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Archived Applications / James Cook | Domestic/Politics
« on: 17/08/2012 at 12:27 »

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: James Moriarty Cook.
Gender: Male.
Age: 26.

Education: 
Hogwarts (Ravenclaw, 1959-1965)

Residence:
A dingy little flat in Southwark, London

Applying to be: (select one, see here)
Columnist
Photographer if there aren’t any more spaces/you need photographers


*OOC access to graphics editing programs (e.g. GIMP, Photoshop, Microsoft Paint) and some graphics editing knowledge highly recommended.
**If Bureau Chief, fill out the section at the very bottom at the application. Please also note that these applications will take longer to process.


Department of choice: (select one)
Domestic/Politics

Why did you request that particular department?
James has always been fascinated by politics, leading to his awkward and failed attempt to sneak around the Order during the party that they threw last year. While he doesn’t like to talk to people and interview them, because he’ll make a fool of himself, his bumbling methods have often seem more guarded people dropping their guards and giving him information that they wouldn’t have given others. He also hates fashion and fails miserably at sports, so there really isn’t anything else for him to do.

Requested Magic Levels: (see here on how to do this)
  • Charms: 11i]
  • Transfiguration: 9.
  • Divination: 5.
  • Summoning: 7.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Scott Cooper, Maverick Steele, etc.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
They say that the Irish are lucky.

James Cook is painfully aware of the fact that this is not true – and if it is, it certainly does not apply to him.

It’s a cold autumn day when Dermott Cook gets married to Briana O’Grady on a nice sandy beach in Italy. Both are twenty two years old, young, and completely in love. Both, not that it matters, are Irish. (How do you think they got lucky enough to get married in Italy?)

It’s decided that London is the place to be right now, so it’s off to London they go, with a strict ban of any singing of the song ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, a ban which at certain points are flouted.

The luck of the Irish allows Dermott to get a job as a banker with a prominent British bank. It’s the luck of the Irish that Briana has a cousin renting a house at a ridiculously cheap price and will give it to her for less. . It’s also the luck of the Irish that Briana gets pregnant just a week after they start trying.

It is not of any type of luck, however, that gives the baby a name – rather it is an unfortunate surname on the father’s part and an unfortunate penchant for Australia on his mother’s. And since it is likely that she will never convince Dermott to move to Down Under, Briana convinces him instead to name their son after its ‘founder’. Dermott, not particularly having liked history, is not aware of the significance and therefore agrees.

(For good measure they throw in Moriarty as a middle name, so that young if James is not marked for being eaten by cannibals, he can always be marked for perpetually losing to Sherlock Holmes.)

If Murphy’s Law was written for a person, it would be written for James M. Cook. On the first day of school, for example, Jim’s English teacher decides that a passage on Captain Cook will do nicely for reading, and Jim is invited to do it. Most part of his school life consists hereafter of listening to questions about ‘how are the kangaroos’ or ‘gone sailing anywhere lately’.

Or take the day where mathematics saw it prudent to discuss addition in terms of Sherlock and Moriarty. “Sir,” says Dave Parker, “What’s Moriarty’s first name?” upon hearing the answer, Dave shakes his head at Jim. “Your parents never gave you a chance, did they?”

The next day, ‘Elementary, my dear Watson’ is added to the list.

Bad luck follows Jim like a plague, everywhere he goes. It gets him leg broken as soon as it’s healed again. (It turns out that banana peels to get slipped on in real life.) It dictates that he should have no friends for fear of getting themselves into trouble, as he seems very prone to doing so. It calls him a jinx and an outcast.

But it is not bad luck that lands him in the principal’s office for the explosion of 100 bowls of gruel in the kitchen. Nor is it why he is nearly expelled for a causing a boy to spew slugs. A nice man explains to the family that Jim is in fact a wizard.

The young parents are extremely excited, and pack Jim off to his first year at Hogwarts full of hopes and expectations of card tricks and rabbits from hats. The moment it touches his head the Sorting Hat screams ‘Ravenclaw’ and Jim is quite disturbed at belonging to a house named after a bird’s foot.

