We are currently accepting new applications for Elsewhere!

Posts

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 - Altair

Pages: [1]
1
Professor Applications / Altair
« on: 14/08/2019 at 05:53 »


CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character name: Altair

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Nicholas C. Viggano, Zak Weiland, Samael Gray, Cain Dunn etc.

Character age: 42(!!!)

Curriculum vitae:
Education:
1926-1929: Gokstad Academy
1929-1933: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Ravenclaw
1933-1937: Privately tutored by Francis Turin
1938-1943: Divination and Astronomy studies, Mímirsbrunnr Academy

Honours (Hogwarts):
1929-1930: Quidditch Chaser
1930-1933: Quidditch Captain/Chaser
1931-1932: Spellbound Writer & Editor
1931-1932: Prefect
1932-1933: Head Boy
1932-1933: Advance Guard

Work Experience:
1933-: Member of the Order for the Return of All Rights, Political Party, UK
Supra Mortalitas
1936-1937: Co-professor of the Art of Dueling, with Francis Turin, Hogwarts School
1938-1939, 1949-1954: Duelling referee, Hogwarts School
1939-1940: Professor in Theory of the Dark Arts, Beauxbatons
1941-1942: Professor in Conjuring and Summoning, Hogwarts School
1943-1945: Merlin's Order of Defence, Captain
1947-present: Owner of Muspell, book finder, collector and seller
1949-1951: Alchemy professor, Hogwarts School
1952-1954: Librarian, Hogwarts School


Strength and weaknesses (details please):
Personality: Altair would always find that, in his own eyes, his weaknesses tended to shadow over that of his strengths, that the nights would fall heavy and the darkness press into him and ripple through him.

The years had turned him into a hard man, or perhaps he'd been born with a certain hardness and the world had just failed to soften him up. The truth was that he'd been a curious, yet careful boy. That circumstances had shaped him, or enforced the things that were already inside of him, strengthened some of the seeds that had been planted in him from when he'd been very young.

He'd care too much, yet never enough.

And his mind had always been heavy. Heavy in the sense that there were too many things passing through it at any moment. Heavy because it tended to distract him, that no matter how small the matter it would start searching for the bigger meanings, to stray and expand. It was not easy to focus on shallow matters when everything that happened could be blown up, could be translated into huge, existential questions on who he really was and why it really mattered.

He'd always been hard on his students, and perhaps he had always failed at seeing them, in search for something in them that was reflecting all the things he found in himself.

Yet, he'd never been as hard on them as he was on himself.

Perhaps his greatest weakness (in the school setting) was that he'd teach and keep teaching, but not necessarily for the sake of his students. He'd keep teaching in search for something that he'd likely never find.

Magically: Altair always had an affinity for Divination and C/S, while his weakness resided in Charms, which he considered too plain, pre-set and boring. He struggled focusing on the things that did not naturally peak his interest and for this reason he would often lose himself in details, failing to see the bigger picture and then stubbornly refuse that it mattered when it was pointed out to him.

As a professor, his strength resided in a genuine interest in explaining things and expanding on his students' answers. However, he had a slightly disturbing lack of interest in those that simply weren't able to follow - tending to leave people to deal with their own problems - and what could be interpreted as a general lack of empathy (which, in truth, was likely more a tactics of running from his own, quite intense, ability to feel).

Every now and then, however, they'd see a flash of true emotion, and in truth a lot of his weaknesses were to be found in his own fear of admitting that he was, in fact, human, and that, as a human, he tended to fail.


Physical description: 6'2, very slender ("skeletal"), dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. In clothing he's had a tendency to mix the elegant with the rough, though how much control he has of these kinds of fashionable things nowadays is hard to say.

Altair tended to look either like he was in complete control of everything or like he had no control at all (though the former was more usually the case when in public).


Personality (nice, rude, funny etc. Paragraph please.):
Altair's personality could be described as moody at best. He had a rich inner life, a mind that appeared never to rest and a terrible habit of handing out undeserved judgement. He was that pessimist that desperately wanted to be an optimist, but made all the wrong turns on the way to getting there.

In essence, Altair was a man of contradictions - he could be incredibly rude, but given the right circumstances he could be kind, understanding and willing to share (sharing knowledge was one of his great passions, after all). As a former Ravenclaw, there was never any doubt that he had his mind on his side, though at the same time he could be incredibly blind to the things resting right in front of his nose and, when they were pointed out to him, too stubborn to accept it.

Most of the time Altair would come accross as crass, arrogant, sarcastic and impassive. Experience told that more students would be afraid of him than not. As a person, Altair could be hard to get to know, being private and secretive about all things personal.

