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Topics - Dakota Jäger

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J Ä G E R

blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein,
the abyss also looks into you.

   O R I G I N S   
we are hunters, the hunted, monstrous.
house of wretched, our burden to bear.

It  is said their misfortune began in sin.

Of course, what is said is not always true. But what care do people have for truth, when it has been long lost, and only the ragged scars and filthy faces and bloodied hands remain? There is no purpose for truth, then. No, the eyes will only see what it desires.

The eyes often deceive.

Forget not, that people love their little lies, their burning words, if only so they may step on the backs of others, and pretend that they are the fated lot, the destined ones, the sole heirs of luck and glory and all things good and belonging to the light. Their treasured silver spoons are kept under lock and key, so that our grubby hands may not reach and beseech and grovel on their pretty polished shoes.

With that in mind, it is quite easy, predictable even, to foresee the natural order of things, whose backs will be broken and who it is that will do the breaking.

And so the beggars became beasts, hungry, dangerous creatures that lurked the woods and waited to prey on the innocent, the pure, the loved, the beautiful. The sick and troubled, ambling into apothecaries and mumbling their tumultuous, lonely thoughts, unaware of poisonous whispers of violent lunacy, wicked possession, and meddling in the dark arts. Worst of all, the rebellious, ones who bravely dared to speak against the crooked swindlings of the powerful, the slippery hands of the lecherous, the corrupt hypocrisy of the supposed pious and sanctimonious preachers; well, those poor courageous souls, those fools with their trickery are clearly witches, the damned, devils. 

(They were only hoping for vindication, for salvation, for an ounce of justice.)

But liars are burnt at the stake.

And people will always hate the poor, the ugly, the weak, the strange. And men will become monsters, and monsters to men, until the lines are so blurred and faded that one day you will look, and they are one and the same. You are one and the same. We are the same.

Live long enough in darkness, and it will be all you know. It is all we know. Hear the accusations, grit your teeth through hurled stones, make your prayers, and realize that no one is listening. We’ve known for a long time now, and it makes no difference.
 
Give in. It is far easier to become what they say you are, than to let your screams wither and die on deaf ears, and blind eyes. We are the hunters, the hunted, and we will die monstrous.

Just remember this one thing. Remember this. You cannot blame them. It is not their fault.

It never was.



   W O R D S   O F   
W A R N I N G   

beware, begone.

The  Jäger bloodline is one wrought with illness, insanity, and instability, undeniably attributed to their upholding of the idea of purebloodness within their clan. They are a family that has receded into the shadows for centuries upon centuries, viewed as sinful and evil practitioners in the eyes of those ignorant of magic, and as a taint upon magical society to the pureblooded elites.

To the rest of the Wizarding World, it is no surprise the Jäger name is not looked upon very fondly. At best, the family and their reputation are left to be forgotten. In the eyes of many, the Jägers are but dregs of society.

It is questionable why the Jäger family clings to such a title, when it does them further harm than good⁠—after all, the words of the dishonorable are not to be trusted. And anyone with half a brain would dispute such a laughable declaration, for all the Jägers have to their name is pitiful tragedy, and even that cannot excuse their meddlings with the crooked sort.

Perhaps there is some truth, if we grant them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it is their last claim to dignity, a shred of pride, or perhaps in their years of persecution they have found solace in a mutual understanding: that the enemy of yours is an enemy of mine, for we are the enemy of all.

But what is the point of deliberations and theories, what does it matter. A truth long past will not redeem them now.

There is no saving the damned.

In the end, they are all thieves, scoundrels, murderers, criminals, maniacs, and inconsequential undesirables to the rest of the world.

Best you move along then. Wouldn’t want to associate yourself with the likes of them.



                                      B O R N E   C .   I X   A D

  G E R M A N I C   B L O O D L I N E

                     P U R E - B L O O D E D   P A R I A H S

                       P A D L E T  ➊ ➍ ➏

2
Elsewhere Accepted / Dakota Jäger
« on: 06/07/2020 at 04:53 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Dakota Jäger
Gender: Female
Age: 25 yrs
Blood Status: Pureblood

Education:
Ilvermorny, Thunderbird ‘52

Residence:
London, England

Occupation:
Con Artist. Think I should take up a side hustle?

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?
No, I don’t think so.

Requested Magic Levels::
  • Charms: 8
  • Divination: 12
  • Transfiguration: 6
  • Summoning: 6
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:
Vanessa Naoi, Solange Santoro, Billie Monday, Blue Sinclair.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

VI.
remnants: what is left, and what has been lost.

If you are looking for a story, perhaps an extraordinary tale, or maybe one of happy endings and fanciful creatures, I will have to stop you here. The only story I have to tell meets, at most, only one of those qualities, and even then, there are some doubts as to how whimsical and wonderful a giant spider or what is basically a drooling cotton ball, can be.

