Lieu: Les haricots précoces
Interagir avec: Barachiel, Talia, Claire, Loki (mentionné) 

C'est ça, c'est ça. Alexandre, c'est, alors. » Il met ses dents dans un sourire, et pose son café sur la table avant d'atteindre pour saisir la main de Barachiel. Si le nom n'était pas assez grand d'un indice, la chaleur évanouie et bourdonnante qui a frappé juste sous la surface de la peau de l'autre a seulement confirmé ses soupçons. Pendant toutes ses années sur Terre, il n'avait pas rencontré beaucoup d'anges. Enfer, il pouvait probablement compter toutes les rencontres qu'il avait avec eux d'une main, mais Miles pouvait presque sentir la grâce chaude blanche qui courait à travers les veines de Barachiel, la chaleur rayonnante. La sensation était étrangère, mais en même temps, familière, bien qu'en dehors d'une pause momentanée, son sourire ne chancelle jamais comme il donne l'autre main deux serres fermes, se retirant la sienne peu après. Je suis Miles. Miles Catrose. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer.
Barachiel, il remarque, se tient presque un pied plus grand que lui, et il fait un point de faire comme il ne remarque pas, au lieu de prendre juste une autre gorgée de café. Cette différence de stature, cependant, était probablement le moindre de ses soucis. Dans son expérience plutôt limitée, les anges étaient, le plus souvent que non, un tas de connards auto-droits, obsédés par la punition d'un soi-disant «sinners», que ce soit leurs affaires ou non. Il suffit de dire, Miles n'a pas envie d'être à la fin de recevoir une rafale, et il fait une note mentale pour rester sur Barachiel's bon côté pour le futur prévisible.
Alors qu'il ouvre la bouche pour parler, Miles est soudainement coupé par l'arrivée d'un étranger. La femme lui semblait inconnue, bien qu'il ait peu de doute qu'elle n'était pas étrangère à Edgetoun. Des lilts dans son inflexion, à la confiance avec laquelle elle s'est portée, Miles trouve assez facile de déduire qu'ils fréquentaient des endroits très différents en ville. C'était aussi une autre? Si oui, quel genre était-elle? Pour Miles, toute cette incertitude s'élevait à une petite quantité de malaise, et presque inconsciemment, il prend un petit pas en arrière du nouveau venu quand elle se rapproche. Jusqu'à présent, elle n'avait rien fait pour déclencher des sonneries d'alarme, mais il anticipe cette paix et calme won't durent longtemps.
Meurtre quelque chose de conventionnel en réponse, Miles déchire momentanément son regard loin des deux, seulement pour voir quelqu'un d'autre s'approcher - une fille maladroite qui était, étonnamment, même plus courte qu'il ne l'était. Mais comme l'a dit le proverbe: deux de la compagnie, et trois de la foule, bien qu'il n'ait pas mentionné une possibilité importante. Comment avez-vous appelé quatre personnes? Miles pense qu'ils devraient faire un nouveau terme pour une telle situation, bien qu'il ait rapidement sorti de son train de pensée par une autre nouvelle voix jetée dans le mélange, dissimulant à peine un schowl mal tempéré. Parmi les foules, le pixie est à la maison, mais The Early Bean est un cri loin des plongées qu'il avait l'habitude de. Au lieu de la presse des corps transpirants, tout le monde se déplaçant à l'unisson à la basse, il se trouve soudainement avoir à faire une conversation polie - avec trois autres personnes, pas moins.
Pourquoi tout le monde voulait s'asseoir ici restait un mystère pour lui. Il doute que la ruée du matin soit assez mauvaise pour justifier un comportement aussi inhabituel.
"La neige devient vraiment un problème, n'est-ce pas?" Miles muses à personne en particulier, avant de pêcher son téléphone de sa poche pour vérifier l'heure. Comme prévu, il était maintenant en retard scandaleux pour le travail, mais par ce temps, quelqu'un pourrait-il vraiment faire un trek jusqu'en ville pour une coupe de cheveux? Pendant un moment, il envisage d'appeler les malades, bien que peut-être aller au travail serait une bien meilleure expérience que de rester ici encore une seconde plus longtemps. Non pas que ces gens (s'ils étaient même des gens) n'étaient pas agréable compagnie, mais il commençait juste à sentir un tad claustrophobic.
"Ah, regardez l'heure." Miles prend les deux cappuccinos assis sur la table en un mouvement lisse, souriant un peu ovin. C'était un plaisir de vous rencontrer tous, mais je dois vraiment aller travailler. Le patron ne peut pas attendre, hein?