His lifelong goal was to expand the base of the common knowledge, to broaden people's horizons in thread with the teachings of the Order, and to explore his own limitations. He was always bitter that he did not inherit his mother's power of the Seer, though he had his ways of stretching as far as humanly(?) possible in order to get the things he wanted.


Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:
There was no easy way to explain why Altair wanted to return to Hogwarts, for the answer would be ambiguous at best. The last position he'd held at the Castle was that of Librarian, and before that he'd had a bumpy ride (to put it mildly) teaching such things as The Art of Duelling, Conjuring and Summoning, and Alchemy. His last appearance as a professor, as a guest in teaching a combined lesson of C/S and Divination, had landed him a visit to the Headmistress' office and broken his relationship to some of the teachers at the school that he disliked the least.

However, this quite summed up the character that belonged to the name of Altair.

Cladis and Ella and Anneka had seen him right, had registered the danger that he'd pulled around himself, around the students, branding their minds with his own dripping blood - nightmares in broad daylight, a summoning that should have kept him away from this specific position yet was the exact thing to draw him back in.

He needed to be here, in part for the sake of his own safety. In part because he was increasingly aware of the fact that floating around like a free radical, if he ever managed to reach his goals, without direction or purpose in life, would finally be the death of him.

(He could conquer the world, but he could not conquer himself.)


Biography:

Disclaimer: This bio contains elements that have previously passed through several rounds of Special Requests, most of them related to participation in site plots over the 30 past IC years of this site.


1. PAST

7. september 1951, the Hogwarts Castle

Ignorance was humanity's greatest gift.

Swift like a bird and light as a feather, it was a bullet that needed no aim, momentarily and inevitably drawn by the absolute gravity of the human mind. They thought they knew violence, yet they'd missed the war, the real blood dripping off of everyone's hands when they were left no choice but to do as they were told. Born into the absolute void, they had constructed the world from their chosen pleasantries, and the Social Reconstruction Committee helped them do it.

Meanwhile, humanity killed the world around them.

Turning off the light. Or rather - leaving it constantly on, so they could keep gazing upon their perfected versions of the self in the mirror, to gather in collective narcissism while keeping the fear of that unexplored darkness alive for other purposes entirely. Not that he'd needed the war to come to a point like this - he'd been the one in the background pulling the strings, always. The only blood that had ever dripped off of his hands was, technically, his own.

(-- some would have said that made him all the more guilty.)

That was how it had become, ultimately, his enemy, how the world had worked toward taking away his freedom, once again, by sucking him into the Committee. Ruled by the one person who was, perhaps, the one man in the world able of controlling him and restraining him from raging freely, in the attempt of taming powers that were meant to be out of control.

In all chaos there is calculation, they said.

No, said Altair - in all calculation, there's chaos.

(Penetrating onto a scale that was miniscule enough, the Natural Laws that appeared to rule the world, would apply no more.)

And so Francis, lost in the recesses of his own madness, was once again latching onto the treacherous belief that he was doing the world good, on mission to healing a society broken by war, on mission to heal his own ruined self (- and in search for this sort of closure they were inescapably alike). People were fools not to bite onto the bait fully, for there was truly well meaning behind (in all the radiant warmth of Ella Galanis), though his recent presence had a natural repelling effect - danger sense, as it appeared, still rang loud in the wizard mind.

For in the moment that Vega had started to call himself Altair, he had floated off from them all, a free radical in violent opposition to the world around him, reactive to himself and anything that was unfortunate enough to float too closely to him.

(He did not blame them for being unable to separate him from the equation. They were, after all, for the most part unbearably, humanly, stupid.)

Forcing him into these roles were what turned him truly explosive, as expressed by the invisible flames engulfing him and locking him into his own void space, inside the combination of aether and fire would he always find his home, no matter how it scorched him, no matter it had killed him. He would not let them tame him, would not let them push him to the ground, but rather tear himself apart in absolute mission to break down the walls between black and white to engulf them all in absolute stellar illumination.

And so he opened his eyes back up, more ready now, though only a fool would have entered this without feeling the frigid touch of fear, spreading over his being in greedy tendrils, unsatiable.

(Yet, he had never truly been the Vega, but an Eir, grasping hungrily for his mother's gift in blatant disrespect of the Old Norse healer - in power of life, in power of death.)

