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Messages - Noir Märchen

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OOC Landmarks:
05/06/2016
→ Application accepted! here

IC Landmarks:
01/09/1937
→ Starts Hogwarts and is sorted into Slytherin.
06/1944
→ Graduates from Hogwarts June 1944 and moves to Dover, England.

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Elsewhere Accepted / noir märchen | elsewhere adult
« on: 01/06/2016 at 22:23 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Noir Märchen
Gender: male
Age: Twenty-one (12/03/1926)
Blood Status: Half-Blood

Education: 
Hogwarts, Slytherin ‘44

Residence:
Dover, England

Occupation
Rosarian

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?
nope!

Requested Magic Levels:

  • Charms: 8
  • Divination: 7
  • Transfiguration: 9
  • Summoning: 8
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
The Märchen family?

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Lucifer Morgenstern and co.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

It all happened long ago, and believe it or not, it is absolutely true.

From a very young age, Noir Märchen knew he had a way with words. A silver tongue, his mother cooed, interrupting her firstborn’s latest excuse. His voice was high and soft and earnest, and his big blue eyes brimmed with tears of regret. Sincerity bled from every word, so it was only a matter of time before his parents pardoned his latest misdemeanor.

This youthful innocence faded with time; the chubby cheeked infant was replaced with a pale-eyed, gaunt-framed boy, and while his powers of persuasion remained untouched, a certain coldness settled over Noir. Relatives no longer touched his cheek or petted his hair; perhaps it was the guidance of his father, or maybe just the boy’s natural disposition, but Noir grew into an austere, aloof young man.

His puritanical personality did not make him popular at Hogwarts, where he graduated from in 1944 with top grades but few friends. Despite his academic achievements, he felt no urgent need to find honorable employment; shortly after leaving the Castle, he purchased a rose nursery on the Dover bluffs. There he spent his time, tending to his flowers with a compassion otherwise absent from his life. The nursery thrived under his green thumb: vines climbed up the side of his small home and spilled out of the raised boxes. On every table, every windowsill and shelf and mantle, vases upon vases of blooms spread their cloying scent through the hallways and rooms of the house, conspicuously empty save for the vibrant petals.

Noir’s Dover sanctuary was strictly off-limits to his family, whom he paid the obligatory visit on occasional weekends. In his parents’ eyes, Noir could do no wrong: he was the perfect son, as flawless as the roses he brought home every other Sunday. White damasks for Blanche, always. Potted Veilchenblaus for Blu. Delicate tea roses for Heloise, and a firm handshake for Eammon. If his parents saw past the showy flowers and impeccable manners, they made no indication of knowing what lay beneath his carefully constructed mask.

Noir preferred it this way. He had his silver tongue, his seaside, solitary sanctuary, and he had his roses. He had all he could ask for, and yet a seed of discontent had been planted deep in his heart, and there it blossomed. He wanted more—of what, exactly, he wasn’t sure, but whatever it was left a gaping hole that grew larger every day.

And so he waited. Patiently, he sat upon his throne of thorns and waited for his raison d’etre, the puzzle piece that would make him complete. It was in no rush, he knew, but neither was he.

 He could wait forever


Roleplay: 
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:

Noir was not in the habit of helping people. It was tedious business to lend a hand to those in need—people, he found, always managed to return to ask for more. At Hogwarts, he’d briefly made pocket money by lending his own homework to the underachievers, to copy sloppily in the hallways before class. When the professors finally put a stop to the illicit business, Noir was profoundly relieved: not only had the struggling students return again and again for copies of his assignments, but they brought their friends, too. Noir had never liked crowds, and the constant demands from his classmates secretly unnerved him.

Noir firmly believed in fending for one’s self, in not taking handouts and paving one’s own path; so when he found himself pushing through the midday rush towards the reporter’s—frankly annoying—voice, he found himself surprised by his own act of uncharacteristic generosity.

(It was her hair, he would tell himself later. Red, like the dame-de-coeurs that grew in the flower-box outside his bedroom window; the color caught his eye, nothing more.)

“Miss?”

His voice was velvety and soft, his accent refined. He offered one gloved hand to the fallen lady, ready to help her up.

“Let’s get away from the crowd, shall we?”

OTHER
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