Is that CHARLES MICHAEL DAVIS? No, that’s DESMOND ZARIAH “ZED” MILES. The 39 year old WIND MOON WEREBULL ALPHA MALE is a RANCH OWNER. If you ask their friends, they’re known to be PASSIONATE & AMBITIOUS, but beware, they’re also known to be DETERMINATE & FIERY. Their friends also say that they’re into EXHIBITIONISM & PRAISE but don’t you dare trying TICKLING & VORE with them.

Perfection is overrated.

Damascus Miles had a very clear idea in mind about what he wanted his son to be. Desmond would be a witch. A talented one at that. He’d grow into his power and become the best fit person to become head of the family once it was time for Damascus to step down.

Except… Desmond was six months old at the time and had yet to present any penchant for magic powers. But all of that would change in the next week when the horns started growing out of a very upset and crying baby. And out of the window went his plans of having a worthy heir in his first born. The relationship between father and son would become strained from that moment on with Desmond still as a child seeking the approval of his daddy. The man he saw as a hero and yet had very few memories of a true smile. If any.

Coming home with aced tests and good grades didn’t seem to be enough for Damascus who had found a new target for his expectations in Damon once he presented as witch. Desmond wasn’t mad. Wasn’t jealous. Sure he was hurt. He just… He just wanted his dad to give him a little more attention. Didn’t have to be as much as he was giving his baby brother. Just… a little more.

He would spend the following years trying to outdo himself in every possible way, just to get approval from the hardly impressed older witch. Good grades, team captain, main roles for extra credit, anything and everything in his academic life he’d try at least once to varying degrees of success. And yet, when graduation rolled around and he was offered a scholarship in business in NHU due to all that extra credit that spoke volumes to his dedication and commitment to a cause when he set his mind to it, his father didn’t even seem impressed. It was almost as if it was expected of Desmond to manage such a thing and get himself noticed by the NHU board.

And now we have Desmond Miles, trying to live up to the shadow that Damascus left behind in the University but incapable to do so for the simple fact that he couldn’t pursue the magical course. No matter how many lectures on the subject he sat through. 

So he did what he should and excelled at the more “mundane” classes, classes more closely tied to his business majoring. And that should be enough, right? He was excelling. He was not falling behind and he was still attending every team practice. And yet… Nothing seemed to appease Damascus unbelievably high standards.

And so, in a desperate moment, he tried one last move.

Ivy League.

He didn’t really think that one through. He just… He needed to give himself that one last shot. And to this day he’s still amazed that he got into Columbia Business School. Luckily, the campus was less than a two hour drive so, while he did move out for the sake of convenience, he could still come to New Haven every other weekend and check on his brothers and a certain high school friend he had started to take a different interest in.

Damascus, however, didn’t even bat a lash at the thought of his first born  going to study in one of the Ivy League schools for business. Not even the fact that they lived in a time where the mere fact that he was not a human would paint a huge target on his back.

But Desmond wouldn’t let that discourage him.

A new world full of possibilities had opened before him the moment he settled in his new dorm. New people, new friends. Classes. Team. Guys. Girls. He would be damned but he would have it all. And he would also hold himself accountable for that scholarship that had got him there to begin with. 

The following years would be considered the worst and the best years of Desmond’s life. Well… Now that he was out of his father’s constant sphere of influence, his teammates started calling him Zed. And he didn’t really dislike the nickname. Zed would go on living the college experience at its fullest and when graduation rolled around and he returned to New Haven full time… He decided that he didn’t want to be in that town anymore. Suddenly, New Haven was too small for his ambitions and his thoughts. And suddenly, Damascus didn’t talk to him with pure scorn. But then again… Damon was starting on his path as a witch and a little actor and little, precious Dominic too had presented as witch. Maybe they would have better luck in receiving their father’s attention and affection. But there was no place in that household or coven for Zed. So he went out in the world, after a very unexpected proposal was presented to him.

He… Couldn’t say he loved his job. That would be too strong a word. But he was a reliable person that got things done and had a problem solving mentality that added great to their team. But for the last decade, Zed has made a point to being an essential member of his team, only coming to visit his family during the holidays.

Until he snapped.

He’s been to Milan. And then Paris. And now he was in Athenas. No, he was not on vacation. He was in a series of important meetings, negotiations, takeovers… And yet… He felt like he missed too much. Hell, he was in Greece, in fucking Athenas, and he hadn’t gone to visit the Parthenon. He hadn’t had coffee by the Eiffel Tower while he was in Paris. Sure, those small pleasures were never meant to be his. He was never meant to enjoy those simple things in life. But something about the Greek view had him snapping.

