had always been missing. She was something called a hellhound. He was Michael Pentland, and he was to be the new vessel for the demon Azazel, raised for it like a lamb for the slaughter. The last thing he remembered was a chanting, and then a key in the door. Then nothing.
In the end, he was possessed for one year, five months, and sixteen days. He’d taken a backseat to it all, watching as if from a distance. The terror had stood out more than anything, inflicted by the demon on anyone that came across its path. The last one his been his mother—or whoever she was. He hadn’t been certain why that was the moment the demon had chosen to leave him, but he’d come to over her unmoving body, suddenly in control again. The new memories—old memories?—had been a parting gift, he’d supposed. All those lives and people he’d dreamed about for so long—all him. Past lives, old souls, it was a whole new world that finally seemed to make sense. He’d boxed up everything important he could find in the house of the woman who had raised him and had set off cross country.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for. Pentland. It wasn’t a common name, but still he wasn’t able to find any records of them. JJ, on the other hand, was much easier to find. It would be a quick stop—an explanation and an apology, if she would listen—and then he’d be off again to find the Pentlands. Or, if he could, he’d be off to find Katie. As strange as it sounded to miss a person he’d never met in this body, the memories of the woman who had once been his wife had seized him ever since they’d come back. That was love, the only love he could remember ever knowing, cut too short by war. He had no idea where to start, no idea who he would be looking for. Still, he would try. Bellport was just a blip on the radar, and Michael had no idea what would be waiting for him there.