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Topics - Hero Savage

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Archived Applications / H.C.C. Savage
« on: 08/09/2012 at 10:30 »

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Hero Cassandra Concordia Savage.
Gender: Female.
Age: 18.

Education: 
Private tutelage - 10 to 13 years
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - 14 to 18 years


Residence:
22 Holland Rd, Kensington

Applying to be: (select one)
Junior Healer

Department of choice: (select one, descriptions here)
Spell Damage

Why did you request that particular department?

To whom it may concern,
There were few days where I disliked my volunteer work at the school Hospital Wing as I find business a comfort and have always enjoyed the interaction with my peers. However, I must admit that business is one thing and extreme stress another. Even though only a student, I was witness to several rather nasty quidditch accidents, one particularly vulgar curse and at one stage a werewolf attack. I must admit it has rather turned me off anything too heavy duty, thus I request that my training focus within an area other than Emergencies & Maladies.

In the point of interest however, I will note that I am particularly drawn to the area of Spell Damage. I find longer-term relationships with patients to be a most satisfying aspect of the Healing profession and this is, of course, particular to this area. The hours are good I also maintain a keen interest in the process of rehabilitation. Finally, I suppose it must be mentioned that I know the place quite well. My great aunt, you see, was a permanent resident.

(Hi Maud.)

You will find enclosed my resume and an official copy of my N.E.W.T scores. I can be contacted by owl any time of the year and am available to start immediately.

Sincerely,

Requested Magic Levels:
  • Charms: 13. (I am rather skilled at charmwork...)
  • Transfiguration: 8. (And have decent grades...)
  • Divination: 6. (There are things to improve on...)
  • Summoning: 7. (But I believe I would be a valuable asset...)

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Elspeth Battersea. P. Amelia Dwyre.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)


July 5th, 19--
Finally, she is done.

The pen is placed down and the large brown envelope picked up, brisk fingers searching and finding easily the sticky folds. The feeling is akin to sending off a present, though the result will be far less fun and a great deal more work. Nevertheless, it is a wealth of paper - full of words, promises and confidence. She, at least, feels triumphant.

"What are you doing?"

The voice comes sleepy, muffled beneath the sheets and pillows of her bed. She does not turn, but smiles at the scene.

"Applying for work."

The seal tastes of salt and for a brief moment she lingers, fingers clasping the sticky rim, unsure. There are no missing pieces as her checklist is all ticked, and that was not only double-checked, but triple-checked and quadruple-checked again. The parcel has been bound securely with a single black, bulldog clip so nothing is loose either. It is the finality rather, of this very adult thing she must do. This culmination which has been planned for so long, worked towards with sleepless nights and a life's supply of black coffee, two sugars. All of which seemed a dream.

But she wasn't meant to be an adult, not yet. 


July 10th, 19—
It is the last of summer. They sit, three of them, on the lawns of Hyde Park. Her father looks older than she remembers him. Lines crease between his bushy, blonde eyebrows. They are deep and dark. His eyes too, seem old. The creases are not for laughter but due to squinting, as he is now, the sun seemingly too strong. Yet he is used to the light, for the skin is brown and at the cheeks is littered with white bleached spots. The silver hair only makes he contrast seen greater. He is not perturbed by the brightness, clearly. Just eternally confused.

She turns to her brother.

"Muscat?"

He has returned to them from some distant land. It was supposedly for responsibility, yet given that her father had neglected any responsibility placed with him for the last decade, Hero suspects that either boredom or simple lack of anything else to do had drawn him. His work has always come in fast, furious, unpredictable spats. Even through their childhood, her father leapt from one interest to the next, never content with one animal but enamoured by hundreds. At the time it had taken both Hero and Lysander to the far corners of the globe, casting with them a series of memories, those that now felt like storybook pictures (what else could they be, as each of them now sat surrounded by the shock green foliage of England's best).

"And what will you be doing with the rest of your summer?"

The question comes a surprise and Hero's head snaps up, her eyes widening at the sight of Herman Savage staring at them both, blue eyes inquisitive, head perched. She turns to her brother, grape still pitched between her fingers, but he is no help. His own mouth hangs open. Silent moments pass before she speaks, words cautious.

"Well… I'm applying for the Ministry, Father. To the hospital."

She waits, hand in the lap of her dress. Herman and conversational initiative were as rare as purple hares.

"Ah," he sniffs before his gaze wonders to the sky and he begins to squint once again. "Yes, well, jolly good. Jolly good. Then back to school in September."

Somewhere behind her, Lysander laughs.




July 30th, 19—
Hero remembers one of the first times she entered St. Mungo’s. They were six years old and staying in London for a few months before Iceland. A friend of Mother had been near gored to death by a chimera and was in rehabilitation. It had been a frightening place then. The stench of chemicals had made her giddy and the clinical, white washed walls and polished linoleum felt eerie. Lysander had grown bored and started chasing her through the hallways, shortly before a rather gruff looking nurse cuffed him on the ear and told him, quite traditionally, that this “was no place for children.” Hero had hated it then.

She had hated a great many things as a child.

“ An’ the cafeteria is Ground Floor, mind-“

The younger witch pauses, as if contemplating.

“I reckon’ you’ll probably wanna’ head out, yeh? I can show you anyway, if you want.”

Hero herself hesitates, wondering if it would be a good time to tell the girl that she knows perfectly well where everything is. Yet the opportunity is swallowed by her fellow’s impatience.

“Ah, you’ll be able to find it good enough.”

They come to big double doors, white with a large blue stripe sitting behind the bars that open them.

“This is where we keep the short termers.”