Following its movements carefully, as silence settled in, a long dragged-out, unnatural quiet that gathered at the hollow and left a feeling of something thick and viscous, sticking to him, uncomfortably as though telling of what was to come. Behind him, the glowing presence of the invited, bearing no wish reveal its presence and thus remaining invisible but for the occassional flicker of burning air, equally quiet, equally attentive - there was no need for asking why, it was all layed out bare for the two of them, Altair caught in the middle, in all his inescapable mortality. Feeling his body betray him as his head raised somewhat, straightening subconsciously in reaction to the feeling of vulnerability, as though the one mere inch that separated his height from that of Cladis could somehow be used to return the threat.

(Even he forgot, sometimes, that these spirit beings weren't truly accustomed to bodies, that they did not encompass these physical qualities that humans found themselves so helplessly lost in.)

Slightly unsettled by the fact that his own means of intimidation, that the display of blatant power in his doubled presence was passing absolutely unnoticed, absolutely ignored, heightening his consciousness that the thing inside of Cladis body was, indeed, here for the purpose of seeing him. (Taking him? Stealing him? Ensnaring him?)

Feeling his breath turning uneven with the combined physical-spiritual presence, he thought he could smell the stench of rot from the Other's breath. (Though it was impossible to tell whether this was purely a fragment of his imagination mingling and merging with his other sensuous experiences - as with so many other things, reality and fantasy appeared to him overwhelmingly blurred at the lines.)

"Jeg har --"

-- retracting into the spirit of the once innocent little boy, and fighting the urge to close his eyes in the attempt to slip away, he knew it was this sort of spirit, recognised the claws gripping deeply into his human flesh to grab hold of his every desire and use it - he'd been here before.

"-- hva du begjærer."

Eyes opening wide in immediate reaction to the danger, in immediate response to the offer (the bait, which he longed to stretch for, to lock his fingers around - you shall never See it said, even as it awakened inside of him), though it was not one hand he felt upon his shoulders, but two, the actions of the one before him mirrored by the one behind him. While one gripped far into the yearnings of his very existence, the other had already set his soul on fire.

Protection.

It would have succeeded, had he not been prepared, had he not always been prepared - but he dipped his hands in the black water and he slept under intricate incantation lest the ragged remainders of his soul would disappear from him forever.

(-- your emotions, your memories, your senses --)

Crisp fingers against bone and flesh and sinew.

Snapping out of it (though not in control of himself, not for that one moment), looking for weakness, weakness -- there --

In pure destructiveness, it believed for itself to be at advantage simply because it was dead, simply because the body that it had grabbed for its own could be shredded like the skin of a snake.

It just so turned out, that Altair had his own sort of advantage.

-- he was alive.

(And unified, their dimensions built a bridge, made them stronger --)

Shooting a bloodied palm forward, it connected sharply with the forehead of the the body that used to belong to Cladis. And as though unnaturally lightweight, in effect to the thing in possession of it - dangly, corpse like - it arched backwards at an unnatural angle, before slamming violently against the floor.

He remained, hopelessly alone, as both spirits left him to spiral and flurry through their otherworldly portal leaving behind nothing but what appeared to him the faint smell of burned wood, undoubtedly within the sensuous range of the students, and working to pull him sharply back into physical presence. Forced to fend for himself among the unpleasant mass of unwelcome people (this was neither the time, nor the place, for clarification) he stretched his arm out to point, finger painted in vivid red, to the entrance door.

With nothing to feed, it had resumed to dripping sloppily to the floor.

"Get out," he snarled, aggressively, in clear rejection of any form of argument, not the slightest pleased with how this had turned out.

(-- this wasn't supposed to happen.)


2. PRESENT


And which present would that be?


3. FUTURE


It was bizarre.

He felt as though he had his arm outstretched, and inbetween what should have been his languid, skeletal fingers, his own eye stared back at him, cold and blue and human.

Yet it was not his fingers, and it was not his arm; if it had been they would have burned, for his skin was ablaze in a shattered flame of red and orange, washing cold against his heap of entangled existence. He figured the form kept together this way only because human was a label he could never escape, no matter how far away from the known and into the otherworld, or into other worlds, he dipped.

When he moved, the black rippled beneath him, where his feet would have been, faking a physical existence for his phantom body. The left side of his face, or where there should have been one, was warm and running wet.

In front of him was mass darkness. In the midst of it, two white-hot stars staring back.

"Give me what you promised," he mouthed and his voice sounded in deep echo, like something coming from the outside and spreading though the air like waves of frigid ocean water. It was an animalesque growl, nightmarish, entering back into him like a parasite, edging its way, bite by bite, into the soft fabrics of his brain.

He did not need to See to know that the Other was regarding him with amused interest.

Pay up.

For a long moment they remained like this, floating somewhere inbetween time and space, two massive black holes in the still darkness.

