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Archived Applications / Évariste Altier [Librarian]
« on: 15/08/2021 at 05:17 »

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character name: Évariste Dieudonné Odilon Altier

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Ronnie Jay Beckham, Ivory Summers, Holland Summers, etc.

Character age: 35.

Character education: Académie Flamel, a private pureblood school near Pontoise, France.  Attended only until age 16, when he and his sister fled to relatives in Britain following the Allied powers’ liberation of France in 1944.

Strength and weaknesses (details please):

Évariste’s strength is in the stitch between language and enchantment, in adapting and exploring the depths of magic woven into the very nature of those who practice it.  He seeks discovery through research and experimentation, and is not held back by frivolities such as "impossible" or "too dangerous".

Évariste’s greatest weakness lies in his lack of inter- and intrapersonal awareness.  He has yet to complete any spell he's set out to create (alone, that is) because he is blinded by his own experiences, and struggles to recognize his own strengths, weaknesses, and needs.  He falls short when communicating with others, which has been a significant detriment to his personal relationships, and he often needs assistance in recognizing the hurdles he creates for himself.

Évariste's magical strength is Charms, and he has a gift for intuitive magic, though he struggles with any structured form of Divination, such as prediction or aura-reading.  He generally dislikes verbal Transfiguration, or really any form of magic that demands a specific word structure.

Physical description:

Tall, lean, with sharp shoulders and wavy (or is it just messy?) dark hair.  Piercing sage-green eyes, with permanently tired circles under them.  Usually wearing a well-tailored suit and a red or black turtleneck, or a high quality dress shirt, and oxford shoes.  You can tell he cares about his clothes, but you might also notice they occasionally sport scorch marks or other arcane damage, so maybe he doesn't care that much.  Wears Oudh-brand fragrances, and has very good posture.  Speaks with a French accent.

Personality (nice, rude, funny etc. Paragraph please.):

Évariste is rather polite and generally reserved, though he can be coaxed into long-winded discussion, particularly on magical theory and experimental magic.  He rarely lies directly, though he can be difficult to communicate with at times, as he frequently speaks in obscurities, and usually avoids discussing his personal life, even with those involved.

Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:  My boyfriend works there and I'm lonely at home.  Knowledge should be shared and enjoyed by all, and what better place to foster interest in learning than at the heart of Wizarding Britain's education?  A library is freedom.

Biography (500 words minimum. There is never such a thing as too much.):

Évariste Altier began half-emptied, rose stems threaded into his shins and spiderweb cracks in his skull.  He was item more than he was child— toy soldier, mechanical appliance, doll— and he knew no better.  “Patience,” he was reminded, again and again, until he no longer knew the meaning of the word.  It hung in the crimson threads of his mind, swollen and suffocating and grey.

He began half-emptied, and he filled the space with that grey, some undead thing with princely posture.



Early May, 1936
Ambrose Altier Propriété, near Caen, France


The cat was soot-grey and apricot, with missing whiskers and long matted fur that clung to his trousers as he knelt in the grass to pet her.  One ear was torn and healed over in several places, as though some large mouth had taken a bite out of it, and Évariste’s small fingers scratched behind it.

She was very clearly a stray, and he very clearly was not.  Princesse Adélaïde, he called her, with a thin smile that stretched awkwardly across his lips.

His name screeched across the garden and pond and long drive they never used, and the princesse scampered away when Évariste’s head turned to meet the sound.  They wore their pale color in the grass together, alive at last, but he faded away in a march up to the château, and the fur on his clothing kept her memory, like a ghost of something real.

Hours later, scrubbed raw of the stench of cat and grass— (Allergies, Évariste !  Bon à rien garçon, tu n'écoutes jamais ?)— he pressed against the dimming light of his window, watched the spot she’d disappeared, and imagined he’d followed.



8th June, 1944
Sword Beach, France


The breeze was heavy with salt and bodies, and Évariste stood in the relative silence above it.  He gripped the wand so tightly that his knuckles shone, and he could almost hear his father’s scathing remarks on it.  But, that was exactly it— almost stung sharper than it had ever before, held suspended in the stench and whipped around his face with the bangs that had long-since lost their sticking spell.

Blood stained his trousers, no more his own than the wand clutched in his fingers, and the grass bent away from him.  Some miles away, the encampment of the French Wizarding Resistance was hidden from muggle eyes, but Évariste stood on the hill against the beach and grey sky, and stared ahead.  He had no place there, anymore.

Before long, a military representative would stand in the doorway of their shielded château to deliver the news that dried brown on Évariste’s knee.  For once in his life, he refused to bear Maman’s shrieking.  Until then, he would be here, at the edge of a seaside graveyard, with this single remnant of Ambrose Altier no more than a stick in his palm.



