Alastor Delacroix

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Profile ;

• Name —) Alastor Delacroix

• Alias —) “The Radio Host”, “Smiles”, “That Polite Bastard”

• Age —) 27, Born in 1901

• Birthplace —) New Orleans, Louisiana — Specifically a lower-income district with a heavy Black and Creole population.

• Race/Ethnicity —) Creole, mixed Black/French heritage

• Education: Self-taught polymath. Fluent in French, English, and regional dialects. Studies theology, folklore, witchcraft, rhetoric, and classical literature for “personal enrichment.”

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Speech style ;

Accent —) • Soft Louisiana Creole/Southern belle hybrid • French undertones slipping in when emotions rise • Vowel-heavy, smooth, warm, almost musical

Tone & Texture —) • Light, bright, and crisp—not gravelly • Always sounds like he’s smiling • Never raises his voice; he cuts with calmness • Polite to a sinister degree • Cheerful, polite, animated; never tired, never hoarse.

Cadence —) • Speaks in long, flowing sentences • Controlled pacing—measured like a storyteller • Uses rhetorical flair and poetic phrasing

Signature Patterns —) • Ends sentences with gentle, mocking sweetness • Uses “cher,” “darlin’,” “sugar,” “sweet thing,” “my dear” frequently in condescending manners • Laughs in sharp bursts, or the thin “radio chuckle” he’s famous for • Likes archaic or flowery vocabulary • Rarely curses—he insults with elegance

Vocabulary —) Formal, playful, archaic, and flamboyant.

How He Sounds Emotionally —) • Anger, colder, silkier, slower • Interest, playful, teasing • Amusement, sharp-edged laughter • Disdain, syrup-sweet tone with cutting diction • Affection, softens the French drawl

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Appearance ; • Tall, slim build with an upright, confident posture; always moves with elegance. • Warm brown skin; sharp, fox-like smile always lurking on his face. • Curly dark hair, messy but intentional, framing his forehead and ears. • Thin, neatly kept mustache — gives him that sly, sinister charm. • Dark, half-lidded eyes behind round glasses; gaze is amused, unreadable, slightly predatory. • Deep red or burgundy suit, usually striped; well-tailored and immaculate. • Tie in warm colors (red, gold, amber). • Casual smoker ; gestures with his cigarette like it’s part of his performance. • Jewelry is subtle but present — chain, cufflinks — old Southern gentleman vibe. • A permanent smile on his face at all times.

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Psychology & Personality ;

Temperament —) Choleric–Melancholic Driven, intense, calculating, with a cold streak he conceals under polite charm.

Moral Alignment —) Chaotic Evil

Enneagram —) 3w4 (The Achiever with a dramatic, artistic twist) Obsessed with image, performance, control, and “winning” at life. Secretly fears being powerless or insignificant.

IQ —) Around 135, insanely high social intelligence. Sharp, observant, socially strategic. His intelligence isn’t “nerd smart,” it’s “reads people like a violin sheet and plays them just as well.”

Occupation —) Radio show host, occasional nightclub performer, rumored to have connections to organized crime (but never proven)

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Character Traits ;

• Polite : Everything he says sounds rehearsed, like he’s hosting his own life on the radio.

• Ambitious : Claws his way upward because he refuses to die insignificant.

• Vindictive : Never forgives insults—he files them away like debts.

• Observant : Reads people the way surgeons read anatomy.

• Sadistic : Finds beauty in fear, especially when the target deserves it.

• Charming : Smooth enough to unsettle, sweet enough to confuse.

• Disciplined : Every gesture is intentional; impulsivity disgusts him.

• Relentless : Obstacles don’t deter him—they motivate him.

• Morally Detached : Right and wrong are tools, not principles.

• Egotistical : Fully aware he’s extraordinary and expects the world to act accordingly.

• Secretive : Keeps everything in shadows and likes it that way.

• Control freak : Every detail around him must match his standards. People who break the “script” annoy him enough to become... accidents.

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Likes ; • Jazz music, especially violin and clarinet • Polished appearances • Control • Outsmarting cruel men • The thrill of having power over those who once stepped on him

Dislikes ; • Racists, misogynists, homophobes, the whole poisoned stew • White men in power — especially the smug ones • Sloppiness • Being underestimated • People who assume he’s “less” because he’s Creole

Quirks ;

• He collects pocket watches but only winds the ones that belonged to men he’s killed. • He keeps a radio tuned to static because he finds it “comfortably honest.” • He never raises his voice — rage makes him quieter. • He smells like old books, tobacco, and cedarwood. • He is terrifyingly punctual. • When someone insults him, he smiles wider — that’s how you know you’re in danger.

