E L S E W H E R E A D U L T CHARACTER INFORMATIONCharacter Name: Jude H. MarloweGender: maleAge: 24Blood Status: PureEducation: Hogwarts, Hufflepuff ‘42Residence: Hogsmeade Retreat and Rehabilitation ManorOccupation
Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (for example: the Ministry, Shrieking Shack) or to take over an existing shop in need of new management?
Hogsmeade Retreat and Rehabilitation Manor
Requested Magic Levels:
Adult characters have 32 starting levels to distribute across these four categories (less levels can be used if you so desire, but no more than 32). The number of levels on the lowest ability must be at least half of the highest ability.
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason? nopePlease list any other characters you already have at the site:Lucifer Morgenstern and co.Biography: (300 words minimum.)
- Charms: 7
- Divination: 8
- Transfiguration: 9
- Summoning: 8
Jude fidgeted in the thick woolen suit. It was a beautiful piece of clothing, masterfully tailored and cut to the young man’s figure, but the man in question had no time for Italian designers. Next to him, Frances sat as still as a statue, her features equally statuesque. He saw echoes of his own face in her straight, corn-silk hair, her pale blue eyes, her slightly beaked nose. Perched next to her on the arm of the couch was Cecil, looking more bird than boy: blue eyes perpetually round, nose too big for his narrow face, lips set into a grim line that looked shockingly out of place on a seven year old boy. Screech owl, Jude dubbed him, for both his avian features and the ear shattering screams that the little monster wielded like a weapon.
“Look at the camera, you git!”
The siblings also shared a terribly vulgar vocabulary, much to their mother’s woe. Jude’s head snapped forward, and his face split into a wide grin seconds before the photographer’s camera disappeared in a flash and cloud of smoke.
“Frances!” Eleanor Marlowe snapped as soon as the smoke had cleared. “Watch your language!”
Frances scowled and stuck out her tongue, but fell silent nonetheless. A second passed, then Jude felt a sharp pinch on his left thigh. His sister’s fingernails were sharp enough to leave half-moon runs in the delicate wool, he noted with a scowl.
“Ow! You b-”
“Jude, leave your sister alone,” ordered Charles Marlowe. He was an impressively sized man--barrel chested, taller than most, with a notable midsection to match--but the glimmer of laughter never quite disappeared from his watery blue eyes. Still, Jude fell silent immediately underneath his father’s scrutiny.
When the portrait arrived two weeks later, the whole Marlowe family beamed in sepia tones. Charles hung it in the parlor, right above the fireplace, where visitors could remark on how much the siblings’ resembled their parents and how happy
the family looked. Eleanor would make a bashful comment, Frances would politely offer to take the guests’ coats, and Charles would put a hand on his eldest son’s shoulder, a proud smile on his face.
They weren’t perfect, but they were happy.
The circular dorm room looked conspicuously bare without dirty laundry and textbooks covering every available surface. It was June, and the boys were cleaning out their room for the very last time; Jude was overwhelmed with a strange feeling, knowing he would never return. He had spent most of his time at Hogwarts complaining about the professors and the workload, failing classes and dreaming of summer vacation, but now that his seven years were coming to a close, a cloud of nostalgia settled over him.
Every last belonging had to be located and packed into overflowing trunks. An owl hooted glumly from the confines of her cage. Early morning sunlight filtered through the window, and the noise of students frantically searching for misplaced items rose from the Hufflepuff common room. Jude had nothing left to do: all his books were tucked into a bag, his clothes thrown haphazardly into his trunk, and all miscellaneous items crammed into a knapsack. Still, he lingered in the room he’d shared with Ignatius for seven years, unwilling to leave the memories behind just yet.
A boy with milky skin, a scattering of freckles, and unruly black hair poked his head through the door, clutching a wrinkled letter in one hand.
“Piss off, Noah. We’re packing.”
Noah scowled but entered the room anyway, dumping his bags onto a freshly made bed.
“Mum wants to know if you’ll be coming to her dinner on the fifth. Says she needs to plan the seating arrangements.”
Jude cast an amused look at Ignatius before tossing his book bag to Noah, who caught it and set it down with his own belongings.
“I’ll go if Ig goes,” he promised, looking to Ignatius for confirmation. “Take my bags to the common room, will you?”
