Welcome to Hogwarts School :: A Harry Potter RPG! It's 1960!


This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.

Messages - Lazarus King

Pages: [1]
Elsewhere Accepted / Lazarus King | Elsewhere Adult
« on: 03/06/2015 at 01:52 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T


Character Name: Lazarus “Royal” King.
Gender: Male.
Age: 19.
Blood Status: Half blood.

Education: Durmstrang, 1943

Residence: London. In the past he lived in his family’s rundown apartment, but after being disowned he tends to lurk in sketchy establishments and inns.

Older brother of Artemis, Apollo, (NPCS) and Orpheus King.

Occupation:Hitman (Wanted Criminal)

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?
Wanted for murder and illegal use of the three unforgivable curses by the ministry.

Requested Magic Levels:
  • Charms: 12
  • Divination: 6
  • Transfiguration: 8
  • 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:
It’s Vica yo! (Ars, Tsubasa, Tibby and Evelyn)

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

Time is elastic, and the future holds no promises for Lazarus. Each moment is a qualitative copy, differentiated only by its meaningless quantitative component. When he pictures things, they’re in chunks; when he focuses on something, it’s comprised of puzzle pieces. The only things he lives for are gold and glory, and since he’s been denied his role as someone famous, he’s settled for becoming infamous.

If the story’s put back together, it looks like this:

Yesterday: The past is done.

One of the corner pieces of the puzzle features a flat in London, gray stone painted over with years of artistic politics. The door is barred to him now, but his childhood is still locked inside. Outside of the window of the bedroom he shared with his younger siblings, he came to grips with the layers of his own existence. Underneath of every mismatched piece, they lurk: each of them the color of blood. That was really the problem after all, so many of his family’s aspirations rested upon his shoulders, but he was bound by society’s vanity about his own veins. Even though he was English and a Wizard, he was also Korean and a Halfblood. At least on paper. These were both things he adamantly denied growing up, but his peers were loath to forget them. His family was asking him to walk through fire, and it consumed his young mind. How could his hands pull them from poverty, and from judgement, when they could barely stand to defend himself?

Underneath a table are a few pieces of his years at Durmstrang. The choice to go to school abroad was one of the few things the boy ever asked his family for, as he felt sick of his surroundings. For the first few years he did fairly well despite the controversies and lack of wealth, but after reaching puberty he became increasingly truant. In fourth year, he became particularly fond of the dark arts and this obsession steadily grew through the years. Before graduation, he developed a rather dark reputation and was shadowed by rumors, most of which had no foundation. He graduated quietly.

In the middle of it all are pieces that lined up right after his eighteenth birthday. After returning to London, Lazarus was unable to find immediate work and toyed with the idea of joining the army. It seemed like the best option, but his family couldn’t stand the idea of losing their first son –the one that would surely bring them glory. A friend of a friend of a friend was the one who brought him the proposition. Some Pureblood wanted another Pureblood gone due to some ancient feud; Lazarus didn’t care about the story, he saw the gold. The potential.

On a rainy night in the summer of 1943, Lazarus cast the killing curse for the first time. “Arrangements” were made by his contractor, and his victim still remains “missing”.

It wasn’t death that hung over him, but relief. With his blood money in tow, and most of the evidence obscured, he went home and saw the cramped apartment his family was packed into for the first time. With the money he’d earned, they could fix the roof. Buy the youngest kid a bed. Get some milk once in a while, or every day. He wasn’t proud, but he grinned when he dropped the first few galleons on the stained wooden table. After so many years, he could finally support them as he’d paid for their lives with the life of another. It was a good deal.
The questions caught him off guard. They were meant to be happy, but their accusations came like bullets:

“Where did you get this kind of money?”

It was not supposed to matter. Shrugging and laughing it off didn’t work. There was no daytime job that paid so much that quickly (twenty galleons out of the hundreds he’d actually earned) and his mother was unable to accept his sacrifice. Even if it gave his siblings a chance at what he never had. Even if he’d died for it.
Eighteen and disowned, he hit the streets.