After seven years of education where ‘James Cook’ ends up only noteworthy as a top student, nothing more, Jim graduates with decent scores, excelling in DADA and History of Magic. He is a bright young man, and everyone expects him to get a job in the Ministry. Strangely enough, he deems it fit to bury himself in Muggle books for a good few years, getting a PhD from Oxford in, of all things, history.

Seven years have passed when he returns to wizarding England at last. There’s nothing for him to do but to stumble across a writing desk and a pot of ink. "This is what I want to do," he says decisively, and falls flat on his face across the threshold.

They say that the Irish are lucky.

James Cook is an exception.


Roleplay:
Reply as your character to the following:
Jim hated Mondays.

He had always hated Mondays, really; that cursed beginning of the week, that day where it still should have been the weekend and yet there was work to be done - deadlines to be made - stupid lunch meetings to attend.  Even when ‘lunch meetings’ had been just plain lunch; ‘work’, homework, he had despised the start of classes and - all at once - the next five un-fun days before the weekend started up again.

Now, cloudy October morning, Jim hated Mondays more than ever.

His desk filled with the wide-open arms of the Sunday Prophet, he scribbled furiously over sections with a bright red ink.

All the new graduates with their impeccable NEWTs and superb teacher recommendations had come in last month, only too eager to start preaching the truth - their truth - to the whole of Wizarding Britain.

Jim’s train of thought was bitter, but he smiled wanly, for he had once been one of those recruits themselves.

Most of their dreams should have been been smashed in the first week, from the first time people like Jim had told them to fetch the group some coffee. Day after day, hour after hour, that was what they now said to their youngest colleagues, as their older counterparts had told him years before: At some point everyone has to fetch us our drinks.

Almost every year, the new recruits sat down and took it - and fetched the group some coffee - and maybe it was just the age or the nostalgia, but Jim was fairly certain that they deserved it all.

They did not deserve to publish half-coherent drafts with way too many adverbs and completely unmodulated opinions.

Jim threw down the quill in disgust, ink splattering onto his button-down shirt as though it were blood.

Smartly, he piled up bits of paper, and then, still angry, face marred by an unhappy Monday, deposited the pile in front of his door before reaching out to grab at the first person he saw.

What happened to this paper?”

Roleplay Response:
Weather: I’m inside a bloody building with no bloody windows
Time: I’m inside a bloody building with no bloody clock
Observations: I hate buildings.


James Cook really should have enjoyed his work more.

Writing, after all, was something that he was passionate about (he thought so, anyway) and he was pretty darned good at it. It stood to reason that if one had zero social aptitude and common sense, then one must at least be good at something, and Jim’s something was writing. But writing did not help one in getting a decent apartment that didn’t rattle every time the bloody train passed by, writing did not help one in earning enough money to eat lunch at a posh restaurant once in a while, and writing certainly did not help one get around in the right social circles.

Although the last one was probably due to Jim’s woeful inadequacies in the social circles. Jim was pretty sure that until he had come along, history had never seen a man who was capable of spilling a glass of wine over a hot girl, slapping her while trying to mop it up, tripping over the banquet table and pulling all the food onto the floor in the process. Now that had been an experience to suppress. Unfortunately, Jim wasn’t very good at suppressing memories.

The worst thing about today was that it was Monday, which meant another meaningless slog through a meaningless week of a meaningless life. Jim mumbled incoherent things to himself as he shuffled the papers on his desk in an attempt to look like he was doing something important. Important people always shuffled papers, even though there was really no point in shuffling papers: all you were really doing was mixing them up when they had been perfectly fine in the first place.

Still, it looked like was doing something important. And doing something important was important when you had a boss like the cynical one he had. Whose name was also Jim.

Jim got confused sometimes.

What happened to this paper?”

A hand had grabbed the scruff of his collar out of nowhere and Jim gave a feeble yelp as he was yanked out of his chair, the lovingly unarranged papers now scattered in complete disarray on his desk. He turned around to see his boss staring down at him with wild eyes, his shirt splattered with what seemed suspiciously like blood but what Jim knew was probably something uninteresting like red ink.