Something shimmering came floating from the inside of a phantom mouth, gleaming merrily as it found its way beside his own staring eye. Two senses was a high prize but nonetheless one that he had agreed to - a greedy demand, cruel, to cripple the Alchemist of his sense of taste. Though tactical, with no doubt.

The shadows behind him - his shadows - shifted.

Then it moved - extending one of its white stars for him. The red hot of his right hand reached out to grab around it as the Other mirrored his action, caging the blue in a frame of black tendrils. They remained locked like this for a while, as though neither wanted to let go of their own eye before the other. Until --

He felt something brushing against a phantom ear, a presence far too close upon him based on his pre-made calculations. And it released a hollow whisper, lingering strangely on the surface of his Hearing.

"Someone took a bite of you already, --" it said. "-- little man."

There was a chill down his neck and he froze, as something passed through him to grab him by the space of his heart - it pierced through him like knives before gravitation shifted around him --

Cold.

-- as though he'd been plunged into a pool from the inside out he was breathing water, turning to ice in his lungs. At the same time his insides caught fire, invisible claws tearing at him to create fresh wounds over old scars and he couldn't breathe, strangled inside realisation he had made a wrong step.

The shadows behind him had gone wild.

And somewhere far, far away, the fragile mortality of the man called Altair had started shaking uncontrollably, the bleeding they had already stopped flowing freely once again.

---

For a more complete view of Altair's story, please see his former biography (a few more chapters are in the making).


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:

Here we go again.

He'd walked these stairs before, had walked through these halls so many times, entered this door --

Though his steps were steady and fast - he was late - he came to a sudden halt in front of the door of the Headmistress, his hand stopping in mid-air as he reached for a polished handle. His insides gripped by a need to stop and feel out what was going on at the other side of the door before making his move.

And his heart felt heavy, the shoadows of his surroundings draping over him like a cape - out of the corner of his eye (or mind?) he registered movement, but he was used to that. Nothing ever appeared to rest around him and more often than not it would keep him awake at night.

He closed his fingers around the handle, and entered.

"You are late."

He was taller than her, but it did not quite seem so, as he placed himself to stand in front of her, feet somewhat apart, meeting her Russian winter with a gaze of frigid blue, to mirror his mother's Norwegian heritage.

Up on the wall, the old portrait of Elizabeth Birch-Hurst was looking down at him.

But he only held Anneka's eyes for a moment, as though feeling out the situation, and then he did something he only very rarely did - he looked down, respectfully.

He was at a disadvantage here.

He'd overstepped boundaries and bended rules.

(In truth he'd done that since his years as a student, but he'd had a way with words and he'd mostly been able to bend others to his will - as Quidditch Captain, as Head Boy. He was used to making up his own rules in secret, turned away from their prying eyes he'd built a world of his own.)

"It won't happen again."

His words held several meanings and perhaps she'd catch them all.

He'd been back and forth to Hogwarts a number of times and she knew him well. Knew that he might stay for one or two years and then be off again to his own endevours somewhere else. Knew that break would not last, that he'd return again at a later point to seek another way to enter into the school's service.

There was a pattern and he'd come to terms with it being one that he'd likely not be able to break.

He was here for the sake of himself.

Though through his absolute selfishness he always wanted back because they were his kindred spirits.

It was not quite hope and it was not quite dreams. In a sense these were things that had blurred with reality in his mind for a (un)reasonable length of time already and the shadows that lurked inside his own had remained steady. There was still something safe, something familiar about the Castle, about its personalities, about the open eyes of youth.

The opportunity of broadening horizons, inside of the young as well as in himself.

And then, perhaps he hadn't quite given up the hope yet, given up the dream --

-- that he could have a meaning, an influence on the minds of the growing, of the young. That he could place a solid kick to their mentalities and challenge perspectives, forcing them to think and re-think and think again.

(Inside him it still blazed, the will to make things right, and to help people understand that there were more than one path to reaching the same goal.)

2
Archived Applications / Altair.
« on: 10/12/2016 at 15:04 »

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character name: (Marcus) Lukas Altair

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Max Yates, Cat Viggano, Eugene Prothero, Fish Weiland, Nic Viggano, Michael Gray, Samael Gray, Jarvis Ricardus, Lilith Carlisle

Character age: 34 (11 December 1914)

Character education:
Education:
1926-1929: Gokstad Academy
1929-1933: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Ravenclaw
1933-1937: Privately tutored by Francis Turin
1938-: Magi-university, Divination + private studies

Honours (Hogwarts):
1929-1930: Quidditch Chaser
1930-1933: Quidditch Captain/Chaser
1931-1932: Spellbound Writer & Editor
1931-1932: Prefect
1932-1933: Head Boy
1932-1933: Advance Guard

