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Messages - Évariste Altier

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Elsewhere Accepted / Évariste Altier [Elsewhere Adult]
« on: 23/10/2016 at 06:49 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Évariste Dieudonne Odilon Altier.
Gender: Male.
Age: 21.
Blood Status: Pureblood.

Beauxbatons, then private tutoring.

Albear Manor.

Jr. Research Assistant for Spell Development

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:
  • Charms: 12.
  • Divination: 6.
  • Transfiguration: 6.
  • Summoning: 8.

Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Nah, just the Albear crowd, but that was approved by Ra'asiel Albear about a year ago.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Ronnie Jay Beckham, Ivory Summers, and the rest of the angst pals.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

The son of Ambrose Altier had never been a prince.

Évariste Altier had been born with roses woven in his shins, and patches in his skull.  His soul and pickpocketed heart were scorched under wooly stares, the kind that withered at his heels and blinked unseeing at his unfaltering efforts.  The young man strained at every yoke placed upon his shoulders, a tireless pack horse, a loyal dog hovering just beyond Ambrose's shoulder.  His lips were sealed shut, back stiffened, hands strong and rough, and tongue smooth.

Évariste was no prince.  He was, in flesh and bone and spirit, a soldier.

("Evie--!"  A child down an endless corridor, a tiny queen in too-big heels.  She was the only one who would ever dub him 'prince'.)

Papa had been some sort of soldier too.  Sometimes he was gone for days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months.  Evariste waited by the stairs or the door: he was a dutiful child.  Papa was his king, and he would follow Ambrose Altier to the end of the earth.

("Patience is a virtue, son."  A Sunday morning before service; Ambrose's back was turned, practiced fingers knotting the bowtie about his neck.  Évariste stood duly in the background, eyes fixed on a half-glass of white wine.   "It'll serve you well to own it.")

But the end of the earth, it seemed to Évariste, was incredibly near.  The end of Évariste's earth had come the day Ambrose Altier had been confirmed dead.


"You can't, Maman.  You don't--"

Understand, he'd meant to say, but it was pointless.  The words holed themselves up in his throat and he swallowed pathetically, a vain attempt to rid himself of the vengeful ache in his chest.  Maman was closed off to reason; there was no point in pulling that card on her.  His tongue felt heavy and his eyes sunken, dulled from all this talking.  Every gentleman had his turning point.  And his sister's budding black eye was his.

"Don't tell me what I do and do not--"


"You have no RIGHT, you are--"


"An insignificant, worthless piece of--"

"Maman, listen to me!"

"SHUT UP!"  A wild-flying fist for the second time that afternoon; Évariste made no move.  (Hands locked still, inches away from his sides and shaking, fingers clenched into twitching fists; this is not your nature.)  Her old ring drew a red line onto pale cheekbones, and burgundy blurs burned beneath eyelids.  Évariste's only reaction was to narrow his eyes.  Maman's temper was versatile and vile-- It flared up in fragile moments, and wrecked every thin pretense of delicacy.

Ambrose had been the only one who'd ever had patience to withstand it.  And now Évariste.  But today he had no patience.  Today he had nothing.

("Patience is a virtue, son."  The most burdensome virtue of all, but Évariste had pasted these words onto his mind's forefront.  Today, they scattered: son, son, son.)

Black and sickly purple-green painted his skin.  Ruined it.  The door shut loudly behind him, and his face retained its solemnity even as he approached the Queen of Ice and Demolition.  (His Queen of Ice and Demolition.)

"Elvire.  We're moving."


The spell backfired and stiffled itself.  Évariste felt a twinge in his hand, before gritting his teeth as his arm cramped up for near to a minute.  Thirty-sixth try that morning; even Évariste was on his last string.

"Merlin's beard, who's the High and Mighty Pureblood again?"

The dirty old man with missing teeth and a ragged beard grinned and shook his head, spitting and flicking a bit of tobacco at the ground.  Évariste ignored him and narrowed his eyes straight ahead, a dilligent soldier armed with worn boots and a bitter smile.  The threadbare dummy across from him grinned right back.

Évariste raised his wand for the thirty-seventh time at his fabricated (a dry smile here, fabricated.) victim and the charm fell smoothly from his lips once again.  The muscles in his leg tightened painfully-- another backfire-- and Évariste ground his teeth together.  He refused to show any sign of pain or defeat in the midst.  The scruffy man laughed and Évariste payed it no mind-- the spells wouldn't test themselves.

("Patience is a virtue, son,"  A turning head, suits and dress shoes, an old man's firm indifference, a young boy's tired stare.  Patience had gotten Papa to the height of his career and wealth.  Patience had given birth to Evariste Altier.)

Passion, Évariste had always believed, was reason enough for anything, and Patience was the beaten trail to Success.


The night pulled at his skin and sang exhaustion from his eyes.  Fingers trembled and he paused to balance against a wall.  Vicious moonbeams rang bells in his ears and tore his brains to hellish bits, the aftermath of his newest experiment, and a crippling pang of hunger churned his stomach.  Loneliness dripped from downturned lips to faltering footsteps-- and Évariste trudged from the warehouse to his borrowed room at last.

The Albear's luxury felt sickly and bitter; he hated this place.  But fatigue allowed for no contemplation.  Évariste Altier fell silent and allowed sleep to sap feeling from his bones.

("It'll serve you well to own it.")

Roleplay Response [Option Two]:

It had been an especially long and taxing shift in the warehouse.  Most nights, Évariste walked home by the dim light of the moon, in the dark hours of early morning.  But today, the testing had continued until light stretched the horizons, and the cloud-covered sun sat firmly above his head.  He stumbled out with the rest of the lot, most workers from the morning shift, headed out for a lunch break.  Évariste bore the red band of the afternoon crew, a spot of blood in an endless sea of blue.

There was hardly any point in leaving the warehouse at all, and none in going back to the manor.  Évariste would be on the clock again before long— there was just enough time for a quick coffee run before he would be back to work again.  But he had no place to complain; this was what he had asked for, wasn’t it?

Évariste had never liked the busy streets of London and Diagon Alley, the way the crowds pushed and pulled and trod over anything that stood in its path.  The young man kept his back straight and eyes forward— he had a mind only for the beverage that he knew awaited him down the cobbled street.  (He had never been much a coffee drinker before his travel to England, but now he relied on the beverage like a drunkard to the liquor.  It was more readily available than sleep, after all.)

Perhaps Elvire would be disappointed by his bedraggled appearance, and certainly the Albears would be, but the last twenty-one hours wore hard on his bones, and Évariste would be making no apologies if his hair was tousled, or his shirt wrinkled.  His poise today, in the least, still resembled that of a trained soldier.  And that was enough.

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

The shout fell on foggy ears, but somehow they inspired a twitch of a reaction in the young man.  His head turned slowly in the direction of the noise he couldn’t feel his fee t and allowed bloodshot eyes to settle or his ank l es on a fallen form.  His steps were heavy and careful his forea rm s were bloody but his breaths was raw and shrunken.  But the gentleman within him he pul l ed his at his sleeves brought his near-lifeless body to her side.

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, I believe this is yours?"  Évariste lowered (painfully) to one knee and offered the broken piece of heel to the blur of red before his eyes.  He squinted through exhaustion and managed a gracious smile, swaying slightly.  "Would you like a hand?"  He extended his hand gracefully to help her up, ignoring, as he always did, that he may not make it to his feet himself.

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