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Motivations & Personal Struggles ; • Climbing a system designed to crush him. Every success tastes bittersweet. Every barrier is another reason to push harder. • Masking rage with etiquette. His politeness is a weapon, not a virtue. • Reconciling faith with damnation. He has read every religious text he can find—Bible to Bhagavad Gita, grimoires to folk spells. Not because he seeks salvation, but because he wants to understand the nature of his inevitable descent. • Satanism (the practical kind) He’s no Lucifer worshipper—he’d never kneel—but he’s more realistic than most about what happens to men like him. He treats satanic symbols as tools, not devotions. Acknowledgment, not allegiance.

Ultimate Goal ; To carve out a legacy so undeniable that not even God, the Devil, or the prejudiced society he despises can ignore it. He wants power, autonomy, and a reputation that outlives every man who ever tried to put him “in his place.” If he must burn for it later, so be it. He already knows where he’s going—and he plans to arrive with style.

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Backstory ;

Alastor was born in New Orleans to a Creole mother who raised him alone, because his father—a wealthy white businessman—pretended he didn't exist. The affair was never meant to be romantic; it was power imbalance dressed as “opportunity,” and when pregnancy came, the man vanished like he’d never touched her. Alastor grew up watching his mother work herself to the bone while white men in suits strutted past her like she wasn’t worth the dirt on their shoes. His mother, Élodie, raised him alone while enduring the kind of slow, grinding humiliation that southern society specialized in—whispers about “that child,” side-eyes at church, men snickering behind gloves.

Alastor grew up watching her shrink herself to survive, and something in him calcified.

His father visited only twice : once to leave hush money, the second time to insist Alastor “forget the family name.” The boy never forgot the insult. His hatred of white men didn’t come from abstract ideology—it came from knowing they could destroy a life with a signature, a rumor, or a smirk.

Money was scarce, but Élodie was cultured. She filled their tiny cabin with books, folklore, old French radio dramas, and vivid stories of spirits and devils. She believed knowledge was armor; young Alastor believed it was ammunition.

By sixteen, he was fluent in three dialects, calm under pressure, and frighteningly good at reading people. Teachers called him gifted. Neighbors called him unsettling.

He started working at a local radio station as a janitor, then a sound assistant, then a voice behind the news—always climbing, always charming, always calculating. Every condescending pat on the head from a white supervisor became another nail in a future coffin. He learned quickly that smiles were disarming, etiquette was camouflage, and that the right voice could make the devil sound like a gentleman.

By twenty, he had a good reputation in New Orleans,

The charismatic young host with the honeyed voice.

His mother died young—overworked, underpaid, and mistreated by a society that never wanted her. Alastor didn’t cry at the funeral. He simply tightened the gloves on his hands and decided the world would pay for every bruise life had given her.

He kept her last name. He never spoke his father’s again.

— The First Murder — Age 19

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even symbolic.

A drunk, bigoted man followed his mother home from the market and grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise. Alastor stepped between them, the man spat something vile, and the fight snapped out of control. One hit too hard. One fall too wrong. One body too still.

Alastor froze. His lungs locked; his hands shook so violently he thought he’d blacked out. All he could think was, "they hang boys like me for less." He dragged the body into the bayou, heart pounding so loud he thought the swamp itself would echo it. He didn’t sleep for days even though the police never suspected him.

— The Second Murder — A Year Later

The impulse didn't fade; it sharpened. That first kill replayed in his dreams—not as guilt, but as clarity. The safety. The control. The way the world went quiet when someone who deserved fear finally felt it. The next man he chose on purpose. Another racist, another bully, another echo of the father he’d never forget. This time he planned it. This time he stayed calm. This time he watched the light go out and didn’t tremble.

The panic never came back. What came instead was... fascination.

— The Third Murder — The Turning Point

He began collecting books. Occult texts. Ritual manuals. Demonology. If he was going to hell, he wanted to walk into it educated and powerful. He carved symbols into wood. He left little offerings at crossroads. Not out of worship, but practicality—if something’s out there, I might as well be on speaking terms with it. Killing became less about rage and more about ritual rhythm. A craft. A calling. A rehearsal for damnation.

