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Archived Applications / Mark Lerner - Transfiguration
« on: 09/12/2018 at 17:19 »


CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character name: Mark Lerner

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Mavis Lerner, Laura Fitzpatrick, Goose Märchen (Previous: Vera Eckert).

Character age: 28

Character education: Approximately 2 and a half years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Ravenclaw House, withdrawn at the age of 13 due to illness. Homeschooled by  father until 17, forever studying books and things and people.

Strength and weaknesses (details please):

Magically, his strength lies in Transfiguration, his area of intrigue. He can get invested in a subject quite easily, researching and asking questions, discovering answers. Studious by nature, a behavior he applies to the world around him, investigating things and people. He tends to grow deeply passionate about things and people, and he will devote himself to them.  As a person he is exceptionally caring, someone who would let you speak or allow you to say nothing at all. He’s available for hugs, if needed.

But his devotion is his hubris, and he spreads himself thin making sure everyone and everything is doing alright. He blames the misfortune of those close to him on himself, and carries the emotional weight with him, rarely shedding it. He can get invested too easily, near obsession fueled by a gnawing boredom.  Mark leaves his own well being a mystery, using “I’m fine" to disguise physical illness or emotional turmoil. Physically he is weak, a body ravaged by constant illness leaving him scrawny and delicate, a fact he rejects, displaying a persona of wellness he doesn’t always possess. Conjuring and Summoning bored him, and he never put much effort in it, and continues to do so, finding non-magical methods as an alternative.

Physical description: Standing at five feet 10 inches, Mark is a physique of extremes, too tall, too thin. His dark brown hair is perpetually too long, falling into his eyes, eyes he would call simply blue, an evening sky sort of blue, clouded with a darkness he had taken great care to hide away. His hands are long, nimble and perpetually preoccupied, he is constantly holding something, too often it is paper in some form. He owns too many sweaters and wears them with pride, mostly darker colors, he has always loved the deep Ravenclaw blues and the grey of a clouded afternoon. His pants are often just slightly too short, hair just slightly disheveled, Mark has never needed to be meticulous about his appearance, and despite his greatest efforts it is doubtful he ever will. Around others he's quick to grin, walks slowly but with long strides, feigning natural strength he doesn't possess.

Personality (nice, rude, funny etc. Paragraph please.):A series of events has slowly molded Mark into from the optimistic young boy to whom he has become, a blend of too many things fighting for space in one body. Above all he is unfailingly kind, picking up pieces of people and putting them back together with sympathy is second nature to him. On the surface he is seemingly relaxed, a caring boy protective of all he encounters, with witty dialogue and an almost optimism.

But for all the people he's put together he can't fathom how to handle his own broken pieces, so he's buried them away. Mark has been sickly for most of his life, and lingering symptoms have brought a feeling of limitations that follow him everywhere. He's haunted by what he can't do, by things he's missed out on.

Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:
Mark has missed academia. He thrived in his time at Hogwarts, an environment that allowed him to discover and grow, an environment he’s spent a decade trying to recreate in the facts he’s devoured and countless books he’s read. But the mind begins to wander, and his has wandered back to Hogwarts. His time in a traditional schooling environment was short lived, and in a way he wants to take it back, this time as the teacher instead of the student. The subject matter is a driving force behind his dream of teaching, Transfiguration has always been his personal favorite branch of magic, and through teaching he wants to influence the exploration and investigation of the subject.


Biography (500 words minimum. There is never such a thing as too much.):

At the age of five years old, Mark Lerner was supposed to understand everything.

He understood the picture books that sat in a stack near his bed, he understood some of the bigger books too. He understood why the forks were slightly rusted and the spoons shone in the kitchen light (the forks were very old and the spoons were very new), he understood why he was not supposed to run down the stairs (because the fourth step had pushed him and it hurt when he fell.)

He did not understand the child in the crib.

She (they told him it was a she) was small and slept soundly, almost smiling and he didn’t understand why she was almost smiling. Her name was Mavis and he liked it, he didn’t understand why it sounded so odd when he said it, almost like the wind in the summer or his mother’s laugh, but not quite, it was something else and he didn’t understand what.

But he didn’t understand wind either, sometimes it was warm and calm and other times it blew scarves from necks and ripped wood from houses, and his mother’s laugh…

Perhaps there were some things he did not need to understand.

At the age of nine years old, Mark was supposed to understand one thing.

And yet he was bewildered by confusion and dismay, a hurricane of pouring emotions drowned him, and he emerged from the tidal wave dazed. Something was wrong, he noticed it the moment he woke, there was dust and cobwebs and a shade of grey that choked every inch of the house even though the winter sun shone cooly through cracked window panes. The stairs creaked and the sound was menacing, a warning, dust billowed softly around bare feet followed him into the barren kitchen.

He stepped around the shards of a coffee mug, past scattered papers and a house suddenly sepia to find his sister on the sagging sofa, dwarfed by the cushions and the monochrome quiet.

He sat next to her, and there was a clouded sky in her green eyes.

“Gray.”

“Yes.” he said.

He wrapped his arms around Mavis, and they sat in silence for awhile.

At the age of eleven years old it hurt too much to understand.

”I’m concerned that the fungus may have reached his throat--”

He heard the words through a distant fog, he coughed and an earthquake shuddered through his body.

There were other words, garbled and faded and painful to hear, so Mark chose to drown them out, dozing off and waking to silence, dozing and waking to fatigue and aches and his lungs ripping themselves apart then dozing, over and over, a cycle of malicious harmony.

He dozed and the flowers on his bedside table were wilting slightly, he woke and the scent of lily of the valley had filled the room, he dozed and woke and Mavis was watching him, huddled against the doorframe.

(He wanted to hug her and say everything would be fine, and they could walk outside and she could pick flowers and he could push her on the swings and everything would return to a normal like perpetual summer.)

Drowsiness stole him away, and he slept once more.

He was 12 years old and he more than understood the task before him.

It was interesting, a strange sort of project, art meeting magic and scientific practicality, his quill scratched against the page as he outlined and diagramed. “Basic commands along with color commands would work, and in theory each time the spell is used the same color will be produced.”