Late March, 1953
Wizarding Warehouse District, UK


The spell backfired with a sharp snap.  Évariste felt a twinge in his hand, and clenched his jaw as his arm cramped up.  Thirty-sixth try that morning, and none successful; even Évariste was on his last string.

“Merlin's beard, who's the High and Mighty Pureblood again?”

Another worker, an older man with yellowed teeth and a ragged beard, grinned and shook his head, spitting and flicking a bit of tobacco at the ground.  Évariste ignored him and narrowed his eyes ahead, a diligent soldier armed with crisp shoes and a bitter smile.  The threadbare dummy across from him stared right back.

(“Patience must be your virtue, mon fils,”  A turning head, suits and dress shoes, an old man's firm indifference, a young boy's unflinching stare.  Patience had gotten Papa to the height of his career and wealth.  Patience had given birth to Evariste Altier.)

Évariste raised his wand for the thirty-seventh time at his fabricated victim and the charm fell smoothly from his lips once again.  The muscles in his leg tightened painfully— another backfire— and Évariste ground his teeth together.  The unkempt man laughed and Évariste brushed it aside; any pause would surely be noted by their supervisor, and it was their patience that he would be foolish to test.



June, 1960
London, UK


A thick, odorless liquid simmered on one stove burner, unchanged for several days now, and a second substance steamed on another, its process marked by a soft persistent squeal and occasional pop.  The third burner was occupied by the kettle, heating for yet another steep.  Surrounded by teacups, mugs, and drip-stained parchment and paper, neither of the table’s occupants could recall how many rounds they had consumed, or how many hours had passed.

Equations multiplied upon themselves and stretched beyond material, spectral numbers and letters suspended in the air and manipulated by the movements of Icarus’ ebony wand.  Ambrose’s cypress hummed against a page, and Évariste flicked once and tapped it on the rim of Icarus’ teacup.  A rose-colored mist dissipated into the liquid, and Évariste took a taste without permission, fingers trapping Icarus’ own against the handle.

A single sound from his throat affirmed its success, and he let go, but said nothing of the nature of the alteration.  He didn’t need to— Icarus would discover it himself without prompting, by tongue or divination.  Évariste scribbled a few words on his sheet of parchment, and reached across the table for a snickerdoodle.

Alchemy was delicate work, see.



February, 1962
London, UK


A dull ache stirred him from sleep, beginning in his right shoulder and into his elbow, both crushed against the mattress by his own weight.  His nose was pressed against a thin shoulder, and his left arm was loose around ribs and the hem of a shirt.  Icarus must have been asleep, by the twisting of legs and hum of slowed breathing against the pillows.

Évariste’s arm restated its complaints, but he did nothing to quell it; discomfort held no weight against the magpie’s much-needed rest.  He was comfortable here, even if his body was not.  Évariste adjusted the free arm tighter around Icarus’ waist, and pressed a soft kiss where skin showed at the collar.

Amidst aching limbs and angel’s wings, sleep was not hard to find, here.



Late April, 1963
London, UK


Tendrils of light crept through the thin curtains and across the floor, the morning lapping like a waxing tide at his feet.  Évariste awoke to an empty bed, the sheets distressed with the rush of another early shift, and the smell of coffee wafting through the ajar door from the kitchen.  He sat at the foot, feeling the familiar absence settle in his chest, before he wandered into the kitchen for the last of the coffee that Icarus had left for him.  It had gone cold in the pot, but a swift flick toward his mug sent it steaming once again.

The table was littered with papers, scribbled and scattered in a particular arrangement, and left for days without much change.  It had been nearly a week since they’d worked on anything together; Icarus was busy at both the castle and the Ministry, and too tired to keep up with Évariste’s late hours.  The turner had been the sponsor of most of their time together since the term began again.

Under a strategically placed pile of papers on the table, Évariste plucked a single parchment, and patience lost its pull.  Across the top, in ornamental lettering: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Inquiry of Employment.


* all powerplaying of icarus has been approved by the player

SAMPLE ROLEPLAY
(Please respond to to this in third person past tense. Do not write the other characters' reactions. Only your own.)

It was the largest office in Hogwarts and, perhaps to students and newcomers, the most intimidating. The shelves were filled with various odds and ends, with a place of honor for the Sorting Hat, and the walls held all the portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses.

In the middle of the room sat a large desk. Everything was in order, for the current occupant had always despised a messy desk. It was the sign of a messy mind, and she had always favored neatness.

A clock sat on the desk, which currently showed the time to be 2:05. The meeting was supposed to begin at 2:00 precisely.