But if you are so insistent, I suppose I can oblige. I must remind you, this story is one that has no particular beginning, middle, or end, for its roots span centuries upon centuries of lifetimes, and I am sharing but a small branch of a great, ancient tree.

I assure you, we’d be here until the universe fell in upon itself and begun again if I were to recount every bit of lives long past. I’m sure you’d be bored to death before then, for what it counts.

What I am about to tell you, is a Truth. Though it is no grand, heart-racing adventure, no tale of heroic feats and legend, I can say that I believe you will be rather surprised, and pleasantly so. It is a little Sad, a tad bit Scary— but don’t worry, I’ll warn you beforehand so that you may hold onto your teddy or turn on the lights. Most of all it is Real, and it is about someone just like you and I, well, not exactly, she’s a bit taller than me, louder too, and, actually, quite nosy at times—

Oh, I do believe I’m getting a bit distracted. Let us begin, shall we? At the Not-Quite-Beginning-Middle-or-End but, here.

San Francisco.
(I know, I know, not very exciting. But I did warn you.)


taste.
10 April 1940

In San Francisco, if you walk down Grant Avenue and up a dirty street and take a sharp right and then another and then a left and over a fence and ignore the two tabby cats fighting over some sardines, there is a ramshackle building next to a few other rickety buildings that aren’t particularly noteworthy.

Ramshackle, here, means “looking as if they are all on their very last leg of life.”

You might take a seat on some wooden boxes up against the wall for a minute or two, to catch your breath after having run for your life from a rat that was more the size of a small dog, and three times as intimidating.

You’d probably look around and say, “Man, what a dump,” and that would be rather rude of you, but luckily there’s no one around to hear it, and to be frank, you’re probably right. And even if some eavesdropping neighbor who had been entertained for the last five minutes of your Dance with the Rat overheard your remark, it is very likely that they too, would agree, that this place is very much so, above all, A Dump.

There is one person, however, who would disagree, quite passionately with you, and if you didn’t choose your words very carefully, she’d guarantee a quick reunion with That One Rat Who Wants to Take a Big Bite Out of You.

The person in question is a six year old girl. Her name is Dakota Jäger.

Dakota is the type of precocious little girl that asks those sort of questions that a six year old really shouldn’t be asking, especially in public when her mother’s busy paying for the groceries and then has to hustle her away as the old ladies in line titter in amusement; the type of peculiar kid that you happen to be unfortunately stuck with as her babysitter for the day, who manages to coerce you into conversations about the weather which will somehow spiral into a nonsensical debate about whether plaid or gingham or argyle socks will shape the school-ground hierarchy of grade schoolers.

Also, she will remind you at least twenty times in the span of five minutes to call her Kota, and only Kota, because, and here she proceeds with a lengthy explanation that is only broken up for a few breathless sips of apple juice, that you must only ever call her Kota because Da-kota is the name of two states, and therefore, overused, and furthermore they are both rather boring and not exciting at all.

Then she will recall that in one of those two states, she can’t remember which, that they are in fact carving a bunch of faces into some big ol’ rock, one of them being George Washington, and isn't’ that the stupidest idea ever? Kota will tell you she learned in school that George Washington had wooden teeth, and then she will ask you if they will be putting that on the big rock too.

You, of course, will be rather tired of all these questions and strange discussions, and will propose a game of hide-and-seek, which is her favorite game because she claims that no one can ever find her. So, naturally, she usually takes a bag of plantain chips with her to pass the time. Kota will also insist that you turn out the lights so that it is extra hard, and then you will bite your tongue instead of asking why that is necessary since supposedly, no one should be able to find her in the first place.

At the end of the day, you go home with $2.00, and a vow to never babysit ever again.

On this particular rainy day, in San Francisco, the Jägers are not in need of a babysitter, and Kota is playing yet another game of hide-and-seek, this time with her father. It has been one hour now, and occasionally Mr. Jäger will shout an enthusiastic “Where are you?” from the kitchen where he sits across from Mrs. Jäger.

By enthusiastic, we mean “he has almost given up on the game and is sipping a coffee” and “she is still waiting for him to find her.”

If you step out of the kitchen and turn right, take five steps and then turn to your left, there is a closet door about five feet tall and 3 feet wide, and deep enough that two or three Kotas could fit in there quite snugly. As of now, there is only one Kota in there, and she is waiting eagerly for her dad to announce defeat, or finally find her. She knows that the latter option is impossible, so she is really only waiting for him to admit he has lost, and then fork over the dollar he has promised her this game.

Five minutes later, she is getting a bit antsy because she needs to use the bathroom and her dad hasn’t said anything yet for a while now. She is about to sneak out of the closet when she hears the sound of her dad’s voice. Except this time he is not inquiring as to where she is hiding, but increasingly raising his voice at her mother, who is also beginning to get a bit irritated and starting to yell right back too.