Scratches and lines, details and dimensions.

“I wonder if there’s any way we change the exact hue of the color, maybe a different wand movement would affect it?” he asked aloud, more to himself then the Slytherin boy he was meant to be working with, paging through a heavily annotated textbook.

He picked up his quill and it was immediately snatched away by the other boy. “Alek!” he protested with a small grin, stealing it back, feathers crumpling under his fingers. “We need to finish this, do you want to do the entire thing by yourself?”

At age thirteen he did not understand. He refused to understand.

He was not meant to be at the kitchen table for another five months and yet he sat there in the quiet of the house, the untouched tea before him staring up at the boy accusingly.

”This isn’t a new conversation Mark.”

He refused to look at his father, and his eyes found anything, everything else, the dust bunnies collecting in the corner, the beige stain on the table cloth.

”I understand how you’re feeling, but…”

He did not understand. Bits and pieces perhaps, but only Mark saw the situation for what it really was, complicated and fatigued, swirls of color and the dull red of excuses thinly covering the mural that had been the past months.

”You knew your time at Hogwarts was dependent on your health.”

He stared into the tea, weak and watching. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It should have been steeped longer, he should have been stronger, every inhale should not have caught in his throat and stuttered into a hoarse cough, the sound dissipated into the crowded stone corridors that radiated with life and he could pretend it never--

“I was fine.”

”Mark.”

He was fine counting coughs and gasping for air and stumbling on stairways and dozing through the day--

”I think we both know that’s not true.

At the age of seventeen, he attempted to understand muggle science.

It was strange. Letters were numbers and numbers were the infinite, the atoms that were the pencil that twirled slowly in his fingers, the atoms that were everything, the rays of afternoon sunlight glowing golden on the windows, abstract shapes and negative space shadows, atoms and light and everything.

The pencil, preoccupied, scratched notes on the parchment, letters and numbers and an equation he did not comprehend. A moment passed and he scribbled graphite lines over the science, and left a reminder he did not need, for he was already standing, walking towards the door.

It was spring. He had to pick flowers for his sister.

At the age of twenty three he understood himself as a puzzle.

Some pieces he saw in ultimate clarity, novels in the moment. Others were blurred, streaks of color with no visible plot, a story indiscernible.

Perhaps it would all come together one day. An Atlas of a being, maps of eyes and emotion, but for now he was a story with pages of jumbled words and perhaps one day he would sort them out, sentence by sentence, stanza by stanza.

He sipped his tea and paged through the Daily Prophet, watching the bakery patrons from the corner of his vision, a river of humanity swirling all around him.


SAMPLE ROLEPLAY
(Please respond to to this in third person past tense. Do not write the other characters' reactions. Only your own.)

Even still, silence in the stone corridors was a startling sensation in the place so many sounds lingered. Years of conversation and wordless cacophony were ingrained in the rock, and everywhere Mark turned there were whispers, the classes he attended in his youngest days, ragged coughs on the stairs, his own lectures, winding and confident, rang from ajar classroom doors.

He glanced into the empty room and frowned. The desks would have to go.

Every step and every room held their own ghosts, inescapable images of days far past, some memories greying with age and others overwhelmingly vivid. In the days of teaching at the castle he could escape it, could drown himself in classes to run and students to teach and escape reminders of sickly days and the lingering dread of being quarantined once more, forever.

Irrational, and yet he walked faster through the silent halls, escaping the acidic hiss of legs and lungs failing, the nightmare of falling never to stand again.

Yet he knew it untrue. Mark was older then he once was, wiser then he once was, books did not hold all knowledge so he found his answers in the London streets, in sticky notes left in the kitchen, in smiles he knew beamed solely for him. He had been a student once again for the past two years, his life became his classroom, and Mark learned to look past the world within, to step out of the inky rivers that plagued him in the worst moments, and exist, alive and well in the present seconds. He was better because of it, he would teach better because of it.

Mark Lerner was not afraid anymore.

Even Anneka Ivanova’s office, which he stepped into once more prepared with books and extensive notes, held an aura of familiarity. It was parallel to the one all those years ago, but his stuttering nerves had subsided, even when the Headmistress chastised his tardiness, Mark simply nodded, unworried.

“My apologies. I still get lost.” he explained. “Besides, it’s my first day back. It seemed right to walk slow.”



Lesson plans will be sent shortly.

2


CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character name: Mark Lerner

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Mavis Lerner, Laura Fitzpatrick, Vera Eckert, Goose Märchen

Character age: 23

Character education: Approximately 2 and a half years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Ravenclaw House, withdrawn at the age of 13 due to illness. Homeschooled by  father until 17, forever studying books and things and people.

Strength and weaknesses (details please):

Magically, his strength lies in Transfiguration, his area of intrigue. He can get invested in a subject quite easily, researching and asking questions, discovering answers. Studious by nature, a behavior he applies to the world around him, investigating things and people. He tends to grow deeply passionate about things and people, and he will devote himself to them.  As a person he is exceptionally caring, someone who would let you speak or allow you to say nothing at all. He’s available for hugs, if needed.

But his devotion is his hubris, and he spreads himself thin making sure everyone and everything is doing alright. He blames the misfortune of those close to him on himself, and carries the emotional weight with him, rarely shedding it. He can get invested too easily, near obsession fueled by a gnawing boredom.  Mark leaves his own well being a mystery, using “i’m fine to disguise physical illness or emotional turmoil. Physically he is weak, a body ravaged by constant illness leaving him scrawny and delicate, a fact he rejects, displaying a persona of wellness he doesn’t always possess. Conjuring and Summoning bored him, and he never put much effort in it, and continues to do so, finding non-magical methods as an alternative.

Physical description: Standing at five feet 10 inches, Mark is a physique of extremes, too tall, too thin. His dark brown hair is perpetually too long, falling into his eyes, eyes he would call simply blue, an evening sky sort of blue, clouded with a darkness he had taken great care to hide away. His hands are long, nimble and perpetually preoccupied, he is constantly holding something, too often it is paper in some form. He owns too many sweaters and wears them with pride, mostly darker colors, he has always loved the deep Ravenclaw blues and the grey of a clouded afternoon. His pants are often just slightly too short, hair just slightly disheveled, Mark has never needed to be meticulous about his appearance, and despite his greatest efforts it is doubtful he ever will. Around others he's quick to grin, walks slowly but with long strides, feigning natural strength he doesn't possess.

