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Topics - Taliesin Cadwallader

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Elsewhere Accepted / Glyndwr Taliesin Cadwallader
« on: 24/10/2016 at 17:27 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Glyndwr Taliesin Cadwallader
Gender: ~~~~~
Age: 26 February 9, 1923
Blood Status: Pureblood

Education: 
Ravenclaw 1940

Residence:
Over Tchaikovsky

Occupation
Owner of Tchaikovsky

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?
Tchaikovsky

Requested Magic Levels:
  • Charms: 7
  • Divination: 7
  • Transfiguration: 8
  • Summoning: 10
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
no

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Maël Cadwallader and co.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
In the scarred remains of the old bar, Taliesin Cadwallader picked through the gold in the rubble, his face stony and cold as tears tracked through the ash on his face. The wreckage was still smoldering in places, but the fire had been put out. It had taken too long. Only the bones of the old bar remained.

Nothing else.

He’d been on the beach in Brighton, playing for pennies with holes in coat, when he’d felt a cold hand grip his heart. From out of his case he pulled his deck of cards, appearing for all to see as a madman, and pulled three cards from the deck in quick succession. Shoving his guitar in his case and closing it up with all the muggle money jingling around inside it, it took him ages to get out of the city. Every turn he made, he found a muggle. There was nowhere to be alone. Finally he hopped a train to London, storming through the streets like a man on fire, reaching the family’s London apartment sometime past 3am. He tried, desperately, to floo into his aunt’s room at the bar. She was always awake at this hour, and she always welcomed him.

It didn’t work. It wasn’t working. Finally, he decided to risk apparition. It wasn’t one of his strong points, but this was family. No doubt everything was fine. His card reading skills were shoddy at best, and what he thought he read was something simple and small, but the lack of floo had left him more anxious than ever.

He’d arrived in the small hours to find a burning pile of wood and bricks, gold leaf melted into nothing.

Sinking to his knees, he didn’t need a reading or anyone else to tell him how this had happened. Everyone loved Arden, mostly. The Hexenreich was the only problem she had ever complained to him of. He knew he should have done more, been there, been a part of the resistance. Become a lawyer, like his father had wanted for him instead of a traveling troubadour. The years since he had graduated had been everything he wanted. Regret was not something that came naturally to Tal, but in that moment as his knees sank into the ash of the burning club, Tal regret his inaction more than he had ever thought he would.

It was too late. There was no real law in England anymore. It didn’t matter how well he knew it--and he knew the law better than most--there was nothing he could do. This was why he had chosen to follow his own passions, letting down his father, being the worst heir in Cadwallader history, at least since Gwrn Cadwallader in the 1400’s. Taliesin had no faith in the law.  The system was a traitor, no matter how well you knew it, there was always someone sticking their hands in the cookie jar where it shouldn’t be. Open dishonesty was more trustworthy than the facade of nobility. Low level pickpockets held more esteem in Tal’s eyes than the greatest magistrates society had to offer. It was why he had shed the Glyndwr name even before he had finished his study of the law. He had wanted nothing more than to be Taliesin, a musician and a wanderer. Arden had always been his most vocal supporter, keeping the peace between Tal and his father when the two couldn’t make it themselves.

There were few things that Tal really cared about, and one of them was burning.

A year later, Tal wiped the bar down with a rag before removing himself from the bar. It was a much smaller bar now. The bandstand was still there, but it was much smaller now. There were no stairs into the bar now. If you walked in, you found yourself in the new Tchaikovsky. It was more a half-hearted replica of the original than a direct copy. The chandeliers were smaller, the gold had been replaced with brass, the round booths set into alcoves had linen drapes instead of velvet. It was still accented in teal, but not all the upholstery matched perfectly. Tchaikovsky’s wasn’t dead, but there was no way to create the same atmosphere that Arden had encouraged. He did what he could with what he had. A broken bartender, a dismantled bar. Someone had to hold it all together, so Taliesin squeezed the last of his feelings out the morning after Arden died, and moved on.

For all to see, Taliesin hadn’t changed a bit. Stoic and aloof, Tal does what he feels like doing, what comes naturally to him. His sense of justice is marred by his pragmatism.

He still plays his guitar. On stage, every night, he plays the music that comes to his fingers, whatever it is, whether that was what the patrons of his bar had come to hear or not. The jazz would resume and he’d go back to running his first inheritance, the one he had never expected to receive.

Everything was cyclical.

Tal drank another beer in his apartment over the bar, next to the business office. That was a tradition of Arden’s he had carried over. His apartment was large enough to accommodate a few spare rooms, but for the most part they remained empty. Emptiness rattle around inside him like it did in every room he walked through before counting out the till at the end of the night.

The till smelled of success, but Tal never got the smell of ash and smoke out of his nose.


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:
It was a nice day to walk about. Grabbing his guitar, Taliesin had wandered into town, playing on street corners anything that came to mind. Another shop owner waved him off, but Tal wasn’t bothered by their disdain. With a smile, he made a rude gesture and took up his belongings. It wasn’t worth the argument, whether he was in the right or no, he thought it best just to keep moving. It broke up the day, at the very least.

Turning down an alley, he was just in time to see a girl fall over onto the stones. He couldn’t help himself. He laughed, just a little, before stepping up to her. “Oi, mate,” he said, looking down over the guitar in his hands. “You all right?”

It was a dumb question, he knew, but propriety had taught him to say something, even if it was banal and tiresome. Standing still in the flow of traffic, he didn’t really help, and he didn’t really not help either. A beacon for those who weren’t paying enough attention to the person splayed on the cobbles, people would recognize the still, sloppy haired man as an impediment and become more aware, or bang into him. That would be fine, so long as they didn’t damage his instrument. He almost hoped someone would bang into him.

Some days were just good days to start fights.

Not an inch the gentlemen, Tal didn’t offer his hand or any further assistance, just stared down at her with an amused, if slightly quizzical, expression. He was just curious to see what she would do.


OTHER
How did you find us? faith, trust, and pixie dust

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