E L S E W H E R E A D U L T
CHARACTER INFORMATIONCharacter Name: Cupidot Thierry Belizaire.Gender: Immaterial.Age: April 1st, 1936 ; Aries II.Blood Status: HalfbloodEducation: Hogwarts, Slytherin
Class of ‘54Residence:Hometown: Watchet, Somerset, United Kingdom
Current Residence: Harpsichord Place, Oxford, United KingdomOccupation:St. Mungo’s, Medical ResearchDo you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place?St. Mungo’sRequested Magic Levels:
- Charms: 8
- Divination: 7
- Transfiguration: 10
- Summoning: 7
Please list any other characters you already have at the site:This is becoming a very long list. Luckily I’m quite proficient as well as prolific.
L. Laskos, L. Taberford, V. Borovsky, C. Laskos, M. Duke, C. Wolverby, V. Dauer-Montès, A. Chadha, D. SiyalBiography: (300 words minimum.)Summer, Aged EightHailing as a first son of his generation among his family, Cupidot had always been assured of his position. He was his mother's son with fire in his eyes and ambition in his heart. He was not about to be denied simply because there was the particular usurper happened to be his sister.
That was his seat at the table.
She knew it. And Cupidot knew she knew it.
It was so obviously a ploy which she seemed to think was ever so clever and funny. As if simply because she was a girl she could pretend she was innocent. That no one who knew Juliette really would ever believe, and Cupidot certainly knew better than to trust his sister in anything. He liked to believe in certainties, and of one thing he was sure-- when given the chance, Juliette would always elect to stick the thorn in his foot.
She was the one to blame for Lovelie being just the same. He wondered how Maman allowed it. But despite his righteous fit which was brewing in his peridot eyes, he did not call out for Maman or Grand-Mère. No, this, Cupidot was well able to fix all on his own.
He waited until she lifted her glass of milk to her lips before expending effort. In his mind’s eye he saw the glass burst, spilling all over her smug face. That would teach her. His brows creased in the attempt, trying to reach out with his intent.
A splash, splutter, anything.
She deserved it, he begged the lwa. That was his seat and she had no business sitting there. Sure, perhaps that morning he had put salt instead of sugar into her tea that morning, but Maman had already scolded him for it. His debt had already been paid. It was high time that his sister learned the meaning of consequence, and how much her brother was worth. He would make whatever offering necessary to help his sister get her due.
It would be a service to the greater good, honestly, to bring her down a peg or three.
Summer, Aged SeventeenCupidot sat with his arms crossed; the stool he was sitting on was angled in a calculated way just enough to engage his core with a precarious nonchalance, balancing against the slightly uneven floors. One foot hinged on a shelf beneath the counter, tethering him in case. His bocote-colored eyes looked with a disinterest which seemed acutely judgmental. He did not relish being relegated to minding his family's apothecary, watching muggles look with hushed tones and awed eyes asking stupid questions with little likelihood of understanding the difference between the uses of eucalyptus and rosemary.
Of course, outwardly, his family did not sell anything forbidden to Muggles. Nothing which couldn’t be found in the supermarket in Town. It was his family’s principle to heal the ailing, to nourish one’s community. To take care of one’s surroundings was to build strong roots. But the truth amounted to nothing in the face of rumors and prejudice.
Some came on dares, others seeking curses--- nevermind that vodou was practiced largely for peace and finding harmony with the lwa and the world. But most muggles never had much appreciation for what was different from them. Only fear.
Cupidot, on that particular afternoon--- as was his appetite for mischief was on most afternoons he was forced to be cooped up indoors during his summer holiday-- felt more than happy to oblige such misconceptions. Afterall, better to give these voyeurs a dose of what they wanted so desperately to see after all-- to keep them guessing about the true nature of why steeping in a tub full of leaves as if they were a tea-strainer helped their neighbor’s breathing, or how their aunt’s unsettled stomach finally eased after ingesting some root she swore by. It wasn't the kind of Magic they thought it was-- the kind his family was truly capable of-- but it was magic enough to confound their pea sized intellect.
Afterall, presentation and reputation were a kind of power in themselves.
“Don't,” he snapped suddenly interrupting the whispers of the two young women pointing into a glass container of common ginger. (His grandmère sold the roots which were particularly gnarled for particular psychosomatic effect. Cupidot had after all learned from the best.) He pointed to the sign painted in red lettering, ‘Ne Touche Pas. Ask for Assistance.’ the principle of their shop and their faith.
“Te Jenjanm,” he said, mimicking the East Indies depth which colored the speech of his ancestors.
The young women looked at him with eyes brimming with timid curiosity.
He raised a singular brow, a sharp glimmer to the golden hue of his eyes, “For warming bodies on cold nights.” He did not elaborate further.
Summer, Aged 26The sun as he was leaving that morning was just about as high and as blasé as it had been yesterday morning on his way in to work. The near twenty-four hours he’d spent bent over tests and samples and comparisons blurred each individual passing hour, marked intermittently by a cold chicken sandwich sometime before sunset and a cold beet salad sometime about midnight. The time spent was less important than nearing closer to solving the problem needling his thoughts. Even now, walking home for a change of clothes and a bath, his mind tinkered.
His steps fell against the old pavement taking the same route he did every morning, sometimes, even, in the afternoon, but his eyes wandered. He saw his notes on bactericidal activities. Different methods of purifying mold samples. Racks of varying cultures. Which combination had he yet to cross off his list, which was the next to compare, to fail, to disappoint. Which ones made progress, however small-- until, breakthrough.
Not that he was there yet, though.
Roleplay: You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:Option One - Roleplay Response:Type your response here.It was a rare afternoon off. Cupidot had a coffee in hand. It wasn’t the same as his matant’s, but it was enough.
His shoulders ached. He could hear grandmère’s nagging about his posture. How he was going to be bent like a palm after a hurricane by the time he was sixty. If he was lucky. How it was such a shame for a good looking son to not take care of himself.
Èzili do ba ye.
But Cupidot knew his worth wasn’t limited to just his looks. His mind was just as sharp. And he knew when to wield each to near surgical effect. Talent, beauty. He did not waste his gifts.
Èzili Dantò o, fanm chans mwen.
He rolled his shoulders, he’d promised to bring back a bottle of perfume for maman, for an offering. Something floral, heavy with roses. Expensive. In one bag he had a bottle, in another, he had a large sack of peanuts for tablet pistache. The last on the list was fresh sandalwood sticks and then he could go home.
A hot meal was likely already on the stove for his troubles. Cupidot was in a hurry to head home while it was still warm.
But then, squawking in his ear---
“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!” He turned over his shoulder, and there, a woman sprawled desperately in the street scrambling for something. Revulsion tugged at his expression. He did not have any particular inclination for damsels. Not when there was his own dinner waiting on the table.
Sòt pa touye w…
“Unless you’re asking to get trampled, I’d suggest you stand and find your wand, miss.” He didn’t offer to help her stand, only moved to walk around her.
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Matant - Creole n. aunty
Èzili do ba ye - Creole ph. Èzili has a hunched back.
Èzili Dantò o, fanm chans mwen - Creole ph. Oh Èzili Dantò, woman of my good luck.
Tablet Pistache - Creole n. Haitian peanut brittle
Sòt pa touye w, (men li fè w swè) - Creole ph. stupidity won’t kill you, (but it’ll make you sweat)OTHERHow did you find us?:Didn’t exactly need a magnifying glass, did it?