Personality (nice, rude, funny etc. Paragraph please.):A series of events has slowly molded Mark into from the optimistic young boy to whom he has become, a blend of too many things fighting for space in one body. Above all he is unfailingly kind, picking up pieces of people and putting them back together with sympathy is second nature to him. On the surface he is seemingly relaxed, a caring boy protective of all he encounters, with witty dialogue and an almost optimism.

But for all the people he's put together he can't fathom how to handle his own broken pieces, so he's buried them away. Mark has been sickly for most of his life, and lingering symptoms have brought a feeling of limitations that follow him everywhere. He's haunted by what he can't do, by things he's missed out on.

Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:
Mark has missed academia. He thrived in his time at Hogwarts, an environment that allowed him to discover and grow, an environment he’s spent a decade trying to recreate in the facts he’s devoured and countless books he’s read. But the mind begins to wander, and his has wandered back to Hogwarts. His time in a traditional schooling environment was short lived, and in a way he wants to take it back, this time as the teacher instead of the student. The subject matter is a driving force behind his dream of teaching, Transfiguration has always been his personal favorite branch of magic, and through teaching he wants to influence the exploration and investigation of the subject.


Biography (500 words minimum. There is never such a thing as too much.):

At the age of five years old, Mark Lerner was supposed to understand everything.

He understood the picture books that sat in a stack near his bed, he understood some of the bigger books too. He understood why the forks were slightly rusted and the spoons shone in the kitchen light (the forks were very old and the spoons were very new), he understood why he was not supposed to run down the stairs (because the fourth step had pushed him and it hurt when he fell.)

He did not understand the child in the crib.

She (they told him it was a she) was small and slept soundly, almost smiling and he didn’t understand why she was almost smiling. Her name was Mavis and he liked it, he didn’t understand why it sounded so odd when he said it, almost like the wind in the summer or his mother’s laugh, but not quite, it was something else and he didn’t understand what.

But he didn’t understand wind either, sometimes it was warm and calm and other times it blew scarves from necks and ripped wood from houses, and his mother’s laugh…

Perhaps there were some things he did not need to understand.

At the age of nine years old, Mark was supposed to understand one thing.

And yet he was bewildered by confusion and dismay, a hurricane of pouring emotions drowned him, and he emerged from the tidal wave dazed. Something was wrong, he noticed it the moment he woke, there was dust and cobwebs and a shade of grey that choked every inch of the house even though the winter sun shone cooly through cracked window panes. The stairs creaked and the sound was menacing, a warning, dust billowed softly around bare feet followed him into the barren kitchen.

He stepped around the shards of a coffee mug, past scattered papers and a house suddenly sepia to find his sister on the sagging sofa, dwarfed by the cushions and the monochrome quiet.

He sat next to her, and there was a clouded sky in her green eyes.

“Gray.”

“Yes.” he said.

He wrapped his arms around Mavis, and they sat in silence for awhile.

At the age of eleven years old it hurt too much to understand.

”I’m concerned that the fungus may have reached his throat--”

He heard the words through a distant fog, he coughed and an earthquake shuddered through his body.

There were other words, garbled and faded and painful to hear, so Mark chose to drown them out, dozing off and waking to silence, dozing and waking to fatigue and aches and his lungs ripping themselves apart then dozing, over and over, a cycle of malicious harmony.

He dozed and the flowers on his bedside table were wilting slightly, he woke and the scent of lily of the valley had filled the room, he dozed and woke and Mavis was watching him, huddled against the doorframe.

(He wanted to hug her and say everything would be fine, and they could walk outside and she could pick flowers and he could push her on the swings and everything would return to a normal like perpetual summer.)

Drowsiness stole him away, and he slept once more.

He was 12 years old and he more than understood the task before him.

It was interesting, a strange sort of project, art meeting magic and scientific practicality, his quill scratched against the page as he outlined and diagramed. “Basic commands along with color commands would work, and in theory each time the spell is used the same color will be produced.”

Scratches and lines, details and dimensions.

“I wonder if there’s any way we change the exact hue of the color, maybe a different wand movement would affect it?” he asked aloud, more to himself then the Slytherin boy he was meant to be working with, paging through a heavily annotated textbook.

He picked up his quill and it was immediately snatched away by the other boy. “Alek!” he protested with a small grin, stealing it back, feathers crumpling under his fingers. “We need to finish this, do you want to do the entire thing by yourself?”

At age thirteen he did not understand. He refused to understand.

He was not meant to be at the kitchen table for another five months and yet he sat there in the quiet of the house, the untouched tea before him staring up at the boy accusingly.

”This isn’t a new conversation Mark.”

He refused to look at his father, and his eyes found anything, everything else, the dust bunnies collecting in the corner, the beige stain on the table cloth.

”I understand how you’re feeling, but…”

He did not understand. Bits and pieces perhaps, but only Mark saw the situation for what it really was, complicated and fatigued, swirls of color and the dull red of excuses thinly covering the mural that had been the past months.

”You knew your time at Hogwarts was dependent on your health.”

He stared into the tea, weak and watching. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It should have been steeped longer, he should have been stronger, every inhale should not have caught in his throat and stuttered into a hoarse cough, the sound dissipated into the crowded stone corridors that radiated with life and he could pretend it never--

“I was fine.”

”Mark.”

He was fine counting coughs and gasping for air and stumbling on stairways and dozing through the day--

”I think we both know that’s not true.

At the age of seventeen, he attempted to understand muggle science.

It was strange. Letters were numbers and numbers were the infinite, the atoms that were the pencil that twirled slowly in his fingers, the atoms that were everything, the rays of afternoon sunlight glowing golden on the windows, abstract shapes and negative space shadows, atoms and light and everything.