Along with order, Anneka valued punctuality. She was a very busy woman these days. Even during the summer, she had a number of matters to attend to. Interviewing and hiring staff was only of those matters. The newest potential member of her staff wasn't making a good impression.

She paced the room, black heels clicking against the stone floor. When the door finally opened, Anneka turned, her expression reminiscent of a Russian winter. "You are late."

Explain yourself was what her face said.

Roleplay Response:

He’d never been more than a cog in an enchanted machine, and now was no exception.  For all Hogwarts’ shortcomings, pulled in strings from the lips of its alumni, and tied firmly to the architecture of the British Ministry, it was beautiful, and it was large, and it was the most powerful infrastructure in the United Kingdom.  (That was precisely what had earned his disapproval, of course.)

And here he was, meeting its Headmistress for want of a job.  For want of company.

Évariste had seen many intimidating offices in his lifetime, and though the others could have taken his life and livelihood in an instant, it was this one that burned his nerves.

“So it seems,” he replied, glancing at the clock on the desk and adjusting the cuff of his suit sleeve.  “Je suis désolé, I will soon perfect my route.”  Évariste did not make a habit of tardiness, but it had been years since he’d had events to be tardy to at all, so the misstep did not surprise him.  Icarus had never mentioned moving staircases.

Muttering a quick enchantment under his breath, Évariste swished his wand and conjured the parchments he’d written up— a copy of his application and résumé of experience, and a detailed summary of his plans for the library.  He pulled it from the air and extended the neatly stacked papers to the Headmistress.  “Shall we discuss the position, then, Headmistress?”

2
Elsewhere Accepted / Évariste Altier [Elsewhere Adult]
« on: 23/10/2016 at 06:49 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Évariste Dieudonne Odilon Altier.
Gender: Male.
Age: 21.
Blood Status: Pureblood.

Education: 
Beauxbatons, then private tutoring.

Residence:
Albear Manor.

Occupation
Jr. Research Assistant for Spell Development

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?
No.

Requested Magic Levels:
  • Charms: 12.
  • Divination: 6.
  • Transfiguration: 6.
  • Summoning: 8.

Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Nah, just the Albear crowd, but that was approved by Ra'asiel Albear about a year ago.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Ronnie Jay Beckham, Ivory Summers, and the rest of the angst pals.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

The son of Ambrose Altier had never been a prince.

Évariste Altier had been born with roses woven in his shins, and patches in his skull.  His soul and pickpocketed heart were scorched under wooly stares, the kind that withered at his heels and blinked unseeing at his unfaltering efforts.  The young man strained at every yoke placed upon his shoulders, a tireless pack horse, a loyal dog hovering just beyond Ambrose's shoulder.  His lips were sealed shut, back stiffened, hands strong and rough, and tongue smooth.

Évariste was no prince.  He was, in flesh and bone and spirit, a soldier.

("Evie--!"  A child down an endless corridor, a tiny queen in too-big heels.  She was the only one who would ever dub him 'prince'.)

Papa had been some sort of soldier too.  Sometimes he was gone for days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months.  Evariste waited by the stairs or the door: he was a dutiful child.  Papa was his king, and he would follow Ambrose Altier to the end of the earth.

("Patience is a virtue, son."  A Sunday morning before service; Ambrose's back was turned, practiced fingers knotting the bowtie about his neck.  Évariste stood duly in the background, eyes fixed on a half-glass of white wine.   "It'll serve you well to own it.")

But the end of the earth, it seemed to Évariste, was incredibly near.  The end of Évariste's earth had come the day Ambrose Altier had been confirmed dead.

---
8:43am

"You can't, Maman.  You don't--"

Understand, he'd meant to say, but it was pointless.  The words holed themselves up in his throat and he swallowed pathetically, a vain attempt to rid himself of the vengeful ache in his chest.  Maman was closed off to reason; there was no point in pulling that card on her.  His tongue felt heavy and his eyes sunken, dulled from all this talking.  Every gentleman had his turning point.  And his sister's budding black eye was his.

"Don't tell me what I do and do not--"

"Maman..."

"You have no RIGHT, you are--"

"Maman."

"An insignificant, worthless piece of--"

"Maman, listen to me!"

"SHUT UP!"  A wild-flying fist for the second time that afternoon; Évariste made no move.  (Hands locked still, inches away from his sides and shaking, fingers clenched into twitching fists; this is not your nature.)  Her old ring drew a red line onto pale cheekbones, and burgundy blurs burned beneath eyelids.  Évariste's only reaction was to narrow his eyes.  Maman's temper was versatile and vile-- It flared up in fragile moments, and wrecked every thin pretense of delicacy.

