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Messages - Alrigo Ricardus

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Elsewhere Accepted / Alrigo Ricardus
« on: 15/07/2014 at 21:16 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Alrigo Antaeus Ricardus
Gender: Male
Age: 44 (b. 25 November 1897)

Watsworth, batch of 1916

Their family seat is in Italy, somewhere near Rome. Assuming that the Italian branch will not be welcomed in Ricardus Hall, they reside in an affluent Wizarding town just outside of London.
(courtesy of Big Bro Zeus <3)

Hedonist & Party Ricardus

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:
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: 9
  • Divination: 6
  • Transfiguration: 7
  • Summoning: 10
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
The Ricardi

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
L Azuriah, et al.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
Does it bother you to be the second son?

He kept getting asked this question, throughout his life, by his friends, and he always answered the same thing.

No, it doesn’t. Actually, it’s the best thing to be.

Nobody might think it is because it’s supposedly ‘almost the best but not quite,’ when really, it was the actual ‘best thing to be.’

The first son was the one who got the money, the power, the title – sure. But the first son was also the who got the pressure, the expectations, the burdens – ever since, Alrigo never wanted any of that.

He only wanted the good that came of it, but he didn’t the baggage came with it; it was too much effort. That’s why being the second son was the best – he got enough money, enough power, enough of a name for himself – almost as much as the first son, but not quite, but also especially without any of that dreadful baggage. It suited him just fine.

He’d always preferred getting the good things with no strings attached.


Does it bother you to be the second son?

He still got this asked of him, and every time, he would laugh and grin and answer the same.

No, it doesn’t. Actually, it’s the best thing to be.

When you’re the second son, and you’re out with your friends on your first ever party (and not some ridiculously fancy soiree with all the other rich and pure, but an honest-to-god party), you get scolded when you come home late – or rather, early in the morning. But not as heatedly as if you were the first son.

When you’re the second son, you could get away with almost anything, as long as you cover your tracks properly and hide all the evidence well.

(Sloppiness did no one any good.)


Does it bother you to be the second son?

He continually got this asked of him, and only once, did his laugh sound forced and his grin look dim and his answer sound bitter.

No, it doesn’t. Actually, it’s the best thing to be.

It’s not. It’s not, really.

Because when you’re the second son, you’re almost as good as the first son, but not quite.

You’re not given as much attention as the first son. You’re not given as much time as the first son. You’re not given as much love as the first son.

He had experienced it every time he’d fallen down and scraped his knee and complained about it, and had been nudged to the side and treated quickly with a quick kiss to the top of the head and the reminder to be careful next time, figlio mio. While his older brother was doted on and cooed over and asked if he was alright, if he was comfortable, if he needed anything else –

He had learned it when he’d been out late again and fallen asleep at the party host’s house and gotten home in the late morning, and his father had given him an earful and then a heated reminder to never do such a thing again, comprendere? Look at your older brother, he –

Since then, those six words became the most irritating thing to his ears.


Does it bother you to be the second son?

He got this asked of him often, and without fail, he would laugh and grin and answer the same way.

No, it doesn’t. Actually, it’s the best thing to be.

So what if he was ‘only second’? So what if he was ‘after the first’? So what if he was an ‘almost but not quite’?

He could go out and drink and dance and party all those thoughts away. Because nothing, nothing was better than dancing with a full belly of the warm beverage, and the feel of the heat of bodies pressed up against each other, moving heedlessly to the same beat.

He could do whatever the hell he wanted, so long as he took care of his own mess and cleaned up after himself, which was fine by him. (He didn’t like other people sticking their noses in his business, in his pleasures, anyway.)

And this was also why he didn’t exactly get stopped when he decided to follow his big brother to Great Britain – for pleasure instead of business, of course. (And his big brother actually thought to leave him behind with the younger ones? Where was the fun in that?)


Does it bother you to be the second son?

He would still get this asked of him sometimes, and always, always, he would laugh and grin and answer:

No, it doesn’t. Actually, it’s the best thing to be.

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:
One thing he definitely liked about British women was their personalities. It just begged to be cracked and broken down.

In fact, it seemed like all Brits needed a little bit of spice in their lives. What, did they not have parties in this country? (They did; he’d heard rumours.) Or clubs or bars or whatever else constituted as a place to gather and dance and drink? (They did; he’d personally checked.)

If there was one thing (aside from parties) that Alrigo liked, it was cracking those uptight exteriors and seeing a peek of the person hidden underneath.

This time, it was a particularly spirited redhead amongst the crowds that had caught his attention. Making her way through the crowds and trying to get noticed – the poor thing.

He grinned at the sight, and took another sip of his tea.

(It was horrible and much too sweet, but he had yet to locate a shop that at least sold wine at this hour in this street; it was the whole reason he was here, after all.)

For a moment, though, the little fireball disappeared, and Alrigo was saddened to see her go. It had been amusing, for a while, but he supposed he had to go find a good enough wine shop soon –

Hold on a moment; the redhead had reemerged. He lowered the takeaway cup from his lips, and refocused his attention on the woman, curious now at her sudden flailing.

“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!”

Ah. A trivial matter. He should have expected as much.

Sighing, he meandered over, easily weaving a path through the thick crowd, and beamed down at her. He extended his free hand towards her.

A broken doll wasn’t much fun, after all. Unless you did the right things.

“Need some help, signorina?”

How did you find us? I heard there was a party, and nobody invited me? For shame!

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