The pencil, preoccupied, scratched notes on the parchment, letters and numbers and an equation he did not comprehend. A moment passed and he scribbled graphite lines over the science, and left a reminder he did not need, for he was already standing, walking towards the door.

It was spring. He had to pick flowers for his sister.

At the age of twenty three he understood himself as a puzzle.

Some pieces he saw in ultimate clarity, novels in the moment. Others were blurred, streaks of color with no visible plot, a story indiscernible.

Perhaps it would all come together one day. An Atlas of a being, maps of eyes and emotion, but for now he was a story with pages of jumbled words and perhaps one day he would sort them out, sentence by sentence, stanza by stanza.

He sipped his tea and paged through the Daily Prophet, watching the bakery patrons from the corner of his vision, a river of humanity swirling all around him.


SAMPLE ROLEPLAY
(Please respond to to this in third person past tense. Do not write the other characters' reactions. Only your own.)

It was the largest office in Hogwarts and, perhaps to students and newcomers, the most intimidating. The shelves were filled with various odds and ends, with a place of honor for the Sorting Hat, and the walls held all the portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses.

In the middle of the room sat a large desk. Everything was in order, for the current occupant had always despised a messy desk. It was the sign of a messy mind, and she had always favored neatness.

A clock sat on the desk, which currently showed the time to be 2:05. The meeting was supposed to begin at 2:00 precisely.

Along with order, Anneka valued punctuality. She was a very busy woman these days. Even during the summer, she had a number of matters to attend to. Interviewing and hiring staff was only of those matters. The newest potential member of her staff wasn't making a good impression.

She paced the room, black heels clicking against the stone floor. When the door finally opened, Anneka turned, her expression reminiscent of a Russian winter. "You are late."

Explain yourself was what her face said.

Roleplay Response:

He’d worn a tie, a relic, threads fraying and tearing, unraveling from the rows of ashen pinstripe. Mark had spent too many minutes staring at the boy in the mirror, hands lanky and bony smoothing and fixing hair that never stayed put, molecular motions moving individual strands, causing a mass migration.

He thought he had given up on his appearance, but it seemed Mark Lerner dressed up for Hogwarts.

The books he held shifted from hand to hand, as if the dog eared parchment and underlined phrases would ease the nerves that fluttered in his stomach, raw and untethered among birds of ambitions that flapped wings of trepidation and cried out logic and dreams nearing fruition.

Mark turned the corner absentmindedly, small amid the portraits and the rows of stone. Every corner was foreign and yet familiar, a distant memory cloaked in dust and sand. He remembered walking in a hallway with Alek and without Alek, footsteps sure and unsure, but he was confident in every motion, a twelve year old boy paving his own path.

But there never was a path. There were only doors, and countless corridors.

Corridors cloaked in dust and the shadow of a clouded morning, corridors bright with windows in the walls, corridors that reeked of bleach and grim despair and the identical stone corridors in which he found himself wandering, hopelessly lost.

He walked, slowly backwards, searching for familiarity and anything to indicate direction, the tapping of weathered soles echoing against the stone and muttering cruel lies, mistakes he made and books he should not have bothered with, and turn back turn back, but there were always doors in labyrinthine corridors, and Mark opened one to opportunity.

”You are late.”

(And the door began to close.)

“I’m sorry Headmistress Ivanova…” he stammered, frantic hands stacking and restacking the books he held. “It’s been a long time, a-and the corridors are almost identical unless--”

He took a deep breath, attentions turned from the books and towards the Headmistress. “I’m sorry.” he grinned sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”

3
Elsewhere Accepted / Re: mark lerner | elsewhere adult
« on: 29/08/2016 at 05:21 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Mark Lerner
Gender: Male
Age: Twenty one (born January 27, 1927)
Blood Status: Half

Education: 
Hogwarts School Ravenclaw- second year and part of third year.
Homeschooled by father after that.


Residence:
Great Salkeld, Carlisle.

Occupation
nerd and best brother ever adult.

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?
Nope.

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: 8
  • Divination: 6
  • Transfiguration: 12
  • Summoning: 6
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Nope unless brother to Mavis Lerner counts as a group.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Mavis Lerner et al.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
Buried behind the sweaters and plants neatly lining Mark’s closet there is a medium sized hogwarts trunk tucked into a corner. Dust is ingrained into the wood, yet it shows no other sign of wear.

Hidden inside is an odd assortment of objects, each placed with care, never falling away from their designated spot. Atop the objects is a scarf of blue and gold, the knitted threads loose and fading. A picture album, the cover stained and wrinkled, the pages bursting with photos, wilted flowers, notes on torn pages. Others are scattered to the corners,each wrapped in lilac hued cloth napkins, age fading the fabric to near white. A pocket watch with a shattered face, the hands frozen at six twenty five, a jar filled with sand, a stolen pad of stationery from St.Mungo’s hospital. The seventh book from the 1930 publication of encyclopedia Britannica lies under the stationary, an eagle feather quill marking the owners place in the book.   

Mark Lerner was seven years old when he received the book, eight when he read it, and nine years old when he scratched words into the pages, under an entry detailing the etymology of the word mother.

I don’t have one of these anymore.

I think.

I used to but she’s gone.

I think.

I’m not sure of anything anymore.

Mavis is scared because Dad won’t answer her questions, and I don’t have any answers for her. She’s so little, how could she possibly understand anything?

I don’t understand either

The book is littered with notes the boy added in, creating an encyclopedia of his life, dated and illustrated.

April 24, 1937

Mums birthday. Mavis and I made a cake. Well I did most of it, Mavis helped with the icing.

Dad was in his office all day, and he wouldn't come out to eat.

We had cake for dinner, but we only ate a few bites. It wasn't very good cake.

June 6, 1937.

Mavis stayed in my room last night. Bad dream.

June 14, 1937.

Dad made eggs. We ate them to be polite but they tasted like ash. Dad dropped a plate and he didn't clean it up. Just looked at it for a long time and went upstairs.

I'm worried about him.

July 3, 1937.

Mavis told me the lilac bush didn't bloom this year. I didn't even notice.

July 12, 1937.