What was one supposed to say at a question like that? A man with sufficient courage or smart-alec-ness would have said ‘you happened’, and probably be rewarded with an encouraging grin of grudging respect. Jim, however, was not courageous, and he was certainly not smart. He was just a normal…Alec.

“Um…” think, you dunderhead.

“I don’t know. Is anything wrong with the paper? I think it’s perfectly fine the way it is, you know. Maybe we should get some more windows in this office. Or clocks.”

You call that thinking?

Jim didn’t think so.


OTHER
How did you find us?
Google?


2
Elsewhere Accepted / James Cook
« on: 24/01/2012 at 10:28 »

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: James Moriarty Cooki]
Gender: Male
Age: 25.

Education: 
Hogwarts: Ravenclaw class of ‘64.
Oxford University: Doctor of Philosophy (history)


Residence:
A dingy apartment in South London.

Occupation:
Freelance writer, writes for the Daily Prophet. Does anything for money.

Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (example St Mungo's, the Ministry, Shrieking Shack) or to take over an existing shop in need of new management?
No.

Requested Magic Levels:
  • Charms: 11.
  • Transfiguration: 9.
  • Divination: 5.
  • Summoning: 7.
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:
Scott Cooper, Maverick Steele, Drew Dillinger.

Special Phrase:
Tibbles’ Beard of Power.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

They say that the Irish are lucky.

James Cook is painfully aware of the fact that this is not true – and if it is, it certainly does not apply to him.

It’s a cold autumn day when Dermott Cook gets married to Briana O’Grady on a nice sandy beach in Italy. Both are twenty two years old, young, and completely in love. Both, not that it matters, are Irish. (How do you think they got lucky enough to get married in Italy?)

It’s decided that London is the place to be right now, so it’s off to London they go, with a strict ban of any singing of the song ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, a ban which at certain points are flouted.

The luck of the Irish allows Dermott to get a job as a banker with a prominent British bank. It’s the luck of the Irish that Briana has a cousin renting a house at a ridiculously cheap price and will give it to her for less. . It’s also the luck of the Irish that Briana gets pregnant just a week after they start trying.

It is not of any type of luck, however, that gives the baby a name – rather it is an unfortunate surname on the father’s part and an unfortunate penchant for Australia on his mother’s. And since it is likely that she will never convince Dermott to move to Down Under, Briana convinces him instead to name their son after its ‘founder’. Dermott, not particularly having liked history, is not aware of the significance and therefore agrees.

(For good measure they throw in Moriarty as a middle name, so that young if James is not marked for being eaten by cannibals, he can always be marked for perpetually losing to Sherlock Holmes.)

If Murphy’s Law was written for a person, it would be written for James M. Cook. On the first day of school, for example, Jim’s English teacher decides that a passage on Captain Cook will do nicely for reading, and Jim is invited to do it. Most part of his school life consists hereafter of listening to questions about ‘how are the kangaroos’ or ‘gone sailing anywhere lately’.

Or take the day where mathematics saw it prudent to discuss addition in terms of Sherlock and Moriarty. “Sir,” says Dave Parker, “What’s Moriarty’s first name?” upon hearing the answer, Dave shakes his head at Jim. “Your parents never gave you a chance, did they?”

The next day, ‘Elementary, my dear Watson’ is added to the list.

Bad luck follows Jim like a plague, everywhere he goes. It gets him leg broken as soon as it’s healed again. (It turns out that banana peels to get slipped on in real life.) It dictates that he should have no friends for fear of getting themselves into trouble, as he seems very prone to doing so. It calls him a jinx and an outcast.

But it is not bad luck that lands him in the principal’s office for the explosion of 100 bowls of gruel in the kitchen. Nor is it why he is nearly expelled for a causing a boy to spew slugs. A nice man explains to the family that Jim is in fact a wizard.

The young parents are extremely excited, and pack Jim off to his first year at Hogwarts full of hopes and expectations of card tricks and rabbits from hats. The moment it touches his head the Sorting Hat screams ‘Ravenclaw’ and Jim is quite disturbed at belonging to a house named after a bird’s foot.