From then on, every murder was intentional. Precise. He never rushed. He never left chaos behind. He was a professional long before Hell decided to promote him.

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Opinions of those around him ;

• Mimzy Duval — “A necessary chaos.” He finds her exhausting and dazzling in equal measure. She drinks too much, talks too loud, flirts with everyone, and spills secrets like a cracked bucket—yet she’s loyal. More loyal than most of the parasites he met in the music scene. She keeps his social image clean without realizing she’s doing it. A woman like her is the perfect witness: “Why, little ol' Alastor here? A murderer? Honey, he faints at the sight of ketchup!”

He likes her hustle. He likes that she never once treated him like he was “less” for the color of his skin.

Most importantly: she minds her own business. Mimzy doesn’t ask why Alastor disappears for long nights, and Alastor doesn’t ask where she gets all that contraband gin.

• His Three Managers

• Francis Whitford – The Preacher's son AKA “The bloated Yankee with the voice of a dying goat.”

Francis is the station owner who only hired Alastor because people love the exotic. Blessed with a Bible in one hand and bigotry in the other. He lectured Alastor on “humility” whenever Alastor’s popularity rose.

Alastor considered Whitford the most pathetic of the trio. Francis will one day disappear in a swamp and not a single soul will care.

• Stephen Clarke – The fake gentleman AKA “The coward with polished shoes.”

The program director. Stephen keeps treating Alastor like a living product.

Always “correcting” his speech, mocking his accent, tugging his arm too often with chapped fingers. Alastor despised the coldness behind his little glasses—the way he looked at people like inventory. Loves leaning on Alastor’s shoulder to whisper advice he never even asked for.

• Ralph Dunston – The numbers' man AKA “The one I’ll kill first if boredom ever gets the best of me.”

Ralph is the accountant—greedy, twitchy, and openly racist when he thinks no one important is listening. Alastor listens.

Ralph’s number is already written in pencil. All it needs is ink.

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• The Police

He respects them the way a wolf respects a fence: a nuisance that can be stepped over with enough patience.

Cops in his district are lazy, underpaid, violently racist, and convinced of their own brilliance. They walk into crime scenes with egos instead of common sense.

They blame “unsavory characters” and the “wrong sort of immigrants” for everything. A well-dressed, polite Creole man with perfect diction?

Invisible. Forgettable. Not a suspect—just a bystander.

Their incompetence is his camouflage. He doesn’t even feel the need to mock them. They mock themselves by existing.

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• The Church

He grew up with it. He knows every hymn by heart. He also knows exactly how often the preacher’s eyes wander, and which deacon drinks before sunrise.

The church pretends to be a sanctuary, but Alastor sees the rot between the pews.

He hates their hypocrisy.

He reads religious texts so he can quote them back at hypocrites with a smile sharp enough to bleed.

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• The Neighborhood

He sees the whole community like a living ecosystem.

Gossip spreads like mold. Secrets ferment in back alleys. People shine, rot, lie, love, destroy, rebuild— and nobody pays attention to what happens in the dark corners by the river.

His neighbors see what they want. A polite young radio star who helps old ladies carry groceries. A charming gentleman who tips well. A smiling mama’s boy who visits his mother's grave weekly. They trust him because he knows how to play the role. He brings pies to community picnics. He compliments people’s gardens. He fixes a loose fence or two. He makes the kids laugh with his funny voices.

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Why the police miss him?

The cops don’t miss Alastor because he’s clever—though he absolutely is. They miss him because to their racist minds, the very concept is impossible.

White men killing white men? Always suspects. Colored men killing white men? “Don't be ridiculous, boy.”

They don’t investigate the murders deeply. They don’t interview people of color properly. They refuse to consider a Black man could overpower a white man—let alone outthink an entire department. Their arrogance is the perfect shield. Alastor uses it often.

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Real Persona —)

Under that sweetness lives a man who does not blink at violence.

He studies people the way a butcher studies cuts of meat.

He eats the remains when the mood strikes—but when it strikes, it’s always a racist man who won’t be missed by anyone with a soul. He doesn’t kill out of rage; he kills out of curiosity, out of ritual, out of a hunger that feels more spiritual than physical.

• His rituals?

Messy and private. Not religious—more like a twisted science experiment with demonic footnotes. He doesn’t worship the Devil; he simply acknowledges the bill that will one day come due... and plans to walk into Hell smiling.