Dad was crying today. He didn't see us but we watched. It made Mavis cry, and she sat on the swing outside for a long time.

I'm really worried.

Summer waned and fall began, and Mark Lerner began to forget about the encyclopedia hidden under his bed, surrounded by other treasures. He taught his sister math from borrowed muggle workbooks, he learned to cook simple meals, and did his best to keep a five year old Mavis from wandering into the woods. Benjamin Lerner returned to the real world with broken glasses and a broken heart.

January 28, 1938.

Wow this thing got dusty. I can't stop sneezing.

I'm ten now! We had cake and I got a sweater and a mystery novel, and Mavis brought me flowers. Dad been walking with her in the woods lately, she keeps coming back with flowers. I keep finding them in my shoes.

it was odd without mum, it felt like something was missing.

March 24, 1938.

Dear Mavis,

Please stop going outside without telling anyone late at night and making dad think you were eaten by something even though I'm not sure what would eat you.

Also I kind of liked the dirt on my shoes.

April, 10, 1938.

It's been raining for three days and Mavis still went outside and tried to climb the willow tree and she cut her hands up.

And got mud everywhere, but dad didn't mind.

May 14, 1938.

The lilac finally bloomed, but there's only one flower.

Mavis said it was the best birthday present ever.

August 8, 1938.

The kitchen smells like burned tomatoes and we’re mostly sure the stove is broken.

Mrs. Jill brought us a casserole. It tasted a bit like socks.

December 14, 1938.

Matthew Carter called us freaks today. We were walking with dad to the post office because he mailed something to a muggle friend instead of using Winston, and stupid Matthew carter whispered freaks to the butcher.

Dad told me to ignore him, but we aren't freaks! It's not true that dirty liar! I'm not a freak! he's the freak.

December 15, 1938
I turned an orange blue by accident today.

I'm not a freak Matthew Carter accidental magic is a completely normal occurrence.

January 31, 1939.

I got my letter for Hogwarts! I've been waiting for it since my birthday, but now that I have it, it doesn't seem real.

Mavis doesn't want me to go, but I think she'll be ok without me. I can still write letters!

April 28, 1939.
Two lilacs. Dad said he doesn't understand why a perfectly healthy bush would produce so few flowers.

Mavis said its just sad.

August 24, 1939.

I just want to feel better before September first.

The encyclopedia remained closed for months, placed next to glasses of water and medicine bottles littering his bedside table. It saw doctors checking the eleven year old boy's throat and chest, it saw a worried father leaning against a door frame, fixing his glasses as if his life depended on it, and a young girl staring at her sleeping brother, fear and confusion in her eyes. Months past, Marks health teetered on a mountain top, threatening to plummet at any moment.

March 18, 1940.

I feel horrible.

Everything hurts and my throat is on fire, my voice is a hoarse whisper and I can barely hold this pen without feeling woozy.

And I feel horrible because I missed my first year at Hogwarts, I missed the sorting and the classes and new friends, even homework.

And it's even worse than horrible that Mavis thought I was going to die and Dad's persuasion that I wouldn't wasn't convincing enough. She barely leaves me, only when Dad asks her to.

I'm so tired…

July 5, 1940.

I took a short walk today and I didn't feel too tired! It made Dad and Mavis really happy.

And she finally told me that the lilac bush had bloomed in abundance, more flower then leaves. She kept a few pressed in Dad's books.

August 17, 1940.

It's been decided! I'll get to go to Hogwarts this year!

Dad was worried I would be behind the other second years, but I've been reading the first year textbooks and practicing and I think I'll be alright. Dad also asked me at least five times if I thought I was well enough to go, then made me prove it by walking around the house and helping with dinner (vegetable soup), and I was only a bit tired afterward!

Mavis still didn't want me to go, but she watched the whole thing and said if I was so excited about it then I ought to go.

I'm more concerned about my housemates, they've all had a year to get to know each other after all.

(I'm hoping for Ravenclaw.)

The encyclopedia found its way into an empty dresser drawer, forgotten by the boy in his excitement to leave. In the time it sat waiting for his return, Mark Lerner was sorted into Ravenclaw, the hat sat atop its head for a long moment, saying nothing beside a murmur of interesting and proclaiming Ravenclaw with a booming voice. He excelled at his classes, with a special love for transfiguration. For the first time in his life he had friends other than his sister and father. As much as he wanted to be a normal schoolboy, traces of his illness grew, weaving and twisting into the summer.

July 22, 1940.

I'm so sleepy.

July 24, 1940.

Slept for most of today. Don't feel any better.

August 30, 1940.

If I hear there's a war on one more time…

Once again the encyclopedia was left alone in the dresser, waiting for the boy to return. It met a girl much earlier, when an eight year old Mavis found the book and pressed a few flowers, relics from the ends of summer within its pages. A thin layer of dust had collected on its cover when in the midst of winter, the dresser drawer was torn open.

February 3, 1941.

I want to slam the door again, over and over and over until it brings me back to school. SCHOOL.

Not the Hospital Wing…

Dad said it was for my own good I left, that “I would return to health at home when I was surrounded by other students and didn't have to climb stairs.”

Damn stairs, I only fell once! it always hurts to breathe but- I just want to be normal. I don't want to be sick anymore.

Why can't it just go away?

February 3, 1941, a different time.

Mavis wants to come in. I don't want to talk right now please just--

She keeps sliding notes under the door.

(A dozen scraps of paper have been tucked within the pages, messages such as “Mark?” And “Are you alright?” written on each. One written in shaky letters, asks “is it something I did?”)

May 22, 1941.

Dad said he could teach me things. “One on one education. It'll be better than Hogwarts.”

I said ok.

I just want to know how to transfigure everything in my body to be healthy again.

August 1, 1941.

Divination is impossible. I fell asleep in my tea again.

But Dad said he can't see anything either so I feel better about sleeping in his lesson.

September 2, 1941.

I woke up early yesterday because I thought I was going to school but then my throat burned and I couldn't say anything for the rest of the day. Every breath hurt.

Mavis read me stories and brought me tea.

Sometimes I wonder what I would do without Mavis. Besides feel horrible and lonely.