Brièvement, il regarde vers la porte d'entrée du café-atelier, bien que ce ne soit qu'un moment avant que son regard soit une fois de plus concentré sur les trois devant lui, les yeux scintillant avec sérieux. Si vous avez besoin d'une garniture, venez par Mme Atkinson, n'est-ce pas? Nous avons apprécié l'entreprise.
| Name |
Miles Catrose
| Date of Birth |
Like, 1850-ish?
| Gender |
Male
| Sexuality |
Pansexual
| Occupation |
Hairdresser
| In-Depth Appearance |
As is characteristic of a pixie, Miles isn’t the tallest, nor the the most intimidating of figures. There’s only so much glamour can do, after all. He stands just a hair off 5’5”, with lean muscles and pale skin stretched over a lithely built frame. Much like how an animal puffs itself up to ward off any potential predators, Miles has taken to doing the same with his appearance. You’ll never see his hair in the same shade more than two weeks in a row, and it’s always something disgustingly bright. Furthermore, his skin is peppered with countless tattoos, again in an attempt to make himself look Edgy and Dangerous™. To name a few, the words ‘INHALE’ and ‘EXHALE’ are tattooed on his left and right thighs, two black X’s just above his navel, a crudely drawn crown on his left forearm, a small smiley face on his right hand, and a trail of wildflowers stretching from his right shoulder blade to halfway down his back.
Miles’ fashion sense appears to be perpetually stuck in the realm of 80s punk rock - studded leather jackets, ripped jeans, combat boots, pierced ears, you name it. Inversely, his features are delicate and elfin, similar to those of his mother’s, contrasting the clothes he wears and the false swagger imbued in every step he takes. He definitely tries too hard, but because he likes to think he’s an expert at these things, he somehow manages to make all of it look effortless. His hair is often teased into a fauxhawk (usually with at least half a can of hairspray), and on days where he’s feeling particularly vain, he even finds the time to slap on some makeup before heading out to work. It’s much easier to act like hot shit when you look like hot shit, and the disapproving looks he earns from judgemental old ladies are only an added bonus.
If there’s one thing Miles hates, it’s standing up straight. Of course, addressing his posture could probably help with the whole 5’5” situation, but it’s far too much effort and he doesn’t wanna. Most of the time, you’ll find him standing with his shoulders rolled forward, hands stuck in his pockets as he puffs away on a cigarette. On occasion, when he can’t be bothered to cast a stronger glamour, fading bruises are visible on the surface of his skin. They’re mostly from getting thrown out of clubs after getting a tad too drunk on jello shots and picking a fight with some guy twice his size, but hey; live fast, die young, right?



| Personality |
♦ Imaginative ♦ Methodical ♦ Capricious ♦ Arrogant ♦
With an ego bigger than his rather unimpressive frame, and a penchant for telling people to fuck off, it’s easy to peg Miles for a textbook case of Small Dog Syndrome. Naturally, this means that he isn’t the most pleasant person to be around. Though this isn’t to say he’s all bad - just that he’s hard to like. Callous, self-absorbed, and a little cruel from time to time, Miles can be said to be the archetypal enfant terrible. While he might not be the brightest, or the most knowledgeable, he is a good judge of character, and it takes little time for him to classify someone. He is particularly good at thinking on his feet, but doesn't often give much thought to long-term consequences.
Depending on which day of the week you catch him on, he can either be your best friend or your worst enemy. To his clients, whether they’re looking for some pixie dust (not a euphemism) or just a simple haircut, he’s always cordial, almost sickeningly sweet, giving them exactly what they want each and every time they come crawling back - provided they offer something in exchange, of course. As for those he has no need of, however, they often find themselves put off by his bluntness. He doesn't abide by the rules, he doesn't play fairly, and he certainly doesn't let anyone think they can get one up on him. Miles considers himself the alpha dog in any situation he's in, but when faced with truly confident or successful people, he can become flustered and defensive, lashing out with increasingly nonsensical insults.
By nature, as a pixie of the Spring Court, Miles has always been an arrogant son of a bitch, used to guarding himself emotionally, which is something he does by being lacing his words with caustic sarcasm. He is comfortable with putting on a variety of faces to achieve the means to an end, never hesitating to mock a person’s stupidity and praise it all in one breath. Unlike his kin, however, Miles isn’t overly confrontational. He’s really no good in a head-on fight, and the only way he can ever hope to win is through underhanded means, which fortunately, is something he has no qualms about. Yet in spite of all his flaws, he has never met a boundary he wouldn’t cross. He’ll go to bat for you if you make him laugh, if he likes your style, or if you have something that tickles his fancy (weed, cigarettes, and junk food, just as an FYI).
| Likes & Dislikes |
✔Clubbing
✔Mexican food
✔Cold weather
✔Leather jackets, just… so many leather jackets.
✔Cigarettes
✔Reality TV
✔Tattoos
✘Insects. Flying roaches are the bane of his existence.
✘Flavoured vodka
✘People being ignorant, especially on the Internet, because he can’t reach through the screen and punch them in the face.
✘Dubstep; they really need to stop playing that shit at clubs.