After seven years of education where ‘James Cook’ ends up only noteworthy as a top student, nothing more, Jim graduates with decent scores, excelling in DADA and History of Magic. He is a bright young man, and everyone expects him to get a job in the Ministry. Strangely enough, he deems it fit to bury himself in Muggle books for a good few years, getting a PhD from Oxford in, of all things, history.

It’s 1971 when he returns to wizarding England at last. There’s nothing for him to do but to stumble across a decrepit bar with no barman. “This is what I want to do,” James Cook says to himself in a startling moment of decisiveness, and walks into the pub, only to trip over a drunkard and smash his nose.

They say that the Irish are lucky.

James Cook is an exception.

ROLEPLAY
Reply as your character to the following:

It was impossible for Dianne to stay out of trouble. It wasn't that she was looking for trouble, it's just that trouble always managed to find her. Today she wished she could find something equally familiar but more comforting.

The five-year old girl hugged her puffskein closer to her and brushed her face in its soft fur for comfort. She had named him herself and he was always her special pet. No she was certain she had never gone down this side street before. Her anxiety increased every second as darkness fell as she walked down the road. A loud noise came to her left and she buried her face in her pet's fur completely. The scared girl bolted the opposite way slamming the both of them into the wall of the nearest building. Tottering back a few steps she found a door a few feet to her right and ran to open it. What light there was inside spilled out into the darkness and she spilled into the room.

Once in, she was caught between the impulse to curl her cloak up more tightly around her and loosen her grip on it. She wasn't alone anymore but she was now among strangers instead, which was nearly as terrifying. Her puffskein had recovered from the shock of the wall and now was purring contentedly as the girl hugged it, causing a mildly calming effect on the girl. Gathering her courage, she marched up to the nearest person, pulled on the nearest clothing hem and blurted out in a loud voice:

"I'm lost and it's dark and I wanted to know where I am but I'm not scared but I am worried that Sambundeakin is scared because he's little and needs something to eat and wants to go home."

She paused to draw a breath in her nearly never-ending sentence, "He misses my and his mommy."

To explain the scared girl held up the custard-colored puffskein. Sambundeakin the puffskein, however simply purred as if nothing on earth was wrong in the world.

Roleplay Response:

Weather: Dark
Time: Evening
Observations: More people than I could really have cared for


James Cook had never been one for crowds. Crowds, after all, had been the main element of what a nasty children’s playground was supposed to be. And nasty childrens’ playgrounds were the only things that Jim was afraid of.

Well, that and apples. And sharp pencil lead. But really, why was he thinking about this? There was nothing more degrading than being something of a macho barman and having to list out the number of his fears, which were plentiful.

Jim shoved his hands into his pockets and kept his eyes on the ground as he walked back home. Shopping was for strange people who had nothing better to do but to waste their money on things they did not need. And all the money that Jim earned Jim needed, thank you very much. There was absolutely no point in buying a broomstick, or whatever those children enjoyed spending money on.

He was stopped, suddenly, by a tug on his coat.

Appearance: small girl. Five, six years old. Carrying something furry. Safe to talk to.

Jim looked at the new arrival in something akin to suspicion, wondering if this girl was really a ploy to distract him while someone else stuck a hand in his pockets. This, after all, was a very crowded street. And as a rule he refrained from helping someone who probably wouldn’t be able to help him.

Still, he supposed that there was an obligation to help someone younger than you, particularly if they’re around the age where they still can’t speak proper English. And this young girl’s Sambundeakin, whatever it was supposed to be in the first place, did look…interesting.

“Well, I suppose we should get this over as quickly as possible,” Jim muttered to himself, as he was in the habit of doing.

Conversation outline: ask girl where she’s from. Keep up meaningless chatter while taking her home.

“Don’t be worried,” Jim smiled as widely as he could, bending down to the child’s level. “Your…Sam thing isn’t going to be scared any longer. We’ll bring you home, how about that? Where do you live?”


3
Archived Applications / Maverick Steele
« on: 01/12/2011 at 08:13 »
 [/center]

THE BASICS
Name: Maverick Eugene Slater-Steele, sometimes known as Mav
(Note: Maverick doesn’t consider ‘Slater’ as part of his name. It does say so on his birth certificate, however.)