The boy disappeared with a frown, struggling under the added weight of Jude’s belongings. Ignatius cast his dormmate a disapproving look, but Jude brushed off his friend’s discontent with an exasperated sigh and roll of his eye.
“Noah’s tougher than he looks, Ig. You don’t need to mother him,” he chided. “Now hurry up or you’ll miss the train.”
The sun beat down from all sides, burning and blistering and blinding. It was the type of sun the group of British tourists had never known. The soft light of Mediterranean vacations couldn’t compare to this calor
, and it made Jude decidedly miserable.
The palest of the bunch, Jude’s milky complexion stood the least chance against the sun. Already, his shoulders glowed tomato-red from a morning spent lounging around the pool; the skin felt tender and painful to the touch and so he remained in the shade of an umbrella, newly wary of the sun’s scorching rays. A book of poetry lay on the beach towel next to him, opened to the first page and gathering sand; it was more important to Jude that he was seen with the book, rather than being familiar with Keats’ work.
Hugo’s smooth-as-butter baritone rose above the symphony of squawking gulls and waves against sand. The older boy had mercilessly mocked Jude over lunch when he’d seen the angry red skin on his back, and now Jude made a pointed effort to ignore his call. Adjusting his sunglasses, he picked up his book, flipped a dozen pages forward and pretended to be thoroughly engrossed by Keats’ talk of nightingales.
“Oh, c’mon, Marlowe. Don’t mope.”
Hugo crouched in front of the reading boy, scattering droplets of saltwater that eagerly soaked into the pages of poetry. Jude didn’t look up, only frowned in annoyance, and patted the paper dry with the edge of his towel.
“I was only teasing. And you know, I don’t think Clem minds that you’re as red as a-”
A cloud of sand interrupted him, thrown by an indignant Jude whose face now matched his back. Spluttering with rage and blushing to his roots, he scrambled to his feet and snatched up his towel, casting a dirty look at the older boy.
“Hugo, you can go--”
What he suggested to Hugo would have earned him a slap on the head from his mother, but Hugo only cackled in response. The sound of his laughter followed Jude as he stormed from the beach and through the hotel lobby, only falling into silence when he collapsed onto the soft white sheets of his bed.
The bottle passed from hand to hand, honey contents slowly swirling and dwindling with each sip. The flickering bonfire cast a primal glow across the shadowy campsite, illuminating six faces.
Dirt and sweat clung to every pore, but every face was plastered with a grin nonetheless. The mezcal
certainly had as much to do with the happy expressions as the company; this particular group was more prone to bickering, but all disagreements had been put aside for the time being. The six friends were simply basking in the firelight, in the warm night breeze and hum of crickets in the brush.
Mexico was a dream. Even after the last coins disappeared from the very bottom of their purses they’d pushed on, walking or hitching rides and soaking up the sun and sea. The War raged on in Europe, but they were safe from troubles here. Mexico was a place for adventure, not worries. They faced each day with no concerns for the next, no plans save their next excursion or meal. Only a few hours earlier, they’d stumbled out of the Mayan ruins they were currently camped in onto a perfectly circular, crystal clear sinkhole. A cenote
, their guidebook informed them. Common in Yucatan but Jude had stopped listening to Noah’s droning soliloquy about the cultural significance of the sinkhole. Hungry, they hadn’t stopped, but the bright turquoise waters stayed with Jude. Now, covered in dust and sweat and good judgement gone with the mezcal, a brilliant idea came to him. Standing up, he brushed crumbs off his dirt-stained shirt and addressed the other five.
“Let’s go for a swim.”
Spirits soared higher than the tip-tops of frost-covered pines, silver-grey-green-blue under the moon that hung so low in the sky that he just knew that if his arms reached and stretched just far enough he could surely brush his fingertips along its velvet curves. Surely.
The road was long but his patience was longer. His feet were weary but even the weariness finally grew tired and gave way to a clarity as crystalline as the untouched snow that crunched beneath two leather boots. The leather boots lacked moral integrity and ceded way to slush that parted reluctantly only when asked very nicely by the steel tips of the toes.
Light filtered through the needles that clung to branches that clung to trunks that sent long tendrils of roots shooting down into the earth. Moon beams soft as kidskin gloves bounced and skittered across blankets of snow, never damaging the pristine surface but showing a clear path to follow.
This way, called the dancing moonbeam, who winked before slipping away between two trees.
Stop right there, called the man in the wide brimmed hat and sturdy green coat.
