E L S E W H E R E A D U L T
CHARACTER INFORMATIONCharacter Name: Fionn T. RiordanGender: MaleAge: 30Blood Status: HalfbloodEducation: - Taught magic by his family from 11.
- Dropped out of Muggle education by 15.
- Further taught tricks of the magical trade by his father's associates.Residence:Camden, LondonOccupation:Tattooist & BootleggerDo 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:Adult characters have 32 starting levels to distribute across these four categories (less levels can be used if you so desire, but no more than 32). The number of levels on the lowest ability must be at least half of the highest ability.
If you want levels above the usual 32 total, or a significantly uneven distribution of starting levels, please fill out and submit the Special Request form here. - Charms: 10
- Divination: 8
- Transfiguration: 13
- Summoning: 8
Levels Request has been PM'd to Calypso Ross.Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason? Nope.Please list any other characters you already have at the site:Pandora Duke et al.Biography: (300 words minimum.)POLICE EVIDENCE
CASE NUMBER: 8405 SUSPECT NAME: Fionn T. Riordan
EXHIBIT 3. Carved Wooden Baton (?) Unknown Origin. 1939.
Fionn shouldn't have been up this late, but it was warm --
too warm.
He could never quite fathom how his dingy little house on the edge of the city didn't have more of a draft. Even in Ireland's coldest months or when business wasn't going so well -- whatever business that was -- the fire never fizzled, never even dimmed. They only ever had a wee bit of firewood in the bag too, but even that never seemed to run out.
The young boy tiptoed down the stairs, wincing when he put his weight down onto a plank that creaked. The living room glowed on, the fire lit like it always was, and he could hear his Da muttering to himself in an unknown language.
Eventually, Fionn came to the living room door. He peered around it, his brows knitting together in curiosity as he realised he couldn't understand a single word his Da was saying.
"That's not Gaelic."
The man froze. The fire faltered. It was just for a moment but Fionn had seen it. He knew his Da had a temper but Christ, huffing and puffing a fire out was a bit much.
"What nonsense ye on about boy?" The man turned on his knees and Fionn saw that he had a strange little twig in his hand,
"Not Gaelic -- pff -- what is it then? Gobledegook?"Fionn didn't know what that was either, but he understood the sentiment. He'd pushed his luck enough and so he forced a smile and said good night.
EXHIBIT 12. Mugshot of F. Riordan (Aged 15). Arrested for Underground Fighting.
There was one round to go, and Fionn was down bad.
No one was more shocked and angry than he was, especially considering the size of his opponent who was a gargantuan boy from Kildare. There was more chance of Fionn sprouting wings than knocking this guy out cold and yet for some reason Da had still put his name forward.
It couldn't possibly be a matter of faith. Fionn was good, won almost every fight, but they were not good enough people to be granted miracles.
Though stocky, Fionn was quick on his feet. He dodged and danced around the lump before him and hoped tiring him out would give him some sort of advantage. He could hear Naoise cackling away and with a quick glance he saw that his Da was approaching.
Fionn's lips quirked up into a smirk. He wiped the blood from his nose. In that moment he would bet his last penny that his Da had that silly little twig in his hand -- the same one he only found out was a wand a few years ago.
(Apparently fighting illegally wasn’t enough -- they had to fight dirty too.)
Another duck beneath gloved fists and then it happened. His opponent stopped dead in his tracks, hands coming to his sides and waving like a desperate baby bird, but he couldn't stop him from stumbling forward onto his face. His legs had been locked, but most importantly, Fionn had been given the opportunity to
swing. EXHIBIT 25. Tattoo Gun with Bloody Thumb Print. Right Hand. 1940.
“Not too much pressure, lad.”Fionn was sat on a dingy little stool in a poorly lit garage, tattoo gun in one hand and a tissue in the other. He worked slowly but carefully, outlining their emblem on a new recruit’s bicep with his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. His uncle watched on, arms crossed over his chest and ready to step in if need be.
"Aye, just like that. Too deep and the ink will blow out." It’d only been 6 months but he took to the gun like a nun to prayer. He never expected to get on with it, never thought he’d have the patience let alone the skill, but there he was -- the newest and only apprentice of their motorcycle club.
He couldn’t explain it. He found peace in the violent vibrations, enjoyed watching the art slowly come to life beneath his fingers. He’d never been good at much when it came to talent (fighting and evading arrest hardly counted) but this? This he could do. He often wondered if he really could bring tattoos to life, but it was hard to practice magic when you weren’t meant to tell anyone about it.
Maybe Da would let him have a go. He had plenty of ink to tinker with.
“How’s that, boss?”
“Gonna put me out of work at this rate.”“I can only hope, eh?”
EXHIBIT 32. Letter Addressed to O. Hadley. Dated 1956.
A part of Fionn always knew it would come to this.
It pained him to say goodbye to his home, but he had no choice. They had no choice. The power grabs were getting too much within the club and people were turning on each other. It was one bad deal after another and he was not going to risk his freedom by picking up the pieces of this Godforsaken place.
Whether it was illegal arms or illegal wand cores, the next time he got busted would put him behind bars for longer than he cared for.
God, of course he knew it would come to this, but
England?The evening Naoise told him he was leaving, Fionn had responded by asking him how long he had to pack up too. They were brothers, not by blood but by
choice and to him was stronger than any bond bound by blood. Still, when Naoise said he was looking to go to England he’d thought it was a joke.
"England?!" He barked, "We could be in France with fancy cheese in one hand and a fancy girl in the other and you want to go to the Devil's land?"
Unfortunately, there was a method to Naoise's madness. England, despite being right next door, was the last place anyone would think to look for them.
Besides, his girl was gone and they already had contacts in London.
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:“Sir, please! It’s for the Prophet, how do you feel-“Fionn immediately brought his hand up to his face, trying to hide his features in case the reporter had a camera. The last thing he bloody needed was to have his photograph in the paper. No one back home knew where he was and that was how it was going to stay, so he shoved past the redhead without offering up as much as an
excuse me.
Sure, he was raised Catholic, but he was hardly a saint.
When he was sure she wouldn't try to bother him some more, he cut off from the main crowd and lingered under a nearby shop-front to wait for Naoise. He wasn't sure what his brother wanted, just gave him a time and a place, but he wasn't particularly bothered either. If Naoise needed him, Fionn would show up no questions asked.
“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!”
Christ, was she still at it? He glanced upwards towards the yelling to see the reporter on the ground in the distance. His brows knitted together in concern but he didn't move, didn't consider to offer his help even though it was the right thing to do.
Instead, Fionn looked away and lit a cigarette, debating what to complain about to irritate Naoise once he got his arse in gear and actually showed up.
OTHER
How did you find us? Returning Player.