Ambrose had been the only one who'd ever had patience to withstand it.  And now Évariste.  But today he had no patience.  Today he had nothing.

("Patience is a virtue, son."  The most burdensome virtue of all, but Évariste had pasted these words onto his mind's forefront.  Today, they scattered: son, son, son.)

Black and sickly purple-green painted his skin.  Ruined it.  The door shut loudly behind him, and his face retained its solemnity even as he approached the Queen of Ice and Demolition.  (His Queen of Ice and Demolition.)

"Elvire.  We're moving."

---
10:04am

The spell backfired and stiffled itself.  Évariste felt a twinge in his hand, before gritting his teeth as his arm cramped up for near to a minute.  Thirty-sixth try that morning; even Évariste was on his last string.

"Merlin's beard, who's the High and Mighty Pureblood again?"

The dirty old man with missing teeth and a ragged beard grinned and shook his head, spitting and flicking a bit of tobacco at the ground.  Évariste ignored him and narrowed his eyes straight ahead, a dilligent soldier armed with worn boots and a bitter smile.  The threadbare dummy across from him grinned right back.

Évariste raised his wand for the thirty-seventh time at his fabricated (a dry smile here, fabricated.) victim and the charm fell smoothly from his lips once again.  The muscles in his leg tightened painfully-- another backfire-- and Évariste ground his teeth together.  He refused to show any sign of pain or defeat in the midst.  The scruffy man laughed and Évariste payed it no mind-- the spells wouldn't test themselves.

("Patience is a virtue, son,"  A turning head, suits and dress shoes, an old man's firm indifference, a young boy's tired stare.  Patience had gotten Papa to the height of his career and wealth.  Patience had given birth to Evariste Altier.)

Passion, Évariste had always believed, was reason enough for anything, and Patience was the beaten trail to Success.

---
4:17am

The night pulled at his skin and sang exhaustion from his eyes.  Fingers trembled and he paused to balance against a wall.  Vicious moonbeams rang bells in his ears and tore his brains to hellish bits, the aftermath of his newest experiment, and a crippling pang of hunger churned his stomach.  Loneliness dripped from downturned lips to faltering footsteps-- and Évariste trudged from the warehouse to his borrowed room at last.

The Albear's luxury felt sickly and bitter; he hated this place.  But fatigue allowed for no contemplation.  Évariste Altier fell silent and allowed sleep to sap feeling from his bones.

("It'll serve you well to own it.")


Roleplay Response [Option Two]:

It had been an especially long and taxing shift in the warehouse.  Most nights, Évariste walked home by the dim light of the moon, in the dark hours of early morning.  But today, the testing had continued until light stretched the horizons, and the cloud-covered sun sat firmly above his head.  He stumbled out with the rest of the lot, most workers from the morning shift, headed out for a lunch break.  Évariste bore the red band of the afternoon crew, a spot of blood in an endless sea of blue.

There was hardly any point in leaving the warehouse at all, and none in going back to the manor.  Évariste would be on the clock again before long— there was just enough time for a quick coffee run before he would be back to work again.  But he had no place to complain; this was what he had asked for, wasn’t it?

Évariste had never liked the busy streets of London and Diagon Alley, the way the crowds pushed and pulled and trod over anything that stood in its path.  The young man kept his back straight and eyes forward— he had a mind only for the beverage that he knew awaited him down the cobbled street.  (He had never been much a coffee drinker before his travel to England, but now he relied on the beverage like a drunkard to the liquor.  It was more readily available than sleep, after all.)

Perhaps Elvire would be disappointed by his bedraggled appearance, and certainly the Albears would be, but the last twenty-one hours wore hard on his bones, and Évariste would be making no apologies if his hair was tousled, or his shirt wrinkled.  His poise today, in the least, still resembled that of a trained soldier.  And that was enough.

"Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!"

The shout fell on foggy ears, but somehow they inspired a twitch of a reaction in the young man.  His head turned slowly in the direction of the noise he couldn’t feel his fee t and allowed bloodshot eyes to settle or his ank l es on a fallen form.  His steps were heavy and careful his forea rm s were bloody but his breaths was raw and shrunken.  But the gentleman within him he pul l ed his at his sleeves brought his near-lifeless body to her side.

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, I believe this is yours?"  Évariste lowered (painfully) to one knee and offered the broken piece of heel to the blur of red before his eyes.  He squinted through exhaustion and managed a gracious smile, swaying slightly.  "Would you like a hand?"  He extended his hand gracefully to help her up, ignoring, as he always did, that he may not make it to his feet himself.

OTHER
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