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Messages - Cypriana Wolverby

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E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Cypriana Iscariot Wolverby
Gender: Feminine
Age: June 9th, 1926
Blood Status: Pureblood, claimed.

Home schooling
Ynys Dywyll, Isle of Angelsey, United Kingdom

Junior Healer - Spell Damage

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?
I am and will be self-reliant.

Requested Magic Levels:
  • 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?
I make a claim for only myself. There’s no one left to do it for me.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
I have no family of my own that I claim, but I am familiar with Laskos, Taberford, and numbers among the Dukes and Borovksy

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
The winds off the coast of Anglesey soared up the cliffside where Cypriana stood, watching the waves chase the winds. It was violent bet it was more music to her than the sound of a hundred violins. It had a depth of sound that resonated in her very soul. The mists sent chills up her arms which she had neglected to cover. But they were easy to disregard, her heart trembling beneath her frozen expression. The grey night cast a cold shroud over her, but found little warmth remaining to steal. So instead it claimed her as its own, bathed her with its salt mists, and beckoned her to its swirling, tumultuous depths. She was no daughter of spring, but felt the allure of Serapis drawing her closer and promising her its dominion. For if she could not be mistress, she would resign to be its dower maiden if only to bury these feelings in aeternum.

In her bone white hands, she held a dark, leather-bound folio like an offering. Within its crisp sheets were absorbed all the things she had held dear to overflowing and had to be contained in some other vessel. The ink she had poured into those pages was like the impressions of her soul, which could not find expression in the world other than in her written words.

But it was for nothing. It was better to part it from herself, than leave her to hopelessly drown in their black depths. The life she had seen, imagined, and pined for was slipped from her grasp, if it had ever been there. Barely belonging to her dead father’s name, she held no entitlement to its scant possession. Her affections afforded no purchase in their pursuit of one who would never return her desire.

Better it would be, then, that she cut them from her, little had they given her but disappointment. That shade which darkened her fate and cursed her footsteps before she had even placed them. From her father she had gained only a name, a cursed one spat by a mother she did not call her own, and a home which was more a prison than shelter. She would weather the elements, rather and see if she could not carve out something to which she could put her name to.


Tilting her outstretched palms, she gave up that weighted, once-precious book and gave it to the depths of the sea. It cascaded from her hands as it sentiments had poured from her quill. Plummeting, its pages rattled as if in attempt to fly, but it could not escape, and was plunged into the grasping waves. So it was gone, drowned, and irretrievable.

And she felt she could breathe.


You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:

Option One
Roleplay Response:
Her shoes clipped briskly over the worn pavers of Diagon as Cypriana made her way to her evening shift at St. Mungo’s. Ever precise in everything she set out to accomplish, there was not a careless step which she allowed herself. When she had been fifteen and secretly purchased her own first pair of heels, she had almost worn her feet raw straightening her posture in them. So now at twenty-two, her strides were of practiced, efficient grace, certain of where they were headed and intolerant of delay.

She looked for no less in herself. And deplored it lack in others.

Her pace was interrupted by one such disgrace as another woman suddenly stepped into her path, stumbling after some lost article. Cypriana observed her, her own expression betraying little of the cutting observations which came to mind.

Impatient and unwilling to tarnish her immaculate attendance for the follies of others, she removed her wand from its loop on her belt, and flicking it, summoned the errant shoe. “You know, what can be solved by an elemental sticking charm is hardly worth kicking up such a fuss over.”

She offered the item still in its disrepair to the disheveled woman and a look of unmixed criticism tinting the otherwise devoid expression of her face. Though Cypriana made little impression in general, the usual sense others had of her  (from what she overheard) when forced into closer circumstances, was one of ill-at-ease. She saw too much, perhaps, and divulged little. The opinion surely there was inscrutable and she was its sphinxian gatekeeper. But surely it must see some unknowable truth.

It was that for which she was usually ostracized, but she had learned not to begrudge it.
For even curses sometimes held gifts, for those resourceful enough to recognize them, turn them to advantage. Her distance gave her insight, and as a girl who had no option but to strike on her own, she took what she could get.

How did you find us? My path is inextricably woven by fate, and seeking to intwine others in my snares already set.

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