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Elsewhere Accepted / Crimson Stormheart
« on: 23/12/2012 at 11:22 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Crimson Stormheart
Gender: Male
Age: 17 (December 22, 1919)

Homeschooled up until he turned 11, which was when he was sent to Salem (Pawn Society). He had only just graduated.

Stormheart Den, Forks, Washington

Eldest Heir/Right-hand man of his grandfather, Tristan Stormheart

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?

Requested Magic Levels: (see here on how to do this)
If you want levels above the usual 32 total, please read the roleplay instructions carefully upon scrolling down.
  • Charms: 18
  • Transfiguration: 9
  • Divination: 9
  • Summoning: 13
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Knight Stormheart; they're cousins and fellow Stormheart Heirs.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Relisasha Le Roi, Yvonne Dechavez, Ronan C. Winter, & co.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

"Today," the commanding baritone voice of his grandfather boomed around the room with the Sonorus spell, and it pounded in his eardrums for he was right beside the man; he kept a straight face, though, ignoring the pain as he kept his eyes as cold and emotionless as his grandfather's, "is the day..."

A dramatic pause; his grandfather always did that with his announcements, keeping the listeners on the edges of their seat and reeling them in.

"That the eldest Heir of the new Stormheart generation... becomes..." and here he looked around to pierce the crowd his dark ruthless stare. Nobody moved or even seemed to breathe.

Tristan Stormheart raised his wine glass to the sky, and his other hand on Crimson's shoulder tightened into a brief squeeze; a signal to Crimson, and the boy raised his own glass as well, like he was a champion.

But he wasn't.

Not yet.

"A man!"

There was the raising of other glasses, there were cheers and applause, but it was all polite, he knew. It was his birthday, after all. He didn't even care about any of these people. Why would they care if he just turned seventeen?

Being seventeen only meant more expectations for him.

(So many expectations.)

As if he wasn't pressured enough already.

"Crimson," his grandfather was speaking to him directly, in his normal voice again, and Crimson glanced over, his own cold eyes like a mirror of his grandfather's. "Go forth and mingle."

Tristan Stormheart wasn't the joking type at all. When he meant 'go forth and mingle,' he didn't mean 'go around and meet some people and see if you can pick up any girls,' like a playful guardian or whatnot. No, he meant 'go around and meet all the Pureblooded people I've invited to your birthday and make sure you remember all their names and be a gentleman; one of their daughters may be your bride.'

Because his Heir training had already been done five years ago, all he had left to do was search for a suitable girl with a good name to become his 'trophy wife' of sorts. The whole idea had been repulsive ever since he'd been matched up with several Pureblooded girls in Salem, and only one of them he'd actually fallen for. He'd never admit that, though; not even to his best friend and cousin, Knight. And not just because the girl he'd been paired up with (unknowingly to her and her parents until he could 'reel her in') had fallen for Knight, and only became best friends with him.

Of course that wasn't the reason.

(And he'd always been a master of sarcasm.)

Crimson gave a small nod, "Yes, my lord," and stepped down the rise to 'go forth and mingle.'

The first person he encountered though, wasn't a potential wife, but one of his uncles.

"Crimson," William Stormheart greeted in the usual polite-tone-and-emotionless-eyes way of the Stormhearts, with his hand outstretched. "Congratulations."

"Uncle Liam." Crimson took the older man's hand and gave it a brief firm shake.

Like every other time any of their limbs (hands, arms, elbows, shoulders) came in contact, he was rough. This time, his hand squeezed his a little too tightly for comfort, but Crimson didn't wince; would never give the older man the satisfaction of showing him his pain.

Even after seventeen years, William still had a grudge against him for taking what the man deemed to be 'rightfully his': the position of Eldest Stormheart Heir and, in extension, the symbol of the Eldest Heir: the silver-chain Cryophoenix necklace, with blue liquid that kept the symbol (the cryophoenix) always cold, through his clothes, against his skin, almost like it was attempting to make his heart as cold as ice.

(So he could become more ruthless.)

Crimson wanted to snark at William about the symbol of Eldest Heir hanging around his neck. Wanted to take a jab at him, wound his ego, talk about how pathetic the older man had been and still was, which was the sole reason why the necklace had been taken from Liam and passed on to the first-born son of the next Stormheart generation, the son of the previously youngest Heir, Kayle Ezreal Stormheart.

(Don't think about him, he chided himself. Don't think about the heartbroken traveler looking for something or someone to heal him, somewhere in the world that wasn't America. He left his children, all of a sudden, just like that. Pathetic.)

Frivolity, for the Eldest Heir, was frowned upon – always – and succeeded in immediate ineligibility of the title. Frivolity for the Younger Heirs (or non-Heirs a.k.a. ladies) were perfectly acceptable, though. But they had to be serious once they got the title of Head.

What a miracle that would be; it's the reason why most of the Heads of the family were the Eldest Heirs.

"Thank you." He withdrew his hand and pocketed it, walking away from his uncle as he took a sip of butterbeer; a 'childish drink,' his grandfather had called it, and it would be the last time he'd ever drink it, if his grandfather had any say in the matter.

And he did, of course.

As Crimson passed William, the older male roughly bumped his shoulder, but Crimson brushed it off and continued on his way. He wouldn't start a fight or give him the satisfaction of reacting; especially in public, especially on his birthday.

It was supposed to be the happiest day of his life. But it wasn't.

Now that he was an adult by law, his grandfather would expect more from him by the time the choosing of heir comes around. Sometimes, though, Crimson didn't know whether his grandfather put more pressure on him, as the eldest and most potential successor, or on Knight, as the youngest and most expected to surpass him - the eldest.