They plod out into the open space. Beds line the walls. Nurses and Healers bustle. To the left a man is sitting up, large ears drooping down to his shoulders. His legs swing, childlike, and as they pass he blows a large bubble of bright violet gum.

“Course, it’s really just common sense. Keep a hold of your wand at all times, as in, don’t go leaving it in your pockets for someone to pinch. Sharp objects aren’t a good ideas – all tools are in their special place but they’ll show you that later. Don’t come wearing heels. You feet will fall off. Strong perfumes aren’t great-“

They walk quickly, and their shoes slap noisily against the floor.

“Long terms is through here. They get a bit more privacy, depending on who they are o’course.”

Another set of doors, these ones Hero knows particularly well though she has mostly seen them from the other side. Through they go, without hesitation. Her guide seems eager to get it done with.

“Names are on the front but don’t trust ‘em. We never change ‘em.”

The corridor here is darker and much more private. The colour of the walls has changed from bright white to a light tan. Doors with glass windows appear at five-foot intervals. Some are propped open, others open. Hero follows, not bothering to look. She has no need. Mrs Potts in room 7, sharing with Miss Drooble. Mr Pierce and Mr Otterwock in Room 9. Room 11 empty, Amelia Spedley passed away last week. She had determined back in 1926 that she should have her own quarters. Room 13, 15. Most faces familiar, most names engraved into her memory, running like a rhyme. Room 18, 19. Of course it changed often enough. People died or got taken home. Few of these cases were cleared up, but it was generally accepted that if you weren’t fixed after a month there was really no chance anyway. Room 23, 25.

Room 26.

They pass it without stopping and Hero makes no move to pause. She knows that room best of all. Two beds, each with a chair. One upholstered in that horribly scratchy brown-grey covering, the other in navy blue. They would be swapped around intermittently as the brown was infinitely more comfortable. White ceiling, light blue walls, flaking where Sticking Charms have removed the paint.  Relatives will bring pictures and odd little objects from home, placing them on the white cabinets that sat either side of the bed. A window, small yet sunken, looked onto the city below.

Over twelve months had passed since Agatha Lancaster was moved to the Psychology Ward. It had been well overdue. Her mind had been in a state of deterioration for years before it. The physical effects were all gone, minus a dark purple patch running from her right cheekbone down the length of her jaw. Spell Damage couldn’t do much more.

“Want me to show you the store cupboard?”

The girl has stopped, and is eyeing her curiously.

“What?”

“The store cupboard. You want to see it.”

Hero sighs.

“No, not really.”

“Good.”

They plod on.


Roleplay:
Reply as your character to the following:

"Coming through!"

The double doors burst open as the newly-minted Junior Healer shoved through, dodging the milling patients and staff and leaving behind a trail of parchment. The doors stayed open just long enough to allow a glimpse of the scene beyond - a riot of noise, colours and gesticulating arms - before closing again.

It was Archibald Forrester's first day on the job, and while his professors had warned him it could get hectic at St. Mungo's, he'd never imagined it'd be quite like this. Arms transfigured and somehow regrafted onto someone's head, an Auror coughing up rainbows after a dust-up with a gang of young hooligans in Knockturn, and oh - that patient up on the fourth floor that was running around telling people he was Merlin reborn. And that was just the cases that had come in in the last hour.

It had to be time for his shift to be over, right?

He gave up the lost bits of parchment as a lost cause and cast a frantic Tempus. One minute. Heaving a sigh of relief,  his eyes instantly began darting around to find a convenient on-duty person to hand his load over to. Shoes - bought at the nice medical suppliers and outfitters just down the street - squeaked on the floor as he weaved and skidded around corners, before finally stopping in front of the first figure he found.

"Here. Here are all the charts - the arms for the Transfig patient seem to be morphing into tentacles, and Healer Wilberforce says we need to operate now but needs a second opinion - the Auror's squad captain is outside demanding to know what's been keeping the treatment and uh - "

A few floors up, muffled thumping and howling could barely be heard, but Archie winced anyway.

"Right. Mr. Merlin's somehow gotten hold of a wand and now the entire psych wing believes in him too - for the love of all that's magical, take this, please!"

Roleplay Response:
All she had wanted was hot chocolate Four hours in and two to go before dinner. The banana and measly marmite sandwich had been consumed almost on arrival and there was no time to find the canteen.

“Emergency always have stuff. Check there.”

Her supervisor was right. The large jar of chocolate powder was obvious, not to mention the three slices of left over carrot cake. There was no note but Hero had no guilt taking one. She had scoffed it walking back, her flask warming the crook of her arm.

She only just managed to keep from dropping it. Spots of brown liquid leapt from the lid to the paper.

“Wait, what?”

Hero wiped her mouth hurriedly, vaguely aware of crumbs at the sides of her mouth, yet more so wasting time as she looked desperately for someone else to step in. This was not her area. This was not her job. Her badge clearly said her name and below that ‘Spell Damage’. Too late however, Hero realised this identifier has vanished under the clipboards she now juggled in her hands.

“I don’t work here!”

The words came out fumbling and, perhaps in minor desperation, Hero tried to pass the cargo back.

“This isn’t my area.”

She was too indelicate. The charts, far too large in size and far too much in quantity, were quickly becoming crushed amongst the milieu of wooden boards and Hero’s flailing arms. She did not see the drooping of her cup until it was too late. The sipping hole, though small, let forth a stream of piping hot chocolate, covering several pages and a diagram in a thick, brown milky line.

“Oh shi-“

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Suggestions & Questions / Character Classifieds
« on: 07/03/2012 at 10:59 »
Hi beautiful people,
is it possible to get a Character Classifieds subforum that members can post in? That way new peoples can maybe pick up on them?


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