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Messages - Sloane O’Shaughnessy

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Elsewhere Accepted / Sloane O’Shaughnessy
« on: 28/12/2020 at 16:37 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Sloane Perceival O’Shaughnessy
Gender: Male
Age: 32 (b. 2 November 1928)
Blood Status: Muggleborn

Salem Institute of Magic ’47, Pawn Society

Covent Garden, London, England

Owner of The Moulin Rouge

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?
Yes, The Moulin Rouge.

Requested Magic Levels:
  • Charms: 11
  • Divination: 7
  • Transfiguration: 7
  • Summoning: 7

Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Lucille Hopland & co.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
ca. May 1961


Musty. Barren. The sort of place you come to to get arrested. Everything’s twenty years out-of-date.


Glacier blue eyes slitted at the lull in his voice. Silas Xavier could glare at him all he wanted, but the truth was in the edges of the threadbare carpets beneath his feet. He didn’t need to say it to get his point across.

Sloane parted the black velvet curtain of the window he stood near to peer out onto the street. Sunlight streamed through the stained window, and where it pierced through the inky shadows that dripped from the interior, dusty air floated in its wake. A sneeze itched.

“How’s foot traffic?”

Quick and short, “We’re in the heart of London, can’t get better than this.”

He pulled away from the curtain. “The others in the area, are they direct competitors?”

“You’ve had a look around?”

He had, so he nodded.

“There’s a hotel down the street that makes its money from burlesque. There’s a dive bar that brings in the most people out of all of us—and moves the most product. A pub that the older crowd goes to.” A shrug from Glacier Eyes. “It’s a bit of everything.”

The curtain dropped. Sloane turned back to the conversation with his hands clasped behind his back.

“And the owners?”

“What about them?”

“Will they make things more difficult for me?”

“Because you’re an American?”

Sloane laughed then, loud and clear, in true Bostonian fashion. “You mean American businessmen aren’t wanted around here?” It was a shorter list to simply name the places they were wanted. “I meant because of you. This place, what’s the reputation it’s leaving behind?”

The plastic sheen of civility slipped from Silas’s face. For a beat, his gaze turned wicked, slitting for different reasons, then all emotion was gone again.

“Nothing a smart businessman like you can’t work yourself out of—or work with. Tell me, how long have you been in London?”

For Sloane, there was no mask. The expression on his face was the expression others pulled out of him exactly the way they urged it to the surface. In that way, he was an open book. His eyes—not as sharp as Silas’s, not as cold as the glaciers that had narrowed on him the minute he stepped through the door to The Moulin Rouge and had yet to relent—were softer, beguiling.

Bracketed by fine lines, the pair of sirens had beckoned their fair share of fishermen to their deaths.

Sloane blinked once, slowly, and then his lips curled into a tempting little smile.

“I’m new in town.”

You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:

Option One -
Amelia Nixon was many things, but she was never a pushover reporter that people could just usher away with a busy shuffle past. She was dedicated and eager to cut to the very middle of the current political tensions because she was Amelia Nixon and her articles would most certainly become front page material.

“Sir, please! It’s for the Prophet, how do you feel-“

Another one brushed passed her, the shuffling busy masses making their way through Diagon Alley for the lunchtime rush. This had been the best possible time to get people, but none of them were giving her anything to go with.

Only momentarily discouraged, the short red headed lady took a seat on a nearby bench. Her quill resting in her left hand and her notepad ready in the opposite hand. Amelia pouted, tapping the quill against her leg as she scanned the waves of people for somebody - anybody - who looked like they had something to say.

She had been dreaming of her name in bold print, Amelia Nixon: The Source of Today’s Tomorrow. She had been dreaming of the larger office and the secretaries that would fetch her the morning coffee and fetch her anything she needed. The VIP interviews and the most exclusive press passes. But all Amelia had was a page seventeen piece on the rising number of frogs in London.

Hardened by a day of no success, the reporter stood up and started to trod off down the alley. A loose stone on the cobble path caught her heel, sending the distraught girl toppling down to the ground.

“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!” she yelled as she tried desperately to recover her shoe frantically in the middle of the Diagon Alley moving crowds.

Roleplay Response:
Two gleaming black shoes landed one footstep from her snared heel. Cerulean eyes bore down onto a curtain of contrast. They clashed, his eyes against her hair color; it was lovely and loud, and usually, that was just his type, but this one, this time, drew the line of his mood taut like a bow.

“Leave it,” he said without taking his hands out of his pockets, without sliding the cigarette free from where it dangled in the corner of his mouth.

Between the gaps of her struggling forearms, he could see the effort that strained her knuckles, the way the material of her shoes gave beneath her fingertips. The thought that she was putting on an act, after being ignored and ignored, vanished.

A different sort of exasperation took hold then—one directed wholly at himself.

(Ever the fool for the damsel types, wasn’t he?)

Tapered fingers, adorned with a single silver ringlet, extended at last, but the edge of his voice didn’t soften.

“Up now—up. You’re causing a scene.”

How did you find us? Google

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