David Hugo Desmarais

[David Desmarais]

DAVIDHUGODESMARAIS




CALL ME A NAME
» KILL ME WITH WORDS «
. c h a r a c t e r . i n t r o d u c t i o n .

full name; David Hugo Desmarais.
nicknames; David Hugo Desmarais.
age; 32.
gender; Male.
sexual orientation; Straight.
job; Philanthropist.
face claim; Matthew Goode.

FORGET ABOUT ME
» IT'S WHAT I DESERVE «
. b a s i c . p r o f i l e .

likes; Good conversation, fencing, hunting, reading, traveling, 14th century history, foreign languages, Rumi, middle eastern ceramics, writing poetry, crime fiction, anonymity.
dislikes; Boring people, the mundane, large crowds, affectation, guile, poor writing, intellectual laziness.
fears; Perpetual solitude, misunderstanding, lack of emotion.
overall personality; David is a man whose care of word and action shows clearly in his mannered grace. He speaks little and moves with the practiced art of a fully realized gentleman. Courteous and articulate, he presents easy confidence both in private conversations and public speech. Rarely does he talk of himself beyond his devotion to the charitable causes he pursues and the stray affinity for poetry; there is an unassuming, silent guile to his nature that conceals and hides away. A certain blankness in his stare, a practice in his step and movement, belies the perfect, planned construction of his outer self. With mutable features and artful language he may navigate the life thrust upon him at an early age without sacrificing any of the inner cultivation he’s kept to himself, or any of the wishes he’s kept close to his heart since he was a young boy.

I WAS YOUR CHANCE
» TO GET OUT OF THIS TOWN «
. a . l i t t l e . e x t r a .

home town; Grasse, France. Born off the coast of Syria.
biological mother; Rebekah Desmarais née Cantor.
biological father; Marcus Desmarais.
siblings; Joshua Eli Desmarais.
significant other; N/A
history; With titles, styles, and a ten-times great-grandmother who survived the Reign of Terror, David Desmarais comes with his own vault of history filled with dry paper deeds and glittering gems alike. A stock of French nobility shows clearly in his unfailing grace and ease of manner. Ambassadors and magnates have flitted around him since he was a child retching caviar beneath a grand dining-room table, and his time spent at Balliol college, Oxford connected him to leaders of politics and business between Fencing Club matches and Bullingdon romps. His earliest memory is of clambering up a grand staircase in his manorial, childhood home as a dozen pairs of eyes stared from their portraits on the paneled walls; his predecessors watching the next heir scurry down ancestral halls. David boarded through secondary school in a place where names and titles passed so strictly from father to son that the years’ rosters became a cyclical list of wealthy families’ successive generations. It suited him to be sent away, as the eldest child in a family with a father who took little interest until David learned how to play chess and a mother whose title as hostess was taken more seriously than any maternal endearment. The former dying when David was just seventeen suited him as well; managing his family’s business holdings fell to him immediately as his younger brother’s wasting health deteriorated along with his mother’s involvement in public life.

And what holdings, grown through the years under his deft hand. Estates include a townhouse in Belgravia, a manor in Grasse, a vineyard in Shomron, and a private island that is both his family’s summer retreat and a UNESCO World Heritage site. With all of these it was little wonder David came to add one more to the list: a Beverly Hills penthouse, the world-travelling aristocrat settling another home, his frantic PA darting about town to pull together its interior. Quickly he’s engrained himself into LA life. His philanthropic deeds and corporative success carry his image far and wide. While he’s become a regular feature of gossip columns, lavish galas, and red carpets alike, practiced smile holding firm against the epileptic flashing of a hundred frantic cameras, he’s never appeared – or been discovered – with a woman on his arm. Though his smile comes easy when faced with the sheer glare of a camera lens, he’s proven impenetrable to the tabloids. What secrets, then, are snapped up beneath bespoke suits and immaculate cufflinks?

BUT I DITCHED THE CAR
» AND LEFT YOU TO WAIT OUTSIDE «
. f a c e . b e h i n d . t h e . s c r e e n .

your name; Hazel
how did you find us; Friend referral.
role playing experience; Ten years or so.
contact; AIM: Fevvahs

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[DAISY]

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