Whee-ee-ee-ee, called the salt-and-pepper starling perched in the darkness above.
The blanket tucked tightly around his neck was warm but too heavy and the funny sounding man in the green coat had handcuffed his hands behind his back the third time he’d shrugged the scratchy wool off onto the wooden floor.
He wasn’t too bothered by this chain of events. The blanket was uncomfortable but he’d easily slipped his emaciated wrists through the silver cuffs and now only kept his hands behind his back because the man in the green coat seemed a decent fellow, if not easily upset and rather on the dull side.
A pot of something steamed on a stovetop, and he was for a moment lost in the patterns that rose and twisted from the gleaming copper like wraiths rising from the grave.
“Listen,” started the funny man in the green coat whose wide-brimmed hat now twirled between two nervous, fidgety hands. Pale grey eyes flickered between those constantly moving hands and the man’s coffee-brown eyes, unconcerned by the rising urgency in the man in the green coat’s voice.
“Let’s start with something easy. What’s your name, son?”
Names. Names were something he hadn’t thought of for months, and something he hadn’t needed for much longer than that. A thousand answers rushed to the tip of his tongue, some that seemed more familiar than others like a pair of shoes lost but then found again only to realize that they don’t fit quite the same as they used to. None of them felt right, so he stayed silent.
Instead pale eyes flickered to the maps on the wall of the basic wooden cabin, following strange rivers through unfamiliar mountains to unknown coasts. Not England, no. No London or Bristol or Liverpool or Brighton or Manchester to be found on these maps. Nor did he see Guadalajara or Cancun or Tijuana, so they weren’t in Mexico.
“Do you have your papers on you, son? Do you mind if I take a look?”
The man in the green coat gestured to his dirt-covered knapsack, and Jude made no motion to stop him. An extra pair of socks, a whistle carved from reed, an empty canteen and two strips of beef jerky, a ragged blanket and his wand. The latter fell on the table with a dull clatter. It was scratched and lackluster from years without care. Jude’s eyes followed it as it rolled to the edge of the table where the man collected it with clumsy gloved fingers. A slow burning panic settled in his stomach; he couldn’t identify why or how, but he knew the man should not be handling the thin wooden wand. The panic rose and was joined by anger, sending tremors through Jude’s hands until they shook uncontrollably. His jaw was clenched and his vision blurry--then the man put the wand down carefully on the blanket and the panic was gone.
“No papers, kid. What on earth am I supposed to do with you?”
“He’s your problem now, sir.”
The firm hand on his upper arm disappeared, and he collapsed onto a narrow cot while a wave of dizziness washed over him. Darkness blurred with light and color then finally gave way to shapes and shadows and the ringing in his ears faded to a tolerable buzz before he opened his eyes and soaked in his surroundings.
White walls met seamlessly with dark wooden floors scuffed by decades of inconsiderate feet. Half a dozen pairs currently paced, the sound of their footsteps only overpowered by their clamoring voices.
“Male, mid-twenties, severely malnourished-”
“He was worse before, you should have seen him when that park ranger pulled him from Waterton-”
“Healer, there’s a man from the ministry who wants to speak with the family-”
“-no sign of physical injury- that will have to wait, Calloway. Send me someone from the fourth floor, stat, and-”
“If you could just sign here, healer, then we can be on our way-”
The voices rose and fell in marvelous dissonance and for a moment he thought he found a pattern in the discord, a cycle of pitch and tone and syntax that could be predicted as easily as the tides or moon or weather. But the man-in-white dismissed the funny men in his stern, professional voice and broke the spell and the voices descended once again into incomprehensible chaos.
“Thank you for your troubles. His family is waiting in the hallway, and I’m sure they would like to thank you personally.”
The group of funny men exited the room in a cacophony of swishing robes and he caught a glimpse of light hair and drawn faces before the door slammed shut behind them. For a moment he remembered sunny afternoons on manicured lawns and running down long carpeted hallways chased by a peal of laughter but the sound of cars honking outside and the man in the white coat’s overwhelming cologne brushed those thoughts from his already cluttered mind.
“Well, son,” began the man-in-the-white-coat. “Well. Damn.”
He looked at the man-in-the-white-coat blankly. The voyage had been short but turbulent-he hadn’t wanted to touch the paperweight that glowed bright blue but one of the funny men made him anyway and then with an uncomfortable tug at his insides they’d disappeared in a swirl of colors-and now sitting on the thin cot he began to feel decidedly overwhelmed.
