Demon Realm

May 2017 Featured RPG

Mercer Grant

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Character Information

Character Type
Face Claim
Human with Primal Demon
David Gandy
Human Pronouns
Human Age
Demon Pronouns
Demon Age
He | Him | His
Lieutenant: Homicide Investigations Unit

Character Summary

π If you asked Mercer Grant if he loved his job he might say "It's better taking anal but that's not really much of a race." If you asked him how life was treating him, he might say "My life is like The Office and I fucking hate it." If you asked him what motivated him through his career he'd probably say "The fact that I might tie a noose to my ceiling fan if I don't keep my hands busy with a gun." And if you asked him if he was fond of Legion or The City, well...
Don't you ever ask him that.

π Mr. Grant was a private school trust-fund baby who ranked "well above average" in every type of testing his boastful parents became aware of. Given that his name is actually "Mercer Grant IV," or simply "Mercer Grant Jr," (though call him Junior and you'll lose a rack of teeth) it was preordained that Mercer follow suit of all Mercer Grants before him: to take part in their proud line of medical practitioners. This psychological pressure - and the fact that he would be stripped of his trust fund otherwise - persisted from as early as he could remember and pushed him into obtaining a Biomedical Engineering degree for the sake of sating his family's cruel expectation.

π ...Though, they really should have specified that he was supposed to use that degree.
As soon as he graduated, Mercer Grant threw himself into criminal justice. It's impossible to know whether this was something he truly loved or if it was simply a kind "fuck you" to the Grant Family, but he'll never tell you either because he was never raised to let his passions flourish, or because he's just an ass. Probably just an ass.


The Emperor Tier 1. Ascension to "THE CENTURION"
The Centurion is most at ease when they have command over others. They give out orders and they are followed, whether out of respect, fear or admiration. The Centurion is at home on the battlefield and leads those under their control with success.
You feel new possibilities within you. You seem to attract wealth and power. The dominions Earth, Superior Strength, Superior Speed, and Gold Touch are now augmented. Your character may show unusual command of those dominions for their mastery.


Lesser // Power


Lesser // Control


Lesser // Control


Minor // Control


Major // Power


Greater // Control

Character In-Depth


The Wolfhound

NYC'S Wolfhound is named so for its hyperactive and aggressive behavior. A decision maker, hunting wolves down with its own discretion. it actively chooses to pull rather than heel, because more often than not whoever is holding the leash is too light on their feet to deserve the pleasure.
His nose is good but his gut is better, and he will let you know that both of these are better on him than they will ever be on you. He isn't particularly egotistical in a traditional sense; but he lives on empirical data and doesn't claim to know anything but himself. Therefore he will pit his success rate against your observed success rate, and since he doesn't know you half as well as he knows himself you'll always lose that dick measuring match. He doesn't care if you believe him or not. If you follow him as he picks up the trail he'll make sure you can keep up - he cares just enough to grant you this if you prove interested, but the very moment you're lackluster he will dissociate you from your humanity and leave you like a half-eaten chew toy. He chases often to the detest of his superiors: he's a destructive sighthound who leaps far ahead and doesn't care what he leaves in his wake as long as his jaws are full by the end of it. NYC had been considering transferring him for quite some time but there were not only very few takers but his offenses were often easily contained by the district itself. Because of the simple fact of camaraderie and familiarity, it was in his authority's better interests to give him slaps on the wrist for issues here and there that were big enough to address but not big enough to cost them the cases in court. It's unknown what exactly made them change their minds because he won't tell you. It's a sore subject, but something took place that made up NYC's mind.


Never would the Grants be willing to have a disorder on record within their offspring lest it come upon the family name - so it was left to its own devices to manifest and control aspects of their son in ways that may never have been had it been controlled from early on. More likely than not it has developed from being under the sheer weight of his family's emotional distance and pressuring necessity, which forced an adaptation to seek comfort elsewhere. Believed to be majorly tied to an imbalance of Serotonin which controls proper levels of emotion and anxiety, it's possible his heavy family-based environment had led to the development and worsening of behavior. Mercer has many tics, all of which he subconsciously uses to define specific emotions or a line of thinking rather than expressing it outwardly - this could be the cause of manifestation, as he has been raised without the element of feeling as though emotion is relevant, feelings are relevant, or that the human element is relevant. He won't tell you what's wrong, or maybe he doesn't actively know what's wrong, but his tics - assuming you know them - will show you. He organizes his things and he will organize yours too; he clicks his pens and washes his hands and is extremely possessive over what you can or cannot contaminate touch that belongs to him. Some tics help him to think, and some help him to transfer his energy away from the desire to electrocute you.
Grant is not aware that he has OCD. Even still it's undiagnosed because he has a firm belief that mental wounds or defects or issues are only temporary, only melodrama, and can be fixed just as easy as going to the gym to lose a few pounds. He is the product of a family line which refused to address the human element, and therefore even the slightest speculation that he has something to even diagnose agitates him. You would be implying that there's something wrong with him, that he must be fixed, and that he has come that way. Don't bring it up. Just live with it.


The sky is falling, and it's probably your fault. Mercer Grant, through both personal background and circumstance of being exposed to gruesome homicides is an incredibly pessimistic, cynical misanthropist. Everyone is capable of the most horrible things and he'll be glad to do the calculation of probability for you to prove it. Luckily for you his hatred of people is a blanket concept that primarily affects others on a "they" basis: it means that once a person is able to prove that they're split off from that faceless population there's a chance he might not hate you. As much. He's blunt, he's unkind, he's rude; he has class but it's not for you and he doesn't feel inclined to tighten his tie and bite his tongue. There's speculation on whether or not he even can keep his mouth shut, but if he can he never seems to make the effort. There is no place he won't go, so don't bother expecting any courtesy given no matter how many times you request he move away from a subject. He doesn't maliciously corner you, he doesn't exist to hurt you: he just cares too little about non-self comforts to change anything about himself. Mercer is an insufferable, bullheaded, testy character who on the first date will tell you that living recklessly is the only way to keep a pistol out of his mouth. He's suffering and so will you - he wants to be taken in the back and shot in the skull and chances are that once you've been around him long enough, you will to.

Incredibly Absorbent

Despite his hard shell, relevant things stick to him for an eternity. Energy is conserved and he's a live wire, taking in the bad and storing it in an unhealthy inability to exhaust it due to having been untrained in youth on how to properly manage emotion and psychological status. His tics worsen like he's shooting sparks like a machine overflowing with bad current, the weight of it all crushing him and if ever it reaches a point of no return, it's forcing out the energy in a physical manifestation. When overwhelmed to the point where his tics don't pull him down, Mercer Grant will give you quite a shock if you're too close: a lethal one. It's not often that this takes place, but it has become more frequent over the years. This is because every situation he's coming away with some part of it that he can't let go of - the end result of this is a smaller available threshold capacity needed to handle stressing situations. He's sensitive only in the sense that he holds onto things and is a very high strung, stressed personality. Each gruesome homicide investigation scene carries with him little by little, taking up more pieces of him and unlike the others he's worked with, he has no method of releasing the images. Coupled with his instinctive hate and mistrust of people, each case only confirms this passionate dislike and increases the intensity of his resting-state stress. He's gotten far meaner over the years, that's for sure - and anyone who hasn't met with him since he first joined NYC's homicide detective unit as a bright-eyed and spoiled little thing would be incredibly shocked to meet this gruff, aggressive thing, who has vodka in his system as early as 10am every day, who scowls hard enough that it's probably stuck, and who dislikes you at first sight.



MER-sir GRA-ant








Coarse // Black + Brown Mids


Old gunshot through left scapula

Current Monikers

Most to least acceptable // Mr. Grant, Sir, Wolfhound, Merc, Mercy, Papi, Junior


| ESTP-A | THE LSRP | fff |


"NYC's gonna miss you, Mercy. For the best, though."
"I know. That's exactly why they're sending me out to assfuck nowhere."
"Papi no — look. This will be good for you — that Lorraine Snell case has been running you down the moment you dusted it off. You're a good detective — a nose for crime."
"Just a nose for bullshit which, by the way, open a fucking window Reggie."
"Well Now you're just being hurtful."
"Have you met me?"

The mercedes pulled smoothly out from the hooded parking bay of the station, exiting off onto the service road and setting out on a course away from the grand city. Mr. Grant had a train to catch, because the eccentric bastard had refused to fly for statistic and probability-related reasons that Detective Reginald was not even sure were real. With the hardness that Grant spoke them, though, he's convinced that they were.
"...All I'm saying is the new niche will be good for you — and they'll benefit from your.. different perspective."
"Oh yeah and it's that "different perspective" that's got me carted off to this shitshow."
"The commissioner thinks my time is up but they're too afraid to TRY and put me down in the back of the barn so they're sending me off to fucking slaughter."
His partner silences his end of the debate with a heavy sigh and fond shake of his head. He knows there's no changing Grant's mind on his perception of anything. It had to be altered on its own and even then this was very likely not an instance where even that would occur. It was reasonable for him to assume this to be the truth, because Grant was under no illusion that he was very hot to the touch, a stallion that bit and kicked and actively sought to crush skulls even when the threat was haplessly curled on the ground away from him.

π Time and circumstance made him bitter and angry like a dog-aggressive rottweiler. He was hard like steel and bullheaded enough that he should have horns and a heavy trot. He pulled you, and if you came quietly and trusted his direction he appreciated it. If you didn't yield, however, his slackened necessity for socialization will have him drop you almost immediately to the floor to shatter with a shrug. It's no skin off his nose if you get left behind, because no matter the previous closeness he doesn't intent on bogging himself down with "incompatible personalities." He brings the "if they treat you this way they aren't really your friend to begin with" notion to a very, very high extreme.

π No matter what statistics or logic he quotes to you to justify his reasoning, he actually moves by his gut feeling primarily and yet despite this you'll find that he's a pretty safe bet to make. Instinct comes first, and trying to fit it in with evidence comes last. If you're along for the ride all the way he'll carry you with what he's got, but if you aren't all in then you're out entirely and he'll make sure you get the memo.

π He's a live wire, ebullient like a downed power line fat with a deadly current and he won't hesitate to fry you. It was ultimately NYC's realization that they couldn't contain the highly efficient but unconventional man that led to their decision of removing him from a force that followed investigative protocols to the T. They fought with the decision until ultimately they decided that repeated slaps on the wrist while appreciating his successful hunches under the table was not only morally precise but it was a mixed signal that the man was being fed by.

So, giving away their aggressive Wolfhound, NYC transferred the intolerable Mr. Grant to the first taker...

Buyer beware, though.

Demon Information


The Chatter
Known only as "Epee", the 100,000 year old primal demon is without verbal capabilities but is intelligent enough that it makes up for it by communicating in more physical, tangible ways. Epee has no sentient/animate form, and will always manifest as inanimate objects. More precisely, it prefers very specific objects that it can use to communicate through written word. A list of popular choices are: typewriter, filing cabinet, (easel) blackboard, newspaper, manila folder, graphing calculator, and antique quill or fountain pen. Epee has no particularly-tangible personality; it is very mechanical, very systematic in nature and it's not likely that it is capable of emotion in the way that we know it. It does things to do them, communicates merely to reach a single goal and the journey means nothing. Despite this lacking place of emotional dexterity, Epee seems fond enough of Mr. Grant to lend him its ear whenever needed, but unfortunately "when it is needed" is not entirely by Mr. Grant's decision. Epee is almost constantly materialized, resting in the Lieutenant's office as an easel at his door or a typewriter at his desk and, should he be on the move, it chooses the form of a pen for his pocket or a folder for his satchel. It prefers to be physically prepared to lend its presence whenever needed. Typically Epee will not communicate with other people despite being in plain sight, but there seem to be few personality types that causes it to consider them worth the expense of its words. Mr. Grant often says that Epee has already begun writing an autobiography of his downfall by the use of its literature-based manifestation. Perhaps that is true on some level in that this is all just a story to Epee. When feeling particularly cheeky, Epee will also take on the form of an etch a sketch and communicate through often-vivid pictures.