Former Character's Name (if you had one): Scott Cooper


CHARACTER DETAILS
House request:
Slytherin. Maverick is, as you’ll see later, one of those guys who just belong in green and silver. Resourceful, cunning, and manipulative.

Year: 
5th, 6th

Bloodline:
Muggleborn


Magical Strength (pick one):
Charms

Magical Weakness (pick one):
Conjuring and Summoning

Biography:
“Annd hailing from the city of Greensburg, campaigning on the Democratic ticket to success in the Pennsylvania senator elections once more, I give you…Eugene Steele!”

Cue – applause. Multitudes of people in the streets, whooping and cheering, hats being thrown into the air. Cue – one man with a gun and a bullet in Eugene Steele’s head. Cue – panic.

Fourteen years old when that happened.

To be completely honest, I don’t remember a thing of what happened. I don’t know if that’s just me trying to deal with it by blocking the whole image out, or if it’s just me having the memory span of a goldfish. There’s this big gap between my thirteenth birthday and the beginning of the next year, and then – and then my dad’s dead, my mom’s this close to getting herself chucked off the tallest building she can find, and I’ve got a million cameras hunting the whole family down trying to figure out just which school I go to, because my name isn’t on any of the Muggle lists.

You want to know exactly what happened.

All right.

November 22, 1957. Pennsylvania celebrates the birth of Senator Eugene Steele’s firstborn, whom he decides to name Maverick on account of his sometimes controversial decisions. Those decisions, however, have kept him in the seat for ten years and counting, and it’s going to do so for the next fourteen. Mum forced her last name in front of dad’s, and that was the only act I’ve ever disagreed with her on, to be honest.

You could say I grew up in a privileged environment. Comes when your dad’s the way my dad was. Born rich, died rich. He sent me to god-dang etiquette class. Pennsylvania’s finest grade schools. Of course, that was before they found out about what I could do.

I found out when I was five. I found out I could set the fish tank in the class room on fire, when technically no fish tank should be able to be set on fire. The class went crazy. I liked that. I liked the chaos. I liked the screaming.

I started to set more and more things on fire until they hauled me up and dumped me in front of the principal. On account of dad being who he was the old fogey didn’t do much to me, just called my parents in and explained what I’d done. Some guy came down from this place after that. Salem, or something. Offered me a place at the most prestigious magical school when I turned eleven. Thing about my parents is, they just got to hear the word ‘prestigious’ and they’ll sign you in.

Simple as that.

So I went to Salem, and dad supported me just about every way he could. He liked to do that, liked to see his kid be the best at whatever. Didn’t matter if it was a normal sort or if it was magical, as long as I was tops. As long as I was tops, he didn’t care about me. He’d let me do whatever I want.

But studying is boring. Studying gets you nowhere. I liked to learn offensive spells, how to curse people, how to give them boils. That was the funnest bit about Salem.
Life was progressing nicely and slowly, just the way I enjoyed it. One morning during the summer I went down to the basketball court to play some ball. With friends? I don’t have friends. I played with guys four years older than me. I’m that sort.

He said, “Be back by nine.” He didn’t even look up from his election speech. Pretty much the last thing he ever said to me. Once in the forehead, nine twenty three in the morning. A couple hundred witnesses. The guy who did it is either behind bars or next to dad. All’s the same in death.

I was fourteen when he got shot. I know I’ve said it already. Got sick of seeing his face, mom’s face, my face in the papers. It was twenty four seven coverage, and it was terrible. Hounding my mom, crashing the funeral. She tells me about it because I don’t remember anything at all from that period, after he got shot. She says that there were these two guys from some tabloid thing who jumped the fence and ran around the cemetery trying to get photos. She says that there were others nosing around trying to find out where I disappeared for nigh on half a year. Broke into the house and stuff like that.

So she moved us to England, where hardly anyone cares about the senator of Pennsylvania who died almost a year ago. No one cares about this sort of stuff in England. All they care about is God saving the Queen and not missing their tea in the afternoon. It’s boring, but at least no one’s spitting in your face asking you questions you don’t know how to answer.