A small voice in Kota’s head wonders if they are, maybe, hopefully, arguing about where she is hiding, but this has already happened one too many times in the past and so at six years old, she knows better. All that she can do is wait it out.

They have been yelling for at least ten minutes now, and Kota is sitting against the wall, listening. Her lip is caught between her teeth in nervous anxiousness. She waits and waits and waits, and then all of a sudden there is the sound of breaking glass or a plate and it is very terrible sounding, but the worst of it all is the silence that stretches on and on afterwards. She tastes blood in her mouth, those nervous teeth biting down as she continues to wait, and wait, and wait.

There is no more yelling after that, only a soft murmuring, and as much as she presses her ear against the closet door to try and hear what is going on, she can only catch bits and pieces and racking sobs.

If you are curious, all that matters is one phrase. “I am leaving.”

I suppose, at the end of the day, at the end of the game, Kota was right.

They never did end up finding her hiding spot.


hear.
5 May 1944

There is nothing worse than fifth grade boys, especially fifth grade boys who are bullies and brats, and especially so when you are just a ten year old girl.

At least, that is what one ten year old girl named Kota thought, when she saw a group of them approaching her and stomping all over the Hopscotch squares she and Lizzie Zhang had just spent a painstaking amount of time chalking.

“Hey, Koko.”

Charlie Barnes was a pasty-faced, snot-nosed, booger-boy, and everytime he said anything Kota wanted to punch him and his big red nose. However, if any of you long out of school are in need of a reminder, there are many things one can and cannot do in the classroom, or on the playground, and punching another classmate, even if he is, truly, a fat-head, is a one way ticket to the principal’s office.

Instead, Kota gave the boy a glare.

Here, glare means, “I would so very much like to punch you and your big mouth, but since I am so kind and forgiving and I don’t want to lose a gold star on the classrom board from Mrs. P, I will silently stare at you with much annoyance and misery.”

However, it is in my unfortunate observation that boys like Charlie Barnes don’t know when enough is enough, and so he proceeded to open said big mouth to say the following words, ones that sealed his fate and ensured his swift demise in the hands of Kota Jäger, one very angry ten year old girl.

“Koko, are you having those weird worms for lunch today again?”

One of Charlie’s goons kicked a piece of pink chalk at Lizzie, who was the rather shy sort and who moved silently behind Kota. Charlie gave a grin to the both of them, as if he had just said something particularly clever and not at all Stupid and Rude.

“Shut up, Barney. Did you forget you peed your pants last week?”

Charlie Barnes wasn’t smiling anymore, and took what he probably thought was a menacing step forward.

“My mom says your family’s from China. She says that if you and your dad had any sense at all, that you’d all follow your mom back there. And take your stinkin’ noodles with y—”

Kota saw red. She saw red, and then she saw her clenched fist swinging at Charlie Barney and his dumb face and dumb nose and she saw him stagger back, howling in pain. She saw his bloody nose and saw some other kids running over in curiosity, and then his friends shoved her to the ground, and on the asphalt she saw her bruised elbow and knee and the smudged-up Hopscotch squares, saw the smeared pink and blue chalk all over her hands and bare legs. Then she saw Lizzie’s face as her friend helped her up, and most importantly she saw Mrs. P running over and knew she was going to see the principal real soon.

But she also knew she wouldn’t hear those words, at least from Charlie Big Mouth Barnes, ever again.

I do know, however, that he did, in fact, pee his pants again, two weeks later.


touch.
6 December 1949

Christmas spirit is a funny idea to think about, because on one hand, it is either “a time of good cheer and giving and merrily singing songs about reindeers with glowing red noses,” or, contrastingly, especially for mothers and those with many acquaintances, “a very stressful and trying time to compose a list of all those friends-that-aren’t-really-my-friends and family members that are actually pretty annoying, in order to spend all my money and buy gifts for them in hopes that they may do the same and so that our next Thanksgiving family reunion is not spent at each other’s throats.”

For Kota, it means neither of those things. Christmas, for our favorite gal, is a time of guiltless money-making. By this, we mean, “The San Francisco Emporium is a major cash cow…” and here, Kota would add, “For ladylike activities such as pick-pocketing and nicking pretty little things here and there that no one would even miss anyway, like this garden gnome that I really don’t need but has a certain charm to it that I simply cannot resist.”

I will save you the details of this surprisingly dull affair, but I will mention that it does involve donning a fur coat that definitely does not belong to you, chatting up a rather wealthy looking matron, sneaking a box, or two, or three of Nyakers Original Gingersnaps into said fur coat with very large pockets, and other things that would take at least three more pages to describe and send your Aunties into a fit of mortifying astonishment. Oh, and all of this with a little help of a perfectly placed Accio! or Confundus every so often. Kota forwards her thanks to Charms class at Ilvermorny.

