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Topics - Freya Oshiro

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Elsewhere Accepted / Freya Oshiro | Elsewhere Adult
« on: 04/05/2015 at 03:44 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Freya Oshiro.
Gender: Femme.
Age: 26.
Blood Status: Half-Blood.

Hogwarts: Ravenclaw, Class of '35.

Matchbox flat in London

Reporter. Hopes to work with the Daily Prophet.

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

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Monty Petrescu-Forney [But not sorted or fully applied].

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

       Freya lived the days after graduation out of a cardboard box and a carpetbag her father bought in a trip to America the year before he met her mother. She did not carry around important things; nothing on her person couldn't one day be replaced with a little money or found again if she retraced her steps. The only thing, she supposed, sitting at the back of a muggle taxi, traveling the slow way to her new flat in London, she had of any value could be the framed anonymous peer review from a previous employment, sticking up at an angle from out of the cardboard box.

   "So you familiar with the city?" the cabbie asked, turning a cautious corner. Outside, the rain beat against the street and struck the glass with such force it almost drowned out the cabbie's voice. "Don't look like you're from around here."

   "Mm from the North," Freya said after a moment. "Me mum's Japanese. I took her family name for the attention and... je ne sais quoi."

   "That French?" the cabbie said, pulling up in front of the building.

   "What'll it be?" Freya pulled out a wallet. Though far from great about it, she knew muggle money well enough. She compared her knowledge of it to speaking another language. Though her mother learned Japanese first, when her grandparents called, English came as replacement for the native words she had forgotten. 

   The cabbie turned in his seat, putting an arm round the backrest. He was not old, but then, he was not young either. Nor anywhere near Freya's interest. "Give us a smile," he said. "And we'll call it even."

   She put the wallet away, leisure like and demure, pageboy hair slipping a bit from the bobby pin behind an ear and falling like a curtain over an eye. She smiled at the cabbie, looking at him from under her lashes, pushing hair back behind an ear. When she opened the door and lugged her box and bag after her, she shook her wand out from a sleeve and tried for a bubble to protect her from the onslaught of English rain.

   Despite growing up in a small house still large enough for Freya to have her own room, she liked the closeness of the four walls of the London flat. Someone left the narrow window at the other end open and water dripped down over the radiator. Dropping the box with a clatter and clink, she sprinted for the window, carpetbag banging against her hip and digging into the skin against her forearm. She wrestled with glass and wood, t-straps slipping against the wet floor, before it budged and fell, slamming until she feared having broken it for a moment.

   Granted, she could have fixed it up, no one the wiser in only a few seconds, but she supposed living among mortals for so long gave her cause to hesitate. She looked around the little space, hands on hips, considering the possibilities. Then, she lifted her wand again and spread her belongings around: the futon here, a tea table over there, some book shelves up here, don't forget the books, Freya. Here a lamp, there some clothes, a table next to the wall, could that radiator be moved?

   Freya pulled a suitcase out from the carpet bag and lugged it next to where she laid the futon. Inside sat an Underwood Noiseless, charcoal by default, peach according to her mood. Freya ran her hands over the keys, stiffer perhaps than she was used to, but better than a quill where often she could not read what it had written.

   "Temperamental," her father had said, adjusting horn rimmed glasses and looking up at her with enlarged hazel eyes.

   Though both muggleborn, her parents had a tendency to forget their childhood, instead immersing themselves in the whispered Latin and swish-flicks of their wands.
   Freya did not like to forget. She also found wand work, not to take her father's words, to be temperamental. So, instead, she wrote things down. She wrote on her hands, on the bellies of her arms. She wrote on the walls and in the margins of well-loved books. When she bought the typewriter that weighed, perhaps, as much as two of her, she took to writing letters and journals. Freya did not like to forget and did everything within the realm of possibility and creativity to keep from doing so.

   The powerlessness she had over her own mind frightened her, thus the vicious hunt for truths and affirmations.

   "Deadpan and manipulative with a sense of humor as dry and black as gangrene."

   Freya admired whoever had written her that anonymous peer review. She admired the irony and the recognition, albeit negatively put, of her drive for always getting to the bottom of what she'd set out to do.

   Despite all this, an inkling remained at the back of her mind that she had indeed forgotten something yet no amount of writing and pushing helped her remember.


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:

Freya wondered if others frequented diners to listen to the radio. The food tasted something rotten and the coffee had been watered down so, Freya may as well be drinking out of the tap, but she liked that String of Pearls arrangement by Glenn Miller’s Orchestra. She considered a moment, going out and buying a radio. But that would involve having the money to buy a radio in the first place. Something she did not have. Much of.

The little bell on the door keeping the still chilly spring morning out of the diner’s burnt bacon and sausages interior, chimed with her exit. She craved pancakes, but she could count the money in her pocket in the palm of her hand. She wasn't hungry, not really. Her mother often said she could eat the whole north of England out of house and home.

Looking into the darkened window of a still closed for the morning shop, Freya made to retouch her lipstick and maybe smooth back the hair that would end up curled against her forehead by the end of the day when someone not too far away, and close enough for that matter to give her a fright, shouted for help and a shoe rolled to hit the back of Freya’s foot.

A small woman with short red hair scrambled against the cobblestones, under oxford shoes and skirts and wooden heels. Freya bent down and picked up the shoe, noting its twisted heel and waited until the girl was close enough to hold it out for her.
“Until you get that fix,” she said, “you could pretend you were born on the side of a hill.”

How did you find us? Friends

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