So here I am. Waiting to start a new life in Hogwarts. Do I care? Not particularly. I just wonder if British children scream the way American ones do.

Did I get bullied in school? You’re asking that so you can find out how I turned out this way. The answer is no. I didn’t get bullied school. I wasn’t the one who had people kicking him while he writhed on the sandy floor trying to cough out the mixture of blood and dust in his mouth.

I was the one who kicked. 

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
Please include these sections if they are not addressed in your biography.

Personality:
Maverick is an anarchist. Pure and simple. Perhaps not in a way that causes real hurt to people, but in a way that causes absolute chaos. Because rules don’t belong in a world like this, so Maverick tears them down and lets people run wild. He feels sometimes as if he’s doing the world justice, bringing anarchy as it rightly should be. He’s got no problem watching chaos from the sidelines, but he’d rather be the one causing it sometimes.

He doesn’t like to show that side of him, though, because he knows (through his father, who taught him that diplomacy solves any problem) that humans don’t like this sort of thing. So he hides it behind a mask of falsehoods and niceties. Maverick isn’t exactly charming, but he’s got this calm, collected veneer to him, such that it looks like he’s mentally extremely stable and there’s nothing wrong with his head. A psychopath, then, who appears to be perfectly normal.

The man who killed his father was one of those future Oswald types, trained in the Marines, bent for some reason on killing Democratic politicians. Maverick still carries that man’s dog tags around. It hasn’t got his name on, but it’s got his serial number: 13271963 printed. It goes everywhere with Mav. If he loses it, there’s going to be some serious cold-blooded fist fighting going on. Some pickpocket in the airport where Mav and his mother were going to London from decided to take it from him. In the course of the two hour waiting time they had, Mav hunted down the man, took back his dog tags, meticulously taped the man to the wall and then pulled out his front two teeth.

To Maverick there is no good or evil. There is simply a need to fend for yourself. Therefore, moral problems and such do not bother him. He will stop at nothing to get his way, which may be seen as a trait of perseverance – until, of course, he hits someone. And there’s no pain that will bother him. Sure, he can feel it, but he’ll just go on without having shown any semblance of having felt it. Like a machine, a mechanical machine that rises up and just keeps hitting you.

He has a very gentle, very pleasant voice; every sentence, no matter its contents, is as if he is talking about the weather. Thanks to his upbringing as one of America’s elite, Maverick speaks perfect English in a rather high-class American accent. His good manners, upright posture and immaculate looks mean that people are lulled into thinking that he’s a nice guy. Yet he is cold, calculating and analytical, seeing the world not in terms of values and people but numbers and figures. His smile is twisted, a sort of sickly grin that can strike fear into even the bravest of men.
Because of who he is, Maverick lacks a sense of guilt, often boasting about what he’s done after he’s done it. No one has ever told him otherwise, other than the usual ‘you are a very bad boy’. He also enjoys lying, and will not hesitate to lie to get what he wants. He only trusts his friends, and therefore has no friends. Probably the scariest part about him is that he doesn’t give a damn. He’s completely indifferent, apathetic, and only works for himself and his interests.

That said, there’s something of a redeeming side to Maverick. His ability to bend the rules makes sure that he’ll never be caught out for outright breaking them, yet never suffer the consequences of following them too much. Because of his indifference he’s brave, willing to fight for something he believes is his to deserve. He isn’t afraid of dying, and he’s something of a veteran in the Fighting Department. Maverick doesn’t believe in sappy romance because it isn’t logical, but deep down inside he knows that there’s a little bit of him that’s all sunshine and true happiness. What’s questionable is who’s going to come along and unlock it.

Also, once you win his trust, he’ll stay loyal. Unwaveringly. Of course, that’s yet to happen. Maverick’s smarter than people give him credit for, too. It’s just that he doesn’t like to show it. Manipulative, resourceful, and with a raw magnetism that make others gravitate toward him only for him to push them away if he doesn’t like them. 

Appearance:
Dark brown, almost black hair, blue eyes. Relatively tall, lithe. Extremely polished. Attempts a little stubble to make himself look more grown up. 

