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Messages - Michael Gray

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Merlin's Order of Defense

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Michael Dominic Gray
Age: 42 (b. 12 March 1897)
Gender: Male

Education: 
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Slytherin '15.

Residence:
In a freaking tent. And sometimes at Dahlia Prothero's old department in London.

Division:
33rd Wizarding Infantry Division/54th Brigade. Michael was always a hands-on person, he prefers to be in the middle of the action and, to be fair, it's where he's happiest (if that's what it's called). He's a killing machine. And he's got plenty of experience with surviving on rather sparse conditions (and besides constantly running from Aurors all of his life he's been to Azkaban for a total of four and a half years).

Rank:
Lieutenant (high combat).

Well, Michael is violent (no use in trying to hide that). He'll probably take the "watch and learn" approach considering that he's not really that good at talking to people. He's got a bit of experience with "leading" people from being Head Auror, and he comes with a recommendation from the Ministry where it says he's fit to lead fighters (while he's not so good at the administrative sides). He's fit. He understands the wild. He knows muggle weaponry and muggle ways of doing things. It's not a new world to him, any of this, it's just slightly different from what it used to be.


Specialty:
I don't know if it counts as Speciality, but Michael is advanced when it comes to survival skills, and he definitely has above average knowledge of muggle weaponry (he can use a variety of different guns for example).

Requested Magical Levels: --

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Marcus Altair et. al.


BIOGRAPHY

1909
"Do they pick on you?"

"No."

He only ever spoke to them when they spoke to him first. He was the same around his parents, and it seemed the role of adults was to ask questions. That and yell, and cry, and look frustrated. But they didn't pick on him, already after a year did they know who he was, that the little brother of Seth and Benjamin Gray went after his own troubles. And he always found it.

"So why did you do it?"

The concerned look upon the professor's face would have been evident to anyone but him, but Michael had a hard time reading and making sense of all of these emotions. They didn't fit into his own repetoire of feelings, but he definitely knew that he felt. Still, Martin hadn't done anything to him, not really.

"I wanted to."

The words seemed to escape him innocently, grey eyes so light they seemed completely colourless, blond strands of hair hanging down in his face. Seth had come running, but then Martin had already been on the ground, bleeding heavily from his nose, with Michael on top of him. No, Michael knew that he felt, because of the chill that went down his back whenever he charged, the warmth that spread all the way to his fingertips, and the pain as his hand collided with another body. Seth had dodged his punch and caught his arms, and then it had been Michael on the ground, both of his arms secured on his back, with big brother sitting on top.

"Were you angry at him?" the professor tried, again, searching for logical solutions, but the boy didn't understand logic.

"No."

He sucked at a bruised lower lip, recognizing the metallic taste of his own blood. And he still hadn't managed to put two and two together in order to understand he'd get a detention, one that he would never meet for. As he didn't meet for class unless someone came to get him.


1914
His mother was soft, always, but even her baby boy had outgrown her and she had no control over what he was doing anymore. Only Seth seemed to only ever have the strength to oppose him, and Colin, but daddy Gray was no more exhausted than them when it came to trying to get their youngest son to understand rules.

She reached out her hand to stroke the side of his head, that dirty blond hair, and he looked at her with ever grey eyes.

"I love you Michael, remember that. Whatever happends."

Sixteen years old, but still a child. And even more so wearing that black eye. They'd grown used to it but never unconcerned.

And the crease between his eyes told her that he didn't understand, yet he never shied away from her touch. He'd been that way for as long as she remembered - he didn't seek out her warmth on his own, but when she gave it to him freely he rarely walked away from it.


1916
Her warm blood on his hands made him shiver, and her lips against his felt vibrant at one moment before they lost their momentum completely. Her eyes were as shocked as his own, a blue stare, and his heart beat so fast it hurt.

And she was the most beautiful thing that he'd seen in his entire life.


1917
Money changed hands quickly, hidden behind purple knuckles, but it was rarely the money he cared about - if he'd only been able to survive without food. But a quick glance over his partner's shoulder had Michael turning on the spot, feet carrying him at godspeed down Knockturn's alleys.

The shout from behind let him know that they'd taken Ian, but he could hear two pairs of running feet from behind him.

The power of a spell had him hurling into a stone wall on the opposite side, and he could feel a sharp pain in his side, yet he rolled around once and was back on his feet in a second.

A second too late.

He had two people on top of him when he threw the first punch, kicking with all of his might, and somehow he managed to disentangle himself from their arms and their legs. But as he brought one foot under himself to get back up a hand caught the back of his head, pressing it down so he lost his balance and was sent crashing to the cobblestones and his mouth filled with blood.

"Michael Gray."

He was lying face down, and they had his arms, pressed against his back, unable to escape, for they were two and they were strong.

"You're under arrest for assault, robbery, and resisting arrest," said the deep voice behind his back. They'd missed a fair amount of his crimes, yet it was enough to land him in Azkaban for a short period of time.


1920
The water felt like ice, stinging at his skin like tiny crystal needles, but refreshing, and clean. He was covered in red all the way up to his elbows, ever experimenting, ever discovering, and now the stiffened liquid escaped into cold transparency in thin bands of red and brown. And he knew he'd have to get all the way in, for he had it in his face and in his hair and he had to get moving.

Germany had good forests, but he missed the Alaskan nature.

Out here it was quiet and there was room for him to pack up his tent every day and walk for hours. He'd become a master at apparating quickly, for it was a skill that he needed, but there was nothing like walking on your own two feet even when the skin of his feet threatened with blistering. It was good then, with pauses like these, when darkness fell and he was free to spend his time cooking raw meat at his bonfire, listening to fire and air and nature.


1922
His hands were at her throat and he'd never planned to end it, but he became a victim of his own desires and so did she.