✘Mushrooms, both the hallucinogenic and culinary varieties.
✘Overpriced coffee (“I’m looking at you, Starbucks.”)
| History |
First of all, Miles would like to clarify that he was not, in fact, born from a baby’s first laugh. As far as he’s concerned, it’s just some bullshit circulated by uninformed idiots to give the Fae a bad name, and suffice to say, he’s not too happy about the whole affair.
Like most of his kind, Miles was born in Avalon, following the end of the Industrial Revolution. His parents were soldiers, part of the Seelie Court’s armed forces. For the most part, his early existence was spent in the lap of luxury, flittering from one place to the next in search of amusement. There wasn’t much a young Fae like him could do until he came of age, and he dreaded the possibility of one day becoming embroiled in the political machinations of the Court. He was happy practicing magic of his own free will; that is, until the Court called upon him to join the army.
Of course, with everyone watching, and his parents’ hard-earned reputation on the line, he could hardly say no.
Despite his original determination to do well, Miles soon found that joining the military was more than he bargained for. Instead of sending him into a frenzied bloodlust, the clanging of swords and the pained screams of their enemies left Miles cowering in fear, and soon enough, proved himself more of a liability than an asset. How he survived his first battles was a mystery to him, though he supposes hiding behind his comrades every time he was in danger had something to do with it.
He saw his exile coming from a mile away, and instead of waiting to be booted out, Miles left of his own accord, sparing himself no small amount of embarrassment. He knew, better than anyone, that he needed to leave and start a new life - an existence where he wouldn’t be judge or forced to be somebody he wasn’t. His parents were upset, of course, but that was mostly due to how much of a “disappointment” their son turned out to be. Miles had always been more proficient in the art of speechcraft as opposed to war, though all the same, he shunned the whisperers and patrons of the Seelie Court.
In the end, he found himself in the mortal realm - clad in glamour, and possessing nothing but the clothes on his back. He spent about four decades travelling across the country, before finally settling down in Edgetoun in the late 90s. It wasn’t the biggest of places, nor was it the smallest, and it was easy enough to cover up his sudden arrival with his trademark Fae magic. Hiding in plain sight was, after all, one of his specialties.
For a while, Miles found himself doing odd jobs for money - everything from bussing tables to cleaning up bodies at the mortuary - and that was how he ended up getting a job at a local salon. It wasn’t quite what he’d been looking for, of course, but the pay wasn’t anything he could complain about, and he picked up some useful skills whilst sweeping up locks of abandoned hair. Miles has been living under different aliases for years, changing his identity as easily as slipping on a jacket. Needless to say, this has caused more than a few administrative problems, but as long as he stays alert and keep his explanations straight, it’s nothing he can’t handle.
| Family |
|| Tarragon Catrose | Father | 261 || - Miles remembers his father as an emotionally distant being, more concerned with his work than his family. He’s always been slightly afraid of Tarragon, and the thought of facing his wrath was one of the main contributing factors of Miles’ desertion.
|| Jessamine Redthorn | Mother | 270 || - Skilled in magic, Jessamine holds a high rank in the armed forces of the Seelie Court. Miles has his mother to thank for his own abilities, though it appeared to be the extent of their relationship.
Miles hasn’t seen either of his parents in years, and he doesn’t plan to. As far as he knows, they haven’t set foot into the mortal realm since the 19th century.
| Strengths |
As is in his nature, Miles has a way with people; a silver-tongue, if you will. It's easy enough for him to nudge a decision in his favour, or even convince someone of a falsity.
He doesn’t like to brag - just kidding, he totally does - but he’s quite the talented hairdresser. With just a few snips here and there, and maybe just a sprinkle of pixie dust, he can make even the most frazzled, bleach-ruined hair look presentable again.
Miles is resourceful, able to think incredibly fast on his feet. While his long-term planning isn’t quite up to par, he’s quite proficient at making split-second decisions that rescue him from sticky situations.

| Weaknesses |
Has a tendency of letting his emotions get the better of him, clouding his judgment.
Miles isn’t terribly great at fighting, which is probably why he deserted the Seelie Army the moment things went South.
Ridiculously fickle, Miles can never settle on something for an extended period of time.
Arrogance is a huge problem for him, influenced by his past affiliation with the Spring Court.
Long-term consequences escape his notice, and he doesn’t pay much thought to how his decisions might pay off or hinder him in the long run




| Theme Song |
Crooked – G-DRAGON
“Leave me alone
I was alone anyway
I have no one, everything is meaningless
Take away the sugar-coated comfort
Tonight, I’ll be crooked
Will you not say anything for me tonight?
I didn’t know being alone would be this hard (I miss you)
Will you be my friend tonight?
On this good day, this beautiful day, this day where I miss you
Tonight, I’ll be crooked”
| House Number |
Churchill Gardens, 3B
| Extra Information |
-