SAMPLE ROLEPLAY
You come across one of these three posts on the site. Please reply to one only as your character would.
*** Remember, you can only roleplay your own character's actions, not James' or Astrid's.


Option II:

“Oh, come now!"

Astrid Bixby’s voice carried down the corridor, the tall blonde girl not far behind. Her interviewee – or victim, depending on perspective – turned a corner and she frowned. They were always soelusive when she needed them. Sure, they would talk as if there was no tomorrow during class, but once she actually needed them to say something, they were nowhere to be found. Gryffindors.

Flustered, Astrid stopped in the middle of the corridor and stared, her parchment hanging limply from her hand. She was a good reporter, really, and she always did her best to make sure that everything she wrote was accurate. She glanced down to the quill, eyeing it with disdain. It wasn’t her fault if her quill misquoted. How was she supposed to know? It made for interesting articles, at least, and if she had misquoted the Head Boy last term as saying he had a love for stuffed animals, then that gave him personality. Astrid sighed.

A pout formed on her lips as she turned away, discouraged. The corridor was mercifully empty, though the doors to The Spellbound – the school newspaper – were ominously closed. Corbridge was a mercifully sweet editor, but Astrid was terrified of disappointing her all the same. She hadto come back with quotes.
Her eyes, blue, trailed her surroundings before choosing a new path, and she turned down a new corridor. A figure was ahead, and her eyes lit up, an impossibly rosy smile blossoming across her lips.

“Hey!” Astrid called, her voice light and singsong. She trotted to catch the person, her shoes clicking on the stone floor. “Wait up! It’s for the paper!” Her legs aided her admittedly poor running, and Astrid gasped as she came closer. “What do you think about serving frog legs at lunch? Some say it’s a delicacy, but others think it’s plain gross.”

Sample Roleplay Response:
He disliked Hogwarts. That much could be ascertained from the very first moment he had set foot in the damned place. It was big, and it was cold. Not to mention that half the kids here seemed to have stuffed an assortment of balls in their mouths – resulting in their absolute inability to speak proper English. If he heard one more misuse (no, massacre) of the word ‘vase’ he would throw someone down the highest tower.

Maverick Steele placed his hands in his pockets carefully and walked down the corridor with the assured pace of someone who knew what he was doing. There was no point in grousing about this place. Complaints did not make your life better. Doing something did.

Perhaps the worst part of Hogwarts was Maverick’s complete inability to do anything. It had been weeks since he had heard a decent scream. Seen a decent bit of anarchy. Chaos. The things that he loved. Britain was simply too ordered. There was too much routine, and too much discipline. A single toe out of line and you would be thrown into detention. Maverick prided himself on never getting into trouble no matter how much trouble he had caused. Detention would simply not do.
His ears picked up the hint of footsteps behind him. They were accompanied by a voice, a female voice, shouting. At him? Maverick smiled. Someone was talking to…him. No one ever talked to him. No one who knew who he was ever talked to him.

“Wait up! It’s for the paper! What do you think about serving frog legs at lunch? Some say it’s a delicacy, but others think it’s plain gross.”

The paper? Maverick surveyed this budding reporter with a gleam in his eye, resisting himself from licking his lips in anticipation. A long, deep chuckle pulled itself out of his throat. Almost unwillingly. “Frog legs?” he was examining her face, so set in its determination. It was almost comical to watch.

He would ground that determination to dust.

“Obviously,” he began, choosing his words carefully. Now would not be the time to make a mistake. He wanted to see her cry. “there is very little of the world that you understand. So many other, more interesting, things to write about, and here you are doing a piece on frog legs. Evidently your editors don’t have enough faith in your abilities to assign you something that would not, if actually published, be ridiculed even in a place where ridiculousness seems to be the norm. Frog legs? I wouldn’t read about whole frogs. I suggest you take that little smile off your face, because not only are you dumb, your editors seem to have no qualms in announcing that fact to the world. You’ve absolutely nothing to smile about.”

He waited. He would wait for as long as need be. The shocked, even pained expression that would appear on her face would be worth all the time in the world.

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