He watched her, dead in her bed.

So little blood.

It was how he left her. Satisfied for now.


1923
She told him she loved him.

And he left her. He hit her. He cheated. And when he returned it was only because she was warm.

Then they dragged him into the cold cells of Azkaban.


1926
He'd been there for three years still the walls seemed to close in on him. He spent nights gasping for air while the foul creatures floated outside of his cell and he woke himself up whimpering. He'd known pain, oh he'd known pain and he'd cherished it, but this was a different kind of hurt and one that he could not return. But the worst was the walls, the way in which he could not escape them, and he'd clawed at them until his fingers bled, until his lungs ached with his frustrated breating - he was suffocating in this place. He'd shouted down the hall and he looked just like them - long haired and filthy, completely mad with this grief that happened around him although it was not sadness that he felt.

If anyone wanted to watch Michael Gray cry, this would have been their chance, but had they left him out of his cell he would have jumped on them and pried on their lives, for it was his freedom that he mourned, more than anything.

He'd always ran away, even as a child, but now he was stuck with himself and his own over creative mind.

Every day he thought that he was going to die and every day was he desperate for his life when the shadows moved, ready to jump at every living creature and tear them apart - for he thirsted too.

Starved.


1927
He bent down to the motherless child, and his eyes were steel when he caught hers, yet he was satisfied. Two streaks of red formed upon her soft cheek as he reached out his hand to stroke the skin with painted fingers.

He let her in then, and locked the door.

So she could find her mother lying in a pool of red in the kitched, used and reused until she broke altogether.


1927
New evidence.

He stared at the poster and his own eyes stared back at him.

Michael Gray. Wanted for the murders of five women.

They weren't even close.

Michael turned and walked back into the forest.


1930
They offered him security and he really couldn't afford turning them down, not while he had the Aurors constantly at his heels, no matter how good he was at running, no matter how much experience he had with escaping them. His work had always been messy and spontaneous and that was his blessing and his curse.

As became the Supra Mortalitas.


1931
He collapsed, holding onto the bleeding gash of his side, but he blamed noone, none but his own hungry desires. Nothing but his own need to slash and burn and destroy. And they were beautiful, drawing him in with their apparent innocence, with their smell, with their youth. And they were doomed.

But she had drawn his own knife against him and her blood mixed with his in a sacred cocktail of pain and death, and Michael found himself collapsing on the ground, giggling at himself and the world and the hopelessness in which they all existed.


1933
He didn't want to be there, he wanted to be outside fighting with the others, as the attack hailed upon the school in which he'd spent his childhood. But he found his flower, and he plucked her, younger and purer and fuller of hope. And he corrupted her. He taught her about the world. He taught her about everything that came as you were cut off from your parents and released into freedom, into your own twisted reality.

And Spencer came. And Spencer raged.

And Michael bled and bled as they bound him.

He could have died then. He could have died. But he didn't.


1934
And he'd ranged, and he'd hungered, and he'd thirsted, but Spencer was always there, and the scarred surface on the inside of his right hand would always be a reminder of the powers held. For the first time in his life were someone able to control him, if only because they'd inserted their own soul into his being. If only because his every action was being montitored, because he had lost his freedom to be the monster that they said he was.

And the voice in his head was real.

But the alcohol drowned him out, when his body and mind was numbed, Michael drank himself to sleep every day and it was the only way in which to cut the connections. Thoughts blurred with reality, but he lived.

He lived.


1935
She was warm.

He wasn't allowed to kill her.

But she was warm.


1936
Exonerated.

All of the things he'd ever done, wiped away in the blink of an eye.

If Michael could feel that way, he would have been miserable that they forced him into a position like this. He had ran from Aurors all of his life and every time that he looked upon them he wanted to strangle them and empty them of their illusionistic lives.

There was no sanity and there was no way in which to kill without allowance, but he killed. Oh yes, he killed. It was one of the ways in which him and Spencer fell together, mysteriously - and they fit, for he was the tool, and Spencer was his brain. And now they had control of everything that was going on, even inside the Auror Office.

A tool never more than now.


1937
He kissed her, softly.

Then he pushed her, and the child inside of her, down the stairs.

And when she bled, she was beautiful.


1939
The world turned on itself.

And Michael smiled.

Free, at last.



Roleplay:
He wasn't asleep though he should be, but he wasn't out there either. Not at the moment.

Right now he was just watching. Watching and breathing and preparing, yet surprisingly relaxed. His hands were brown and red and black, and all these things that he'd touched and done seemed to blur, but he didn't care. It had long since seized to matter.

Spells flew, and he wore his costume, and he killed.

They all killed.

"Man down! Move! Move!"

He glided, with much ease, after the hurrying men and Michael was known for talking little and moving fast. He was hands-on, all action, and if his men wanted to learn they should watch. Michael didn't give much advice and if they fell, they fell. Man's destructive nature had gotten them here and for once people were more in touch with themselves than he'd seen in a long time.

A healer clipped away torn clothing to reveal an oozing gash in the man's leg.

So many men fell every day that it was pointless to try to keep the count. But they got used to it, all of them - someone died and someone new were born soldiers. If they learned the rules of survival quickly they might last. You knew quickly who wouldn't.

And Michael observed.

Breathing blood and death.

Glancing sideways to his own little space on the ground - they ate and they slept and they shat together, it was how the world worked - he found the still open map lying on the ground just in the moment that someone bumped into him and spilled wand and tea all over his place. Michael just looked at him for a short moment, then got up from his position, moving to stand directly above the youngster, still seemingly lying on his back on the floor.

He cared very little for his things, and very little for the lives of others.

Yet he didn't say anything, only met the eyes of the soldier with a cold, grey warning, leaving it to hang like ice between them.

This one wasn't going to last for long.

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