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Messages - Minette Ó Conaill

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E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Minette Ó Conaill
Gender: Female
Age: 35
Blood Status: Half

Education: 
Beauxbatons class of 1931

Residence:
Type your response here - where does your character live? She has recently moved to London after spending several years in Cairo and other parts of Northern Africa

Occupation
Type your response here Singer

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?
Not applicable

Requested Magic Levels:

  • Charms: 10
  • Divination: 10
  • Transfiguration: 7
  • Summoning: 8
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Not applicable

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Marjorie Withersnap, Dorian Fortnum IV, Jaenel Blackwood

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

dix ans
Slithering into her mother’s lap with the grace of a python, Minette looked at the woman with wide, dark eyes
(pools of chocolate, molten and warm, tinted with gold and light)
and put a delicate hand on the her mother’s shoulder, small and fragile.

“Maman, the girls at the park today would not speak to me,” she said
(voice trembling like chandelier crystal, clear and faceted, lilting and melodious even in its rippling sadness)
as she pressed her face against her mother’s chest.

“Mon petite chere,” her mother said in her rich French accent, smoothing Minette’s bright white-blonde hair with a pale, clear-skinned hand. “Ze other girls, they do not matter to us.”

“But maman,” Minette protested, eyes welling. “They said that I cannot be trusted. That I am not welcome to play in their tea parties or to play in their games.”

“Mon fille, écoute moi.” Minette heard the woman’s voice growing more serious, and she pulled her face from her mother to hold the woman’s
(steady, piercing)
Gaze.

“We are veelas. We do not need ze other women. We are fine on our own.”

Minette looked at her mother dolefully, eyes wide like a wounded deer. Other girls had friends, played with other children. Minette was an outsider,
(gliding through the parks, moving with ease and grace unbefitting her youth)
attracting the attention of the boys and the uneasy looks of the girls.

Veela. Her mother trained her social manners, in propriety and grace, in fluidity of movement and the twisting of hips and the straightness of neck and spine and shoulders.

It would be easier when she got older, Minette was told, to make use of her natural predisposition. To find a place in the world. To turn isolation into an air of mystery, to turn heads when she wanted, to have the world served to her on a platter.

Minette wasn’t so sure, though.
----
seize ans

Fluidity indeed. A walk light like a crane fly on water.

Cairbre Ó Conaill seemed to know that she was trouble.

But his gravitation felt different than the other boys who fell to her pull. She’d return to Beauxbatons by summer’s end and leave him behind in London like everyone else
(boys writing love letters, pining, while she took choir and sonomancy and perfected her vocal intonation with careful attention)
and eventually he would forget about her too.

Wouldn’t he?
___
vingt et un ans

Her hand felt like as a feather in her father’s gentle grasp; he had always held her like a bird, hollow-boned and delicate. Worried about when she would take flight.

Even though he knew she was capable,
(the world seemed to be at her command after all, as maman had said; a gesture of the finger, a raise of the lips, and it was hers even if she was often alone)
he still saw her as his petite chou, eternally childlike.

But today was the day he released her to the arms of Cairbre Ó Conaill, freeing her like a dove.

“Are you ready, my doll?” Papa asked, British accent contrasting with maman’s French.

A diamond on her finger. The white dress draping over her delicate frame.

“Yes, papa.”

Cairbre had known she was trouble from the onset, but he hadn’t relented. Years of letters, of summers
(slipping into lakes and traipsing through forest paths and watching the stars shift overhead)
had only steeled his resolve.

Minette felt fully human in his arms, the traces of veela that had kept her so lonely through childhood no longer in evidence when they were together.

“Your mother and you are my greatest treasures,” Papa smiled.

There was an order there. Maman first
(in all things)
and Minette second
(always second).

___
trente ans

Two years had passed since Cairbre was rent from the world.

Cursebreaking was dangerous business.

The sun of Cairo hadn’t touched Minette’s skin
(fair, like near-translucent porcelain covered under the shade of a large-brimmed hat covering hair transfigured to be dark or umbrella whenever she travelled out)
but the dry heat still felt pleasant in the place they had once called home together.

Her work as a chanteuse had continued even after Cairbre had gone. Being in familiar territory helped her pass the time.

And Mirelle had become a steadfast companion. More than that,
(a shared bed, a confident, a cooker of breakfasts and a baker of breads)
but like all things, it was not fated to last.

Mirelle would return to France, to return the artifacts she had retrieved and to embark on her next expedition. But Mirelle was the first woman to be pulled in by her allure.

She was worth holding onto for now
(but the woman would leave; it was the forties, and nothing was forever anyways).
____
trente cinq

The streets of London were cold and damp, and Minette rolled through them like a leaf carried by the breeze
(tumbling through the streets, never staying in one spot for long before leaping forward to the next and enjoying the freedom of being loosed from the branches)
in search of work as a singer in the city.

Home again in London.

After all these long years.

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

Option Two -
The snow had been falling steadily all morning and it didn't look like it was going to stop any time soon. Joshua Campbell scrunched his face up in a frown as he lifted his gaze to look to the sky. Snow. It really was quite a bother.

And it certainly didn't make it better that Diagon Alley seemed to be getting more and more crowded. Joshua sighed and pointed his wand at the large box that was currently placed on the doorstep of his shop. He had to get going. He had an order to deliver.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" The elderly man muttered and watched the box hover in the air for a moment. Honestly, did St. Mungo's really need that much tinsel? And with glitter of all things? He sighed again. If it hadn't been for the rather convincing stamp on the order, he would have been likely to believe it had been a prank by one of those orphaned rascals living up there. 

Oh well, there was no point in waiting. Joshua deftly stirred the box down the doorstep and out onto the street, carefully levitating it above the heads of the crowd.

"Coming through! Coming through!" His voice sounded over the chatter of the crowd. "Keep out! Move ahead! Go on!" This was going way too slow. People were in the way and walking like they had all day! He huffed. Luckily the road was down hill.

"Coming through! Coming th--- arrrgh!" Joshua let out a loud shout as his feet suddenly slipped in the snow and sent him, the box, and several long strands of tinsel tumbling into the person who had been walking in front of him.

"For Merlin's sake!" Joshua muttered angrily as he hurried to his feet again, red and gold tinsel now decorating his black coat. "I am so sorry! This blasted snow!" He looked apologetic at the person he had crashed into.

Roleplay Response:
The snow fell, drifting lazily to the ground in a decadent display of nature’s ability to create something at once both beautiful and cold.

Minette glided down the street on light feet, movements smooth and practiced
(a skater on ice, who knew what it meant to be at once exquisite and arctic)
with her dark hair billowing behind her.

Her mind danced with possibilities. A first winter back in London after years in Egypt. Snow melting on her fair skin
(moonlight, dew drops, milky smooth satin)
felt like rain in the desert, quenching.

Before she could give winter and its glories much more thought, though, she felt the sensation of something tumbling into her, of light bits of metal and and sparkles draping themselves around her form.

Stepping lightly to keep from being jostled,
(not even a recovery, but a swift and deftly timed movement that came across and intentional, a rebalancing of foot and core and spine)
Minette laughed with a sound like chimes as the tinsel fell about her. She felt illuminated.

“Ce n'est pas un problème, Monsieur,” Minette responded to the man’s concern, looking up at him with wide eyes. She angled her head slightly, tilting her chin forward as a smile pulled her slightly parted lips upward.

“Are you alright? The snow can be quite troublesome,” she asked, French accent delicate and lace-like through her words. “Here, let me help you collect your things.”


OTHER
How did you find us? A friend of a friend

(special request for half-veela approved)

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