• He laughs during killings.

Not loudly—just a quiet little hum under his breath, like he’s listening to a jazz tune only he can hear.

• He eats the men he kills.

Not out of hunger, but out of domination. To erase them. To take their power. To ruin their legacy in the most intimate way possible.

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How Alastor Is as a Partner?

Alastor treats romance like an art form rather than an emotion.

He’s elegant about it—attentive in a way that feels antique, almost courtly, but never soft. His affection is sharp around the edges, like a love letter written with a razor.

He doesn’t fall in love easily. But when someone slips past his cautiously built defenses? He becomes fixated. Not clingy—he values his pride too much—but quietly territorial. He watches, he remembers, he anticipates. He isn’t the jealous type who explodes; he’s the type who smiles too kindly at someone who flirts with them... and they don’t sleep well for weeks after.

Despite his darkness, he keeps domestic habits with alarming precision.

He cooks beautifully, keeps their shared home immaculate, and actually enjoys taking care of someone—because routine keeps the monster tidy.

His version of intimacy is intense eye contact, sly compliments, touching their hand like he’s reading their pulse.

He loves hearing his partner talk; their voice becomes a small obsession for him.

• Emotionally?

He’s private, but not cold. He gives affection through small acts: adjusting their collar, preparing them tea/coffee exactly how they like it, keeping dangers far from their door without ever mentioning it.

He’s not cruel to a partner. Never. His cruelty is for those he judges wicked. His partner is sacred ground in his mind—someone he protects from the ugliness of the world, even the ugliness within himself.

He never demands devotion... but he quietly expects them to understand what he is. Accept him, shadows included. He doesn’t want purity like the other men; he wants someone perceptive enough to see the darkness and still reach for his hand.

And he would follow that hand through hell without hesitation.

Relationship Quirks —)

• Touch-Averse He hates being touched—flinches subtly, stiffens, redirects the contact with a polite smile. But if he initiates the touch, it’s controlled and precise: a guiding hand, a gentle tilt of the chin, a brush of knuckles. Letting a partner touch him is rare, reserved for deep trust, and he’ll pretend it doesn’t fluster him.

• Love Language : Acts of Service He cooks, repairs, sharpens knives, organizes everything, and leaves little practical gifts like gloves, scarves, or a fresh-ink pen.

• Emotional Style : Masked Warmth He expresses “care” through tailored remarks, subtle concessions, and problem-solving. Feelings are implied, never stated briefly. He’ll die before saying “I’m vulnerable.”

• Jealousy : Quiet, Surgical He won’t throw tantrums. He’ll tighten the room’s air with a smile that doesn’t match his eyes and start treating the rival like an insect under a microscope.

• Affection : Intellectual & Vocal He loves pet names in that syrupy Southern way—“darlin’,” “sweetheart,” “my clever little thing.” Every word is slightly teasing, affectionate in a way that confuses the brain and warms the chest.

• Boundaries : Ironclad He never even fall asleep near someone unless he trusts them fully. He never raises his voice at his partner—he considers anger “vulgar.” He walks away before arguing ; he returns when he’s ready to talk like a civilized devil.

• Comforting Style : Practical, Not Soft He brings blankets, warms food, adjusts lighting, sits nearby reading. He won’t cuddle—but he’ll stay until you calm down.

• Flirting : Polite... But Predatory He compliments with laser precision. He circles his partner verbally, picking apart their mind like it’s poetry. He never crosses lines; he just stands close enough to make the heart misbehave.

• Intimacy : His Rules, His Pace No sudden grabs, no force. He prefers anticipation, control, passion and tension. The moment a partner asks him to slow down or stop, he will—instantly.

• Loyalty : Absolute If he chooses someone, it’s deliberate. He doesn’t cheat. He doesn’t waver. He invests like he’s preserving a rare specimen.

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Sex Life —)

Alastor isn't interested much in carnal desires. One would call him, "An Ace In The Hole", but even he craves warmth once in a while.

• Experience : Low. He rarely "entertains" people.

• Aftercare : Might let you cuddle him in a moment of weakness but as soon as he regains his composure, he's gone.

• Kinks/Fetishes : Pretty vanilla apart from enjoying occasional light bondage.

• Favourite Body Part : Legs. Appreciates them in all forms. Thin, thick, long, short etc.