Today: Live in the moment.

A little over a year later, Lazarus wouldn’t recognize his own reflection. Life as a denizen of the underworld has made his skin thick, and his heart elastic. Known in the black market as the hitman “Royal” (a name derived as much from his name as his sudden riches), he stalks the alleyways like he owns them, vying to be the biggest shadow in the night. In the few months he’s been working, he’s carried out five assassinations and his lack of interest in the people he murders has leant most inclined to pay for such services to whisper about his credibility; such clean work is a rare find.
In his free time, Lazarus tries to fly under the radar, but has begun to realize he can’t run from his infamy. In the underworld, he lives a dangerous life, and is known to instigate fights. His weapon of choice is a cloud of charmed switchblades. A few casualties have been linked with his name outside his hits –people he knew in the underground –but like with the other murders, there’s little evidence. With so much blood on his hands, he’s aware that his hours are limited and seeks to live as luxuriously as possible before he’s inevitably killed or locked up in Azkaban. Parties. Booze. Women. With more gold than God, he has it all. When he goes out, he’ll be smiling.

Tomorrow: Don’t put off for tomorrow what you could do today.

For Lazarus, there is no tomorrow. 

Roleplay Response:

Option 1

The lights were all so impossibly bright. Even sunlight blinded him; sunshine was too energetic and promising of life. The world of the nine to five masses was foreign to him, and he walked through the throngs of bodies feeling vampiric. Thankfully, his eyes were shaded by dark glasses, and like some sort of comical villain he prayed they’d mislead anyone who might recognize his features.

The day didn’t suit him, but the night still lingered in his head, somewhere behind his eyes. The night before had been a thunderstorm, and he hadn’t sleep. Each strike of lighting had hinted at the danger he was in, but like a fool he’d been content to stand beneath a tree and wait for the rain to stop. All morning, he’d been wandering about, too paranoid about being followed to stop and fathom a rest. It was afternoon, and he was still awake. At sunset, it would be twenty-four hours.

“Sir, please! It’s for the Prophet, how do you feel-“

The single word “Prophet” from amongst the cacophonous babble of the alley acted like a cup of coffee. It set him on edge, and he walked faster. Every night (well nearly every night), he religiously collected the newspapers and scoured their mind-numbing nonsense for any leak of information about him. The world in the daylight was a different monster from the one that emerged in the shadows. Tartarus had its own sort of war. Although he had no illusions as to what a reporter might want, he felt more comfortable avoiding making headlines. For now.

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

Women were loud out here; which was strange. He’d always fancied that the girls who prowled about in the afternoon were ladies. Housewives and the like. Innocent sweethearts with curly hair and naïve smiles.

The screams sounded a bit like a frog to him, but he had to give the poor damsel the benefit of the doubt and attribute his irritation to her lack of sleep. The fact remained however –this maniac was making the girls in the Moulin Rouge sound like a bunch of temperate kittens.

While he debated it, he tripped over a shoe.

As he bent down to pick it up, he noticed the woman sprawled across the ground, causing all the racket.

It seemed like she had a sweeter face than he pictured.

With the shoe in his hand, he approached her. Mentally, he knew it was unlikely that her heel was actually broken, as she seemed like a bit of an actress, but he smiled all the same. Even wearing the clothes he’d donned the day before, his expensive suit and sunglasses gave him the aura of a movie star.

“Miss Cinderella,” he called sweetly as he squatted down, giving a sly nod to the stray shoe.

“Do you need a hand up, or should I carry you off”?

He offered her his hand, but if she was actually hurt there was no way in hell he’d actually take her to Mungo’s, but he wanted to know if she was faking.

What a princess.


How did you find us? I don’t remember, but there was probably a rainbow.
Some other stuff:

I run making a hitman and mentioning the unforgivable curses by Emma

Reference to the Moulin Rouge cleared by Panda!

Pages: [1]