How long since the last time he actually spoke to Damon?

How long had it been since the last time he managed to play with Dominic? Hell, his baby brother was now a grown up man. And Zed had missed the opportunity to squish his cute cheeks to death. And all for what? 

To live up to the expectations of a man that couldn’t even take him seriously?

Fucking David Gray respected him more than his own father. And David Gray didn’t have respect for no one! 

He was pissed. He was frustrated. And he hasn’t had good sex in god knows how fucking long. And he was done with it all.

Well… It was a good thing that he spent the past decade working his ass off and saving money instead of living the dream bachelor life, full of alcohol and debauchery. So he could afford to put in his two week notice. He could afford to walk out of the negotiations. He could afford to stay in Greece for another week, just to recharge, enjoy the beaches and the breeze for the first time in forever.

Going back to New Haven, he knew that there would be hell to deal with from Damascus but… Suddenly… He didn’t care. All he could think about was the small ranch he had spent the previous three days negotiating.

Well, he would buy that one. That was a fact. He’s also been eyeing a horse… He had some investment. He had the funds. He could afford to have some horses. Even though they were expensive as fuck. 

Ditching the suit and tie for cowboy boots and hat was one hell of a change for this city boy that just wanted daddy’s approval. But he wasn’t Desmond Miles any more. 

He was Zed Miles. 

And he would become his own person.

@heksery - The Night Market —or Markets, more properly, as they were a global network of such–existed in a space between spaces, a liminal area between worlds–the human world, and many, many others. Merchants from all came to hock their wares, with treasures such as bravery in a bottle, cunning in a carafe, kindness in cabochon ring. You could buy seven-league boots (or a mere seven mile knockoff if you couldn’t afford the leagues), a dagger that cut through lies, the strings and needle necessary to mend a broken heart, or an “evil eye” amulet that really was from an evil eye, though which one you had to be careful to ask whom the eye had come from—they might want it back. The prices, it must be noted, were just as dear as the wares; your heart’s content, your peace of mind, and even baby’s breath (not the flowers) The stalls were as varied as the species of the merchants; some were mere huts, some veritable palaces. Some were made of straw, or stone, or bone (best not to ask what from); some were living flesh, or glittering glass, or water that was enchanted to hold its shape. Some steeped the potential buyer in darkness as soon as they stepped in, or transported them to a glamorous ball or the bottom of the sea or a trail in a dark forest that they had to pick their way through to find to find the merchant at all if they TRULY wished to buy. Some advertised themselves as flamboyantly as possible, some were hidden in the shadows, some were charmed to only be visible to those who needed what they had. But all held to certain rules–namely, a buyer could not be influenced or compelled to buy. All sales must be done of the purchaser’s own free will. There were a few others, of course, and the code of respect towards other merchants that one must abide by, but that was key. Two such merchants in this marvelous magical market were Juliana Sara Ester Berger Accama, and Abraham “Bram” King. A witch and a werebull, a seamstress and a CEO. And the former was presently in the office of the latter. Not the office of Bos Industries, the mundane machinery company that he presided over as a man, but his office as a member of the Curia Regis. The term was a Latin phrase that meant “king’s court” and was traditionally used for the royal council of monarchs in medieval Europe. Here, though, it was a band of cutthroat elites, human and otherwise, who wished to control the supernatural underworld—and did a damned good job at it, often through methods most cruel. Most cruel, and most concealed; they were as elusive and as they were elite. But Juliana knew of Bram’s membership—and was apparently seeking it for herself. And Bram was not dismissing her. . .just yet, anyway. “I’m not opposed to you petitioning for membership to me, Ms. Accama,” he said from behind his huge desk of some black polished stone, harvested by weremoles from a world beneath even that of the dwarves, his thick fingers steepled together before him, “But I want to know what you can offer. We’ve not shortage of assassins, though your means are unique. Besides your textile talents, what can you bring to our little. . .club?”

Character stats framework

Repost don't reblog

Name: Abraham Horatio King

Nickname(s): Bram

Age: Looks a hard mid-50s, actually 85

Birthdate: Dec 28

Species: Werebull

Nationality: American

Gender: Male

Preferred Pronoun(s): He/him

Romantic Orientation: No (Biromantic but emotionally unavailable as hell)

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Religion: Atheist; he knows gods exist but he doesn’t follow any

Occupation: Businessman, Curia Regis member

Face Claim: Javier Bardem, Ciaran Hinds

Parents: Dead

Siblings: None

Family: Not connected to any

Significant Other(s): No longer applicable

Children: An absolutely bevvy of bastards

Closest Friends: What?