Did I mention the Emporium has roof rides for children of all ages? It is here we leave our Kota, stuffed full, literally, waiting at the top of a slide that really, actually, does not look as stable as it has been made to seem, and reaching a hand into each fur-lined pocket for another gingersnap.

Or two, or three.


smell.
20 July 1959

On a hot afternoon, somewhere across the sprawling canals of Amsterdam, an unmarked letter arrives on Kota Jäger’s doorstep.

She smells the slightest hint of jasmine, a familiar note that threatens to rip through her.

The letter remains unopened. The seal is still in place.

Kota knows who it’s from.


see.
9 October 1959

I believe Death is the strangest thing to haunt each one of us. It is imminent, inevitable, ever-slowly approaching, looming. It is not an evil force, nor a good one, because it simply is.

And so Death can be both Sad and Bittersweet, and yet Freeing. It may force us to look upon the past, and understand we must march into the future. Reflect, start anew, but not to forget.

In San Francisco, if you walk down Grant Avenue and then walk a little longer and over a fence and past those two tabby cats that are still fighting over some sardines, and then walk a little faster when you hear scuttling that you’re pretty sure is that One Big Rat, there is a ramshackle building, and it’ll probably seem a bit familiar.

There is a ramshackle building, but no one lives there anymore, and you might look around and say, “Man, what a dump,” and again, you’d be right, and there is no longer anyone there who would disagree, quite passionately with you, that this ramshackle building is not at all a dump.

I suppose you can stop worrying about a quick reunion with That One Rat Who Still Wants to Take a Big Bite Out of You.

Because that person is long gone now.

Kota stands on the edge of, not a ramshackle building, but a ramshackle ferry, and it is headed straight to Dover from Boulogne-sur-Mer. Another city, one out of the many she has stopped by in her never-ending wanderings, after her first stop in some little town in Germany.

Goodbyes and final farewells were made there, to a person that was sometimes more stranger than father, but loved nonetheless.

“Where you headed, miss?”

“London.”

Endless blue gives way to a beach-washed port, melancholic and lonely on the horizon.


[intuition.]
13 February 1960

Many thoughts can be had in the short lifetime of a minute, 60 seconds of ideas and bits that may be important in the future or not at all. An observation, like how ugly that man’s wool sweater is, and wondering whether or not if it was a gift from his late Aunt Wilma, or if he really did willingly choose to wear such a dreadful article of clothing. Maybe a reminder, one that you’ve been forgetting repeatedly and that keeps popping up at the most random of times, that you have a dentist appointment the following week and you really do have to go this time.

Or, perhaps, a life-changing realization.

At 12:03 pm in a coffee shop on some London street with another forgettable name like Abbey this or Kensington that, Kota came to a realization that was not only startling but terrifying in its subtle nature, that she was Stuck and would be Stuck in London for some time. She knew this deep in her soul, as if some whispering voice was secretly showing her the future, and it was the most unsettling thought she’d had to date.

The rest of the day went by in a blur.

Kota is quite sick of London.

And as I have said since the very Beginning that was Not-Quite-a-Beginning, this is neither an end or a start or a middle, so, at least for the moment, Kota will remain, very vehemently so, quite sick of 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:

Head down, cap pulled taut and low over her head, eyes to the ground.

Kota moved like the river, wading through the rush of people with practiced ease, in and out, in and out. Every so often, if someone with a trained eye was watching, and watching carefully, and watching only Kota, they would see a gloved hand dart in one direction, and retreat back into a deep pocket in the blink of an eye. There was some variety of course, an accidental brush, a carefully executed collision, an apologetic smile— but, above all, there was a slick consistency to each action: agility, accuracy, and purpose.

And so she spotted the red-haired eager beaver from a mile away.

She sped up her pace, shoes stepping lightly, away from the woman and her pestering questions and the attention, and as if she had done such many times before— she had done such many times before, in fact— Kota began inching further and further to the opposite end of the street.

In an unfortunate sequence of events, unfortunate meaning, “Great, now I’ve got to listen to this woman’s yapping for the next half hour,” just as Kota was about to break free of the endless crowd and to the other side, a rather large and tall man bumped into her, continued on without apology, and sent her tumbling back into the moving crowd and sprawling on the cobblestone.

Thankfully for the deep pockets of her coat, only a wallet or two jumped out. She hastily shoved them out of sight, and in the process of picking up the scattered items, came upon a sweaty shoe. Kota slowly turned her gaze onto the only possible owner of the lost shoe, who was now wailing about a broken heel and inwardly groaned.

A few moments later, once she was all dusted off and the…borrowed objects that had somehow fell into her possession were safely stowed away, she approached the woman, gingerly holding out the shoe by its heel.

“I don’t suppose this is yours, Cinderelly?”

OTHER
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