Work experience:
1933-: Member of the Order for the Return of All Rights, Political Party, UK
1936-1937: Co-professor of the Art of Dueling, with Francis Turin, Hogwarts School
1938-1939: Duelling referee, Hogwarts School
1939-1940: Professor in Theory of the Dark Arts, Beauxbatons
1941-1942: Professor in Conjuring and Summoning, Hogwarts School
1943-1945: Merlin's Order of Defence, Captain
1947-: Owner of Muspell, book finder, collector and seller

Strength and weaknesses (details please):
Magical strengths: The son of a Seer, it was always clear to the world that his ability for divination was among his strongest, although he tended to find classes dreadfully boring and sometimes outright provoking. In his 4th year (1929-1930) he made Valedictorian in the subject. Since then, Divination has been a main subject of his research and development, often in combination with summoning, and he master all the "common" techniques of the skilled diviner.

Slowly, but carefully, Summoning and Conjuring edged itself into his favourite subjects, possibly inspired by his former girlfriend, Belicose Razi, who was known for being particularly skilled. Making Valedictorian two years in a row (1930-1932), probably proved that skill. (He also got very good grades in Defence Against the Dark Arts.)

Due to his former involvement with the Supra Mortalitas, a secret under-organisation of the political party of The Order for the Return of All Rights (usually just referred to as "The Order"), which experimented on themselves to heighten their powers, Marcus is completely wandless and a silent caster. (Among other things...)

Magical weaknesses: Charms was never a subject of his interest, so fixed and boring in its spells. It gained plenty of focus anyway though, primarily because he needed it in order to reach certain goals on his way to where he resides today.

Although never reaching quite as high, he developed an interest in Transfiguration after ending school. However, because he already had particular skill in summoning, he tended to turn to a chemical/alchemist approach, using reactive patterns to changing substances instead of actual transfiguration. Meaning he took the slightly longer way, touching the subject of molecular summoning (see his 1941-1942 term of teaching C/S), developing skills he already had, rather than the transfiguration short-cut.

Physical description:
Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Bright blue
Height: 6'2''
Build: Lean, slim

Personality (nice, rude, funny etc. Paragraph please.):
There is no straight forward way of describing Marcus. At the same time, he has a lot of personality traits that can be described as both strengths and weaknesses depending on the situation. He is stubborn to a point that he will sometimes keep banging his head into a wall rather than to admit a mistake. He's extremely secretive and private, making it very hard for people to truly get to know him. He's knows he's arrogant, he knows he's selfish, and he does nothing to hide it, at the same time that he can be honest to the point of being rude.

The last fifteen years he's suffered under great amounts of self loathing, which has brought him to distancing himself more from others. He tends to throw himself out into these teaching opportunities in hope that it'll help pull him somewhat out of the hole he's been digging for himself.

(It won't.)

Truth be told, he's not as cold as he tries to give the impression of being. He has a soft spot for cast-outs, shy people, and people that are able to come up with original ideas and solutions. He can't stand people who believe themselves to be super smart, and typical Slytherin stereotypes.

Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:
Still strongly coloured by the ideology of The Order for the Return of All Rights, he sees teaching as an opportunity for spreading his ideas of, for instance, magical equality, in a world that prefers seeing things in black and white and categorising overlapping topics in artificial ways. (This might become especially apparent if he gets to teach an original topic of his own choosing.) He's looking for somewhere to develop his thoughts and get his hands on information needed for his own research (e.g. restricted section).

Other than that, he's just trying really hard to find some sort of purpose to his life and the things he's doing.


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

1.0 MARCUS
Biblical - "Polite, shining." Markus; the Norwegian equivalent of Mark the Evangelist.

His mother had known he'd be a thinker even before he was born, the darkhaired boy that she'd seen in her dreams. His eyes would look up at her, bright and lively, but veiled, intelligence conceiled yet visible in little moments. He had been shy back then, hungrily taking in worldly impressions to construct his own universal interior, the architect of his own dreams and beliefs. Blue eyes looked to the sky and when he was up there it was hard to pull him down. She told him of the stars and the myths connected to them, she told him of worlds beyond, and he'd listen, pointing out cracks in her stories that she'd never questioned and she knew he had the potential to look far.

She knew that she would die before the time came to her, and when she entered the waters it had been because of her own curious stupidity. They'd been the rocks of the family - Tiril Eir and Marcus Antares - and with her gone the heavy responsibility would lie upon the shoulders of a father crumbling underneath its weigh. Marcus would critisize him, never forgive him for it, but always love him, silently.

Latin - Marcus: "Hammer. Mars - the Roman god of war."

The boy