October 18, 1941.

I'm gonna put this in my old trunk. It's not like I have much use for that trunk anymore.

The encyclopedia never knew dust after that, it saw light constantly, felt hands and woods and the soft touch of flowers. It watched Mark grow beyond the young boy desperate for normality. Like the gardener to its crops, it watched him sprout and reach towards the sun, then bloom, his petals imperfect yet beautifully unique.

December 11, 1941.

Cynthia Brewer is prettier than all the flowers Mavis gives me even though there happens to be a certain nine year old who says her nose is too big.

She is wrong.

December 26, 1941.
Alek visited for the holidays! We wrote letters to each other but it was nice to see him in person.

March 4, 1942.

CYNTHIA MOVED AWAY.

NO MAVIS HER NOSE WAS PERFECT PLEASE LEAVE.

November 15, 1942.

I never realized that it's only when you're looking for a happy memory you start to remember all the bad ones.

I tried to cast a patronus and all I could think about was the world fighting with each other and dad looking sad when he thinks we aren't looking and Mavis being quiet all the time and mum and things burning…

I couldn't cast anything, needless to say.

May 10, 1943.

Mavis got her Hogwarts letter and she doesn't want to go.

Which she told me after staring at it for awhile then spending the rest of the afternoon outside then crawling into my bed at night and saying she didn't want to go.

I think I convinced her to go, but she still doesn't look pleased about leaving. I suppose it's understandable.

August 13, 1943.

I saved up random change and pocket money and bought Mavis her own owl. She named it Mavik, which I thought was a little silly but it's her owl.

September 1, 1943.

Platform 9 and ¾ hasn't changed at all. It's funny when I imagined Mavis going to Hogwarts I thought I would get on the train with her.

Not hugging her goodbye.

And it felt odd after she let go of me and got on the train, to realize I wasn't going to hug her for almost a year. And as the train vanished I thought about her sitting with me as I slept, and talking at night, and teaching her chess under the willow tree.

It's odd without her here. Like something's missing.

Without the girl the boy turned to the encyclopedia, tucking her letters and flowers inside the weathered pages. The book learned more about the girl it had met an afternoon long ago, absorbing her stories of classes and quiet moments, the roar of the great hall and a boy with arrows. It heard her voice briefly in a snowy December, and then she was gone.

January 27, 1944.

According to wizarding law, I'm an adult.

I don't feel any different.

Mavis sent a card she made, and Dad said he would have gotten me a new watch if i wasn't so attached to the one I have. He found a new chess set for me. And it's beautiful, all carved stone and everything.

May 14, 1944.

Happy birthday Mavis.


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:
London was a strange corner of the world.

The air smothered him, soot caked to his glassen lungs and smothered them every breath burned as if the factory ash was recalling it’s time sizzling into steel. It filled the cracks in the glass and dug deeper, craving more from him.

(But what else was there to give besides every breath he had left? And he clung to those, breaths were scared, he would trade an inhale for every coin he had; though there weren’t many, an exhale for London.)

But the buildings were not his to trade, he simply stared at them with the wide eyes of a child, and without the stone and woven metal the people flooding the streets would have nothing. They would simply stand in a field, glancing warily at the grass sprouting where there had once been cobblestones, searching for buildings they would never find, for a boy had traded it for another breath, for a simple motion that would keep him alive for a few seconds more.

He turned, there were so many people, a river of limbs and coats and murmurs, each of their faces was a mystery he wanted to read, investigate and solve, to take each frown to tea and ask what had made it this way, he wanted to help that man carry the large boxes dwarfing him, he wanted to give the woman looking at the ground a hug to make her smile. There were so few smiles in this crowd, he noticed more and more as he weaved through it. Was London that dismal? Mark rather liked it, not the scorching of fragile breaths but the life of the city. Great Salked was a still pond, it trembled a bit in the wind then stilled again. London was a raging river, rapids and waterfalls of people dashing from place to place, working and breathing and living so close together, yet unconnected. A spider web with thousands of arachnids, yet none of them knew about each other.

(He wondered what would happen if the entire city of London gathered to sit down and meet each other for the first time. There would be shudders and smiles, laughter and loud groans as enemies collided, it would be chaotic, madness, marvelous.)

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

Thoughts of city in a room shattered as indigo eyes turned from an old man clinging to a briefcase like it would save his life and for all Mark knew it could, a universe could reside inside that briefcase and no one would ever know besides the man. He looked down to find a woman scrambling for a shoe, but it wouldn’t save her life. The broken heel wouldn’t save her from being trampled.

But the hand reaching out to her could.

“Are you alright miss? That’s not a good place to fall.” he grinned slightly, dark hair falling in front of his face.



OTHER
How did you find us? Google

4
Elsewhere Accepted / Re: mark lerner | elsewhere adult
« on: 26/08/2016 at 22:42 »
(Edit: Resides in Great Salkeld, Carlisle.)

5
Elsewhere Accepted / mark lerner | elsewhere adult
« on: 26/08/2016 at 01:47 »


E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Mark Lerner
Gender: Male
Age: Twenty one (born January 27, 1927)
Blood Status: Half

Education: 
Hogwarts School Ravenclaw- second year and part of third year.
Homeschooled by father after that.


Residence:
Type your response here - where does your character live?

Occupation
nerd and best brother ever adult.

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?
Nope.

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: 8
  • Divination: 6
  • Transfiguration: 12
  • Summoning: 6
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Nope unless brother to Mavis Lerner counts as a group.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Mavis Lerner et al.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
Buried behind the sweaters and plants neatly lining Mark’s closet there is a medium sized hogwarts trunk tucked into a corner. Dust is ingrained into the wood, yet it shows no other sign of wear.

Hidden inside is an odd assortment of objects, each placed with care, never falling away from their designated spot. Atop the objects is a scarf of blue and gold, the knitted threads loose and fading. A picture album, the cover stained and wrinkled, the pages bursting with photos, wilted flowers, notes on torn pages. Others are scattered to the corners,each wrapped in lilac hued cloth napkins, age fading the fabric to near white. A pocket watch with a shattered face, the hands frozen at six twenty five, a jar filled with sand, a stolen pad of stationery from St.Mungo’s hospital. The seventh book from the 1930 publication of encyclopedia Britannica lies under the stationary, an eagle feather quill marking the owners place in the book.   