There was no middle heir. And it didn't matter either way, anyway. Crimson had never intended to be heir, never wanted to have so much pressure, so much burden, so many expectations be forced onto him. He'd only wanted to be a fun-loving, free-spirited boy who grew up to be a musician. (Violins were all good, but he just really wanted to play a guitar. Grandfather didn't approve of guitars, though.)

It was only when he was eight, when his mother was killed, that he decided being a simple boy wasn't enough, that being powerful was everything. That Dark Wizard who'd killed his mother had been quite powerful, indeed, and Crimson wanted to surpass him – to maybe return the favor, even. Being an Auror was just one step away from that goal of revenge, but Grandfather disapproved. Grandfather wanted him to put family first, and he couldn't do that if he was away somewhere chasing Dark Wizards and locking them up in Azkaban.

Family First.

And Family First right now meant looking for his suitable bride-to-be.

With a broad smile on his innocent-looking face and a shine in his black-brown eyes, Crimson watched as the first girl – a brunette – he went towards blushed behind her glass. Extending a hand out to take hers, he bent to give the back of her hand a light kiss, then straightened to smile at her again.

It was all an act, of course.

"Hello. I'm the celebrant of this fine party. I apologize if this celebration has inconvenienced you in any way, but may I offer you dinner in compensation?" his voice was sweet and gentle, like how he held her hand and softly stroked the back of it with his thumb.

All an act, for his heart had already been taken years ago by a girl gone, and hadn't healed since.

The brunette – whoever her name was – blushed again, smiled, giggled, and nodded.


"Next Friday sound good?"

And just like that he already had a date – an Interview, really. Giving her hand another kiss, he moved away and took another sip of the sweet drink, dark eyes surveying the sea of faces ahead of him.

One girl down, many more dinner dates to plan left.

(Merlin, help me.)

At least he was allowed to drink firewhiskey now.

How did you find us? By Azrael Gabrille September Trealdy, 2 IC Summers ago! (:

Answer these questions only if you are requesting levels above 32.

Why are you requesting higher than usual levels? e.g. Is your character a professor/auror/etc.? (1-2 sentences minimum):
Crimson isn't an auror, but he wants to be. He doesn't want to disappoint his grandfather though, by going after the career he wants, and so far, he's hasn't disappointed the man; especially when his grandfather found out that Crimson is stronger than any other Stormheart.

Reply as your character to the following:

Mr. Grunch smirked as stepped into the shadows beneath the overhanging eaves at the side of the street. There was a sort of alcove here, where two buildings came together, and the wall was set back just a couple of feet to make space for a drain from the battered lead guttering. It made it difficult to see if anyone was standing there until you were almost on top of it, and the shape of the roof up above cast an almost permanent shadow even then.

There were a number of such places along Knockturn Alley and Mr. Grunch knew them all.

Seeing nobody was nearby, he quickly cast the concealment spell that would obscure his features, making him unrecognisable, just a blur beneath the cowl of his thick, but worn, robes. He knew his target, had identified them some time before, as they entered the Alley. He had shadowed them, discretely, and now, he knew, they were heading back out again, towards the safety of the better lit Diagon Alley.

He heard the footsteps approaching. This was it, then. Just before they reached the alcove, he stepped out suddenly in front of his target, wand raised and ready.

"Give me all yer galleons, and any jewellery yer got! Don't try to hide nothin', 'cos I'll know, right? Do it now!"

Roleplay Response:
See, this was why Crimson disliked pets. They were a hassle. A complete hassle.

At least he didn't have a pet, but his sister deciding that he could babysit her cat for a while whilst she went clothes shopping was just... annoying.

He loved his sister, yes. Would protect her from everything that could potentially hurt her, yes. But babysitting her cat who stared at him like it wanted to eat him whole and then spit him back out as tiny little pieces was too much.

Too much.

And the damn animal even decided to go off and run away from him!

Merlin, he needed a drink.

With a sigh, Crimson took his jacket from the back of the diner chair he'd been blissfully lounging on a few seconds ago (his sister could be such a whirlwind when she was within the area of clothing stores), and went after the cat. He didn't even know what breed it was, except that it was pure white and had terrifyingly soul-piercing yellow eyes, or what its name was, except that it was a girl. Or maybe it was a boy?


Oh, great, the mongrel decided to take a stroll down Knockturn Alley, hurrah. He wasn't particularly fond of the place, really; mostly because most of the place was eternally dark, and therefore suspicious. And Crimson didn't need any more worries in his life.

He went after the animal, though. The stupid animal. Once he got ahold of it again, he was going to shove it into a sack and throw it into the nearest river. He didn't care where it would end up, just as long as it'd be away from him. He' d make up some feasible, believable lie to his sister. She could always just get a less annoying pet anyway. Like... well, actually, all animals were annoying, so never mind.

"Cat, come here." His tone was cold as he called down the street with angry dark eyes. It wouldn't be that hard to spot, anyway; it was as white as snow, and the whole alley was either black or gray.

And when he rounded a corner, there it was. Licking its paw languidly like it had all the time in the world.

Irritating animal.

Grumbling under his breath, Crimson grabbed the feline by its rhinestone collar and, ignoring the cat's furious meowing and the scratches on his hand and leg, went back on his way.

He was pissed, and in pain, but he didn't wince once. The only physical sign that he was angry, though, was the tightening of his hands into fists. His brows weren't drawn together, but rather, his expression looked quite peaceful. Back to the deceiving innocence it usually projected.

Maybe that was why some idiot decided that now was the best time to confront him; some innocent-looking kid wearing expensive clothing.

Apparently, the man didn't know the phrase 'Looks can be deceiving.'


Keeping his face straight, he lowered his voice dangerously, like he'd heard his grandfather do, dripping heavily with don't-mess-with-me tones. "No."

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