Rivals: Some other Curia Regis members

Enemies: Many, such as Morma (a powerful sorceress who styles herself after dark goddesses like Ereshkigal and Hecate) and Marana (an eco-terrorist manticore who was driven to her extremism by witnesses Bram’s hedonism and greed at the expense of others)

Eye Color(s): Dark

Hair Color(s): Graying black

Height: 6′2

Weight: Over 200 lbs in human form, over 2,000 lbs in beast form

Body Build: Very beefy and bulky

Notable Physical Traits: Exceptionally hairy in human form; you’d be forgiven for thinking him more a werewolf or werebear than a werebull snagged from @raktanag tagging anyone who is bored like me

@luposcanius - continued from HERE! “I’ll most certainly call you Caspian.” Bram didn’t hold with royalty unless he absolutely had to. The very concept of hereditary monarchy disgusted him----all that power, and others having to obey you, simply because you were born to it? Bram was a self-made man, as he’d just said, and anyone being handed anything in life made him rankle. “I don’t suppose you have a last name? And as to your other question, no, I’m not bound to the lunar cycle. My other form is as natural a body is as this one, not a cyclical curse. Which means, should I catch you at any time enacting mischief in my domain. . .the horns are an option. Though I’d hate for it to come to that; transforming does alas ruin my suits, and you’ve no idea what I pay for them.” That was the point of this meeting. Supernaturals, at least in Bram’s world, operated within a loose system of. . .not laws, exactly, but courtesies. Understandings. Gentlemen’s agreements. Territory was a big issue for many, not simply because lots of them had animal instincts, but for practical reasons as well. Vampires needed places to hunt, shifters needed places to roam, witches needed areas for ceremonies, and so on. And everyone had to be careful not to draw attention to a spot. Especially if it was someone else’s spot. Because if, say, a sloppy vampire leaves a blood-drained body in a witch’s neighborhood, and investigators start snooping around there, the witch is the one at risk, that sort of thing. So people of the preternatural persuasion tended to get a little defensive about letting anyone else of the same sort operate in a domain they’d claimed for themselves. But Bram was a reasonable man; seek permission in a courteous manner in his office like this, make some kind of small payment to him for the privilege, and it was all good. He just needed to know who you were and what you were doing. The werebull leaned back in his leather chair--yes, leather, Bram had no sympathy for real cows---and steepled his fingers, “So tell me, Prince Caspian---what are you the Prince of?” Whatever Bram thought of royalty, there was quite a lot of it in the supernatural world. . .worlds, really, plural. This and that fairy courts, emperors of such and so species, princesses of this clan of whatever, and so on. Couldn’t really keep track of them all, and it did matter if the younger man was actually ruling some rich and powerful otherworldly country or if he was just the son of some small werewolf pack’s leader.

"You're a werebull? That is interesting. I didn't know that type of creature could exist. Does that mean you're part wolf and bull?" // from beam -unprompted

Being told someone didn't know about werebulls was not unusual; Bram himself had believed his family was the only line of such beings in existence, until he'd met a pair of siblings from India. Like him, theirs had been a hereditary condition, not spread to them like a disease via bite. Bram expected that was why it was so much less common. So that part, a common question. The other part. . . "Never heard that take before," he said, his huge thick eyebrows raising slightly at his questioner. Pretty little thing, wasn't she? Though that seldom gave him any extra patience with others. "No, it means I become a bull. At the will of myself, I might add, not the movement of hunks of rock billions of miles away. No wolf involved; the prefix were means man. Man-bull. Understand?" His tone was short, as though he were speaking to a stupid child, which he suspected he was. Bram was uncharitable like that. And rude. "What's less simple to me is the matter of what you are," he said, his body ever so slightly leaning closer, the nostrils of his large, crooked Roman nose flaring indeed like that of a bull, "My senses are as keen as any predator, even in my human state. But your species---there is wolf in there, yes. But I think it's you who has something else in the mix too. " He arched one of those hairy brows of his again, interested, "Care to disclose? I've put my species cards on the table, seems only fair." @forevermonsters

I would reaaaally like to write Bram in the Anita Blake world---using a canon species, like an Earthmover vamp maybe, since werebulls aren’t a thing there--but I don’t think there’s any fandom left, haha. Certainly not on Tumblr.