Mark Lerner was seven years old when he received the book, eight when he read it, and nine years old when he scratched words into the pages, under an entry detailing the etymology of the word mother.

I don’t have one of these anymore.

I think.

I used to but she’s gone.

I think.

I’m not sure of anything anymore.

Mavis is scared because Dad won’t answer her questions, and I don’t have any answers for her. She’s so little, how could she possibly understand anything?

I don’t understand either

The book is littered with notes the boy added in, creating an encyclopedia of his life, dated and illustrated.

April 24, 1937

Mums birthday. Mavis and I made a cake. Well I did most of it, Mavis helped with the icing.

Dad was in his office all day, and he wouldn't come out to eat.

We had cake for dinner, but we only ate a few bites. It wasn't very good cake.

June 6, 1937.

Mavis stayed in my room last night. Bad dream.

June 14, 1937.

Dad made eggs. We ate them to be polite but they tasted like ash. Dad dropped a plate and he didn't clean it up. Just looked at it for a long time and went upstairs.

I'm worried about him.

July 3, 1937.

Mavis told me the lilac bush didn't bloom this year. I didn't even notice.

July 12, 1937.

Dad was crying today. He didn't see us but we watched. It made Mavis cry, and she sat on the swing outside for a long time.

I'm really worried.

Summer waned and fall began, and Mark Lerner began to forget about the encyclopedia hidden under his bed, surrounded by other treasures. He taught his sister math from borrowed muggle workbooks, he learned to cook simple meals, and did his best to keep a five year old Mavis from wandering into the woods. Benjamin Lerner returned to the real world with broken glasses and a broken heart.

January 28, 1938.

Wow this thing got dusty. I can't stop sneezing.

I'm ten now! We had cake and I got a sweater and a mystery novel, and Mavis brought me flowers. Dad been walking with her in the woods lately, she keeps coming back with flowers. I keep finding them in my shoes.

it was odd without mum, it felt like something was missing.

March 24, 1938.
Dear Mavis,

Please stop going outside without telling anyone late at night and making dad think you were eaten by something even though I'm not sure what would eat you.

Also I kind of liked the dirt on my shoes.

April, 10, 1938.
It's been raining for three days and Mavis still went outside and tried to climb the willow tree and she cut her hands up.

And got mud everywhere, but dad didn't mind.

May 14, 1938.

The lilac finally bloomed, but there's only one flower.

Mavis said it was the best birthday present ever.

August 8, 1938.

The kitchen smells like burned tomatoes and we’re mostly sure the stove is broken.

Mrs. Jill brought us a casserole. It tasted a bit like socks.

December 14, 1938.

Matthew Carter called us freaks today. We were walking with dad to the post office because he mailed something to a muggle friend instead of using Winston, and stupid Matthew carter whispered freaks to the butcher.

Dad told me to ignore him, but we aren't freaks! It's not true that dirty liar! I'm not a freak! He's the freak.

December 15, 1938
I turned an orange blue by accident today.

I'm not a freak Matthew Carter accidental magic is a completely normal occurrence.

January 31, 1939.
I got my letter for Hogwarts! I've been waiting for it since my birthday, but now that I have it, it doesn't seem real.

Mavis doesn't want me to go, but I think she'll be ok without me. I can still write letters!

April 28, 1939.
Two lilacs. Dad said he doesn't understand why a perfectly healthy bush would produce so few flowers.

Mavis said its just sad.

August 24, 1939.
I just want to feel better before September first.


The encyclopedia remained closed for months, placed next to glasses of water and medicine bottles littering his bedside table. It saw doctors checking the eleven year old boy's throat and chest, it saw a worried father leaning against a door frame, fixing his glasses as if his life depended on it, and a young girl staring at her sleeping brother, fear and confusion in her eyes. Months past, Mark's health teetered on a mountain top, threatening to plummet at any moment.

March 18, 1939.

I feel horrible.

Everything hurts and my throat is on fire, my voice is a hoarse whisper and I can barely hold this pen without feeling woozy.

And I feel horrible because I missed my first year at Hogwarts, I missed the sorting and the classes and new friends, even homework.

And it's even worse than horrible that Mavis thought I was going to die and Dads persuasion that I wouldn't wasn't convincing enough. She barely leaves me, only when Dad asks her to.

I'm so tired…

July 5, 1939.

I took a short walk today and I didn't feel too tired! It made Dad and Mavis really happy.

And she finally told me that the lilac bush had bloomed in abundance, more flower then leaves. She kept a few pressed in dads books.

August 17, 1939.
It's been decided! I'll get to go to Hogwarts this year!

Dad was worried I would be behind the other second years, but I've been reading the first year textbooks and practicing and I think I'll be alright. Dad also asked me at least five times if I thought I was well enough to go, then made me prove it by walking around the house and helping with dinner (vegetable soup), and I was only a bit tired afterward!

Mavis still didn't want me to go, but she watched the whole thing and said if I was so excited about it then I ought to go.

I'm more concerned about my housemates, they've all had a year to get to know each other after all.

(I'm hoping for Ravenclaw.)

The encyclopedia found its way into an empty dresser drawer, forgotten by the boy in his excitement to leave. In the time it sat waiting for his return, Mark Lerner was sorted into Ravenclaw, the hat sat atop its head for a long moment, saying nothing beside a murmur of interesting and proclaiming Ravenclaw with a booming voice. He excelled at his classes, with a special love for transfiguration. For the first time in his life he had friends other than his sister and father. As much as he wanted to be a normal schoolboy, traces of his illness grew, weaving and twisting into the summer.

July 22, 1940.

I'm so sleepy.

July 24, 1940.

Slept for most of today. Don't feel any better.

August 30, 1940.

If I hear there's a war on one more time…

Once again the encyclopedia was left alone in the dresser, waiting for the boy to return. It met a girl much earlier, when an eight year old Mavis found the book and pressed a few flowers, relics from the ends of summer within its pages. A thin layer of dust had collected on its cover when in the midst of winter, the dresser drawer was torn open.