“What in Merlin’s name happened to you?”
What had happened to him? So many different things, each more wonderful and bizarre than the last. He couldn’t exactly remember when his adventure had started but beginnings weren’t important anyway and keeping track of each and every escapade required more focus than he currently had. Than he ever had, really, because thinking was tedious and overrated. It was so much easier, so effortless to let thoughts run wild and free.
“Mr. Marlowe?” asked the man-in-the-white-coat. “Jude? If you tell me what happened, I can help you.”
He did not think he wanted this man’s help. The scent of cologne was overpowering and seemed to fill his lungs with every breath he took and the cloudy brown of this man’s eyes told him he was not to be trusted. But words came to him, and they fit his tongue perfectly, came tumbling out one after the other like pearls on a string in a raspy, unfamiliar voice.
“I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I can tell a hawk from a handsaw.
The man-in-the-white-coat spun around, surprise evident on his lined face. Those were the first words he’d uttered in weeks; he’d had none for the park ranger, none for the funny-sounding men, none for the escorts that had brought him here. The man-in-the-white-coat tossed the papers he held onto the cot besides Jude, before pulling up a chair across from him.
“Alright, then, Hamlet. I’m listening.”Roleplay: You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:Option Two -
The snow had been falling steadily all morning and it didn't look like it was going to stop any time soon. Joshua Campbell scrunched his face up in a frown as he lifted his gaze to look to the sky. Snow. It really was quite a bother.
And it certainly didn't make it better that Diagon Alley seemed to be getting more and more crowded. Joshua sighed and pointed his wand at the large box that was currently placed on the doorstep of his shop. He had to get going. He had an order to deliver.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" The elderly man muttered and watched the box hover in the air for a moment. Honestly, did St. Mungo's really need that much tinsel? And with glitter of all things? He sighed again. If it hadn't been for the rather convincing stamp on the order, he would have been likely to believe it had been a prank by one of those orphaned rascals living up there.
Oh well, there was no point in waiting. Joshua deftly stirred the box down the doorstep and out onto the street, carefully levitating it above the heads of the crowd.
"Coming through! Coming through!" His voice sounded over the chatter of the crowd. "Keep out! Move ahead! Go on!" This was going way too slow. People were in the way and walking like they had all day! He huffed. Luckily the road was down hill.
"Coming through! Coming th--- arrrgh!" Joshua let out a loud shout as his feet suddenly slipped in the snow and sent him, the box, and several long strands of tinsel tumbling into the person who had been walking in front of him.
"For Merlin's sake!" Joshua muttered angrily as he hurried to his feet again, red and gold tinsel now decorating his black coat. "I am so sorry! This blasted snow!" He looked apologetic at the person he had crashed into.Roleplay Response:
“Jude, come along now.”
A small hand tugged at his elbow, but he stayed stubbornly put in the middle of the sidewalk no matter how his nurse pleaded and chided. She was a small, birdlike woman with the start of wrinkles beginning to appear at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Jude found her incredibly easy to ignore.
He had a small army of nurses who rotated shifts, keeping a watchful eye on him all hours of the day and night. No matter where he went, one accompanied him: to the recreation room of the Rehabilitation center, to the gardens, to his visits to St. Mungo’s and the rare weekend excursions the outside world. He made a point of mixing them up, of swapping names and being difficult; it was cruel fun, he knew, but was by far the most amusing activity at the Center.
“Jude, you’ll be late to your appointment!” bemoaned the current prison guard. She was the newest, and woefully unprepared for her job. The slightest mishap sent her into a frenzy. Already, he saw angry tears welling in her eyes.
“I’m not going to tell you again, Jude! I’m going to count to--”
She was interrupted by a box of tinsel to the face.
The ensuing chaos was better than Jude could have hoped for. The flustered man apologized profusely and the nurse, covered in tinsel and soaked to the bone, shrieked and cursed. Jude would have liked to stay and watch, but he recognized opportunity when he saw it. While the nurse was thoroughly occupied with the offender, he slipped away and joined the crowd of Christmas shoppers. He reckoned he had at least an hour before a very angry nurse tracked him down and dragged him by the ear to St. Mungo’s, and he planned on making the most of his temporary freedom. OTHER
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