Dominic Hissop

Dominic Hissop

Portrayed by Michael Fassbender
Full Name	Dominic Hissop
Title	no courtesy title
Associated Noble House(s)	Duchy of Pennington
Date of Birth	3 June, 1776
Father	George Hissop
Father's Rank	plantation owner
Mother	Mariana Hissop
Mother's Rank	none
Town Residence	Pennington House, 20 Hanover Square
Income	never enough
School	none
University	none
Year Attained Title	none

Played by Emily.

Family

Father: George Hissop - b. 1746, d. 1802

Mother: Mariana Hissop (nee Morales) - b. 1757, d. 1780

Second cousin, once removed: Henry Hissop - b. 1766

Second cousin, once removed, by marriage: Julia Hissop - b. 1787

Mistress: Maria Isabel Tomàs (b. 1784)

Children: Esteban (b. 1805) & Ines (b. 1809)

History

Childhood

Dominic was born in the foetid and oppressive heat of high summer in the West Indies, red-faced and squalling as his mother lay pale and quiet, too weak to make any outcry above a low moan, sweating beneath the heavy humidity of the shuttered room in the plantation's great house. Had he been born some centuries before, such a choleric atmosphere could not have failed to predict how he would turn out. Another such difficult labour would take Mariana's life some years later, her second son stillborn.

Dominic's father George being a man more practical than sentimental led him to abandon the notion of re-marrying. He had the necessary son, after all, and Dominic's constitution was strong. More wedded to his plantation than anything else, and having taken a native Spanish Creole bride as a matter of convenience more than anything, George Hissop was content to bury himself in his business affairs. He did not mix socially, if he could at all help it, and entertained few visitors at the grand home his father had built, now empty but for the master and his son and their few servants. If a man needed a woman, any woman would do, and such women were easily come by, and far less trouble than a wife.

Dominic grew up in the care of servants plucked from among the locals, though he later had a tutor who had travelled from England--having had to leave his native land for some damned dalliance with some damned daughter of some damned duke...Dominic was never clear on the details and never cared: for the harassed-looking tutor, his history, or his lessons. Many of his lesson-books are covered in scrawls and doodles, and the habit has grown into a proclivity for rough, dark charcoal sketches--though the subject-matter is generally more realistic and even frightfully modern, rather than prettyish landscapes or proper portraits.

George eventually outlined the basic tenets of running the plantation for his son as he grew older, but as to its finer points, he had generally assumed he would get around to it when he had more time on his hands. That time never came. In fact, his ran out entirely. The climate took its toll on George's health, and after a short illness and rapid decline, he expired, leaving the whole plantation in Dominic's hands.

Jamaica

While not inept, Dominic simply never cared for the family's source of income as his father had, and took little pride or interest in it. All Dominic could really understand was the money, the figures, and nothing of the toil and workings of the vast enterprise. His knowledge of trade and economic finesse being rudimentary, and his taste for the finer things now given full access to the plantation's coffers, it took scarcely a few years for the entire business to begin to falter. The house had never been spectacularly kept up, and though all is cleaned and ordered by the staff, there is an aura of shabbiness out of the place through sheer spiritual neglect. Four walls and a roof, a place to eat and sleep, for Dominic, though he often eats and sleeps elsewhere.

Even his slipshod social skills knew better than to install his mistress in his own family home, and Dominic has enough bored and bitter memories about those rooms to feel more at ease in fresh surroundings. Still, the added expense of lodgings in the town nearby for the woman he kept--indeed, had been keeping even prior to his father's final illness--has hardly helped matters. Nor has the keeping of the two children she has borne him--undoubtedly his, both having his striking grey eyes and their mother's dark skin, (Isabel being the natural daughter of the owner of a neighbouring plantation and a woman once his slave.)

Uncertain what to do, and having little aptitude for long-term planning, Dominic would have presumably driven the plantation as far into the ground as he could...and then, the deluge.

London

As it is, a most intriguing letter arrived from a distant relation in England, explaining that he has the honour of being the next Duke of Pennington, by all accounts.

Dominic lost little time in storing what little he cared for, selling most of what he didn't, but for the land, and leaving the rest in the hands of his steward and a business manager (not that his presence made much difference,) and bid his mistress and bastards farewell, giving her a tidy cash sum upon his departure. (After all, he could hardly say if or when he'd be back, and neither had any illusions about happily-ever-after.) As he expects his cousin will put him up in London, he hopes to live off Pennington's money rather than his own, and the beleaguered plantation may have a chance to recover itself without being regularly pressed and drained of all possible funds by the feckless and selfish Mr. Hissop.

Dominic would be something of a nightmarish figure for Society mamas--their every idea of a brutish figure from the wild colonies, brought to life. Very nearly six feet tall and swarthy, even in immaculate evening dress he's strikingly un-English, for an Englishman by (some) blood. Grey eyes that will hold a stare for far longer than is considered polite, his mother's dark hair and complexion, all the darker for his Jamaican tan, with a stern mouth, though its lines can be easily softened with a sneer or a smirk, and rarely--a true smile. His teeth are good, white and even. Something of a wonder, given his money has been made in sugar and tobacco.

Personality

Dominic has been a witness to the harsh realities of life in the West Indies as a child; and as a man, accepted them as a part of life. His understanding and philosophy has no elegance, nor refinement--it is as raw as the countless tonnes of sugar-cane he saw shipped to Europe. His edges are rough, and his manners equally so--and he does not care (or fancies he does not.) Having only very recently arrived in England, he is perhaps as yet unaware of just how greatly he differs from other gentlemen, though the shock of it is hardly likely to force a miraculous change in his ways.

Accustomed to having his own way, Dominic can scarcely fathom having anything else, and will not tolerate being controlled or manipulated--though he will gladly control and manipulate where he can in order to maintain his autonomy. He knows he may find society chafing against his sense of personal freedom, but the intrigue and challenge of it far outweighs the puny fear of a loss of control. He knows his own strength, and highly doubts London can come anywhere near breaking him.

Dominic is, and always has been, driven by money above all else. His animal appetites are what they are, but they generally require ready capital to be fed. A title in England is a fine thing...as long as there is money to be had out of it. If Dominic finds a leaking, crumbling castle and financial woes anything akin to the gasping plantation he left behind, he'll be entirely put out.

He has always had an itch to travel, or at least to see and experience a great deal--more than what was offered by a quiet life of business in Jamaica. However colourful life was there, it was not enough. Dominic feels he can never have too much of anything, and if circumstances permit, will seek excess of whatever he enjoys. Conversely, he does not bother with what he dislikes, and makes his mind up quickly and impulsively on that point.

Dominic's manners, when he is in a fine mood, can be boyish, light-hearted, and even charming, in their way. Entirely unabashed, he speaks his mind freely, with a hard and brutal sense of wit, in that he will not tiptoe around any elephant in any room, for anyone's sake or sensibilities. By that same token, he can be harsh and sharp-tongued in the same breath. When provoked, his temper is quiet, but staggering in its intensity.

He has little respect or awe for the English aristocratic institution, because he knows next to nothing of it. He does not see why he ought to fear anyone, save the King, as the King could order his head cut off. Anyone else does not have that right. Dominic has a keen nose for knowing where true power resides, and he feels it in money. New, old, it doesn't matter--as long as there is plenty of it. With the first scent of the Industrial Revolution on the wind, rising with the imports from the British colonies all over the world and the nascent class of major manufacturers beginning to burgeon between the working poor and shabbily genteel, Dominic at least has a sense for this coming change, even if he does not fully realise it. He only knows that money is what everyone wants, be they the lowest street-walker or the Prince Regent himself. He wants it, himself; and knows he may play on people's desires to his own advantage. He knows he has no head for business, but there is something charming in the tricks and games of blackmail and intrigue, and he wonders if they may not prove profitable.

For all he defends himself and his own interests first and foremost, Dominic's impulses mean he does not hesitate to involve himself when he sees a true victim. By some twist of what other men might call honour, he tells himself he will confine his darker schemes to working against those who earn his contempt, by their own malignancy and hypocrisy. If anyone be innocent of any wrong, he will not touch them, and if goaded, may even exert himself protect them. To those who fashion their own downfalls, he can be pitiless and even cruel. If people wish to play in any game with Dominic, they must be prepared for what comes if they lose.