February 3, 1941.

I want to slam the door again, over and over and over until it brings me back to school. SCHOOL.

Not the Hospital Wing…

Dad said it was for my own good I left, that “I would return to health at home when I was surrounded by other students and didn't have to climb stairs.”

Damn stairs, I only fell once! it always hurts to breathe but- I just want to be normal. I don't want to be sick anymore.

Why can't it just go away?

February 3, 1941, a different time.

Mavis wants to come in. I don't want to talk right now please just--

She keeps sliding notes under the door.

(A dozen scraps of paper have been tucked within the pages, messages such as “Mark?” And “Are you alright?” written on each. One written in shaky letters, asks “is it something I did?”)

May 22, 1941.

Dad said he could teach me things. “One on one education. It'll be better than Hogwarts.”

I said ok.

I just want to know how to transfigure everything in my body to be healthy again.

August 1, 1941.

Divination is impossible. I fell asleep in my tea again.

But Dad said he can't see anything either so I feel better about sleeping in his lesson.

September 2, 1941.

I woke up early yesterday because I thought I was going to school but then my throat burned and I couldn't say anything for the rest of the day. Every breath hurt.

Mavis read me stories and brought me tea.

Sometimes I wonder what I would do without Mavis. Besides feel horrible and lonely.

October 18, 1941.

I'm gonna put this in my old trunk. It's not like I have much use for that trunk anymore.

The encyclopedia never knew dust after that, it saw light constantly, felt hands and woods and the soft touch of flowers. It watched Mark grow beyond the young boy desperate for normality. Like the gardener to its crops, it watched him sprout and reach towards the sun, then bloom, his petals imperfect yet beautifully unique.

December 11, 1941.

Cynthia Brewer is prettier than all the flowers Mavis gives me even though there happens to be a certain nine year old who says her nose is too big.

She is wrong.

December 26, 1941.

Alek visited for the holidays! We wrote letters but it was nice to see him.

March 4, 1942.

CYNTHIA MOVED AWAY.

NO MAVIS HER NOSE WAS PERFECT PLEASE LEAVE.

November 15, 1942.

I never realized that it's only when you're looking for a happy memory you start to remember all the bad ones.

I tried to cast a patronus and all I could think about was the world fighting with each other and dad looking sad when he thinks we aren't looking and Mavis being quiet all the time and mum and things burning…

I couldn't cast anything, needless to say.

May 10, 1943.

Mavis got her Hogwarts letter and she doesn't want to go.

Which she told me after staring at it for awhile then spending the rest of the afternoon outside then crawling into my bed at night and saying she didn't want to go.

I think I convinced her to go, but she still doesn't look pleased about leaving. I suppose it's understandable.

August 13, 1943.

I saved up random change and pocket money and bought Mavis her own owl. She named it Mavik, which I thought was a little silly but it's her owl.

September 1, 1943.

Platform 9 and ¾ hasn't changed at all. It's funny when I imagined Mavis going to Hogwarts I thought I would get on the train with her.

Not hugging her goodbye.

And it felt odd after she let go of me and got on the train, to realize I wasn't going to hug her for almost a year. And as the train vanished I thought about her sitting with me as I slept, and talking at night, and teaching her chess under the willow tree.

It's odd without her here. Like something's missing.

Without the girl the boy turned to the encyclopedia, tucking her letters and flowers inside the weathered pages. The book learned more about the girl it had met an afternoon long ago, absorbing her stories of classes and quiet moments, the roar of the great hall and a boy with arrows. It heard her voice briefly in a snowy December, and then she was gone.

January 27, 1944.

According to wizarding law, I'm an adult.

I don't feel any different.

Mavis sent a card she made, and Dad said he would have gotten me a new watch if i wasn't so attached to the one I have. He found a new chess set for me. And it's beautiful, all carved stone and everything.

May 14, 1944.

Happy birthday Mavis.



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:

London was a strange corner of the world.

The air smothered him, soot caked to his glassen lungs and smothered them every breath burned as if the factory ash was recalling it’s time sizzling into steel. It filled the cracks in the glass and dug deeper, craving more from him.

(But what else was there to give besides every breath he had left? And he clung to those, breaths were scared, he would trade an inhale for every coin he had; though there weren’t many, an exhale for London.)

But the buildings were not his to trade, he simply stared at them with the wide eyes of a child, and without the stone and woven metal the people flooding the streets would have nothing. They would simply stand in a field, glancing warily at the grass sprouting where there had once been cobblestones, searching for buildings they would never find, for a boy had traded it for another breath, for a simple motion that would keep him alive for a few seconds more.

He turned, there were so many people, a river of limbs and coats and murmurs, each of their faces was a mystery he wanted to read, investigate and solve, to take each frown to tea and ask what had made it this way, he wanted to help that man carry the large boxes dwarfing him, he wanted to give the woman looking at the ground a hug to make her smile. There were so few smiles in this crowd, he noticed more and more as he weaved through it. Was London that dismal? Mark rather liked it, not the scorching of fragile breaths but the life of the city. Great Salked was a still pond, it trembled a bit in the wind then stilled again. London was a raging river, rapids and waterfalls of people dashing from place to place, working and breathing and living so close together, yet unconnected. A spider web with thousands of arachnids, yet none of them knew about each other.

(He wondered what would happen if the entire city of London gathered to sit down and meet each other for the first time. There would be shudders and smiles, laughter and loud groans as enemies collided, it would be chaotic, madness, marvelous.)

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

Thoughts of city in a room shattered as indigo eyes turned from an old man clinging to a briefcase like it would save his life and for all Mark knew it could, a universe could reside inside that briefcase and no one would ever know besides the man. He looked down to find a woman scrambling for a shoe, but it wouldn’t save her life. The broken heel wouldn’t save her from being trampled.

But the hand reaching out to her could.

“Are you alright miss? That’s not a good place to fall?” he grinned slightly, dark hair falling in front of his face.


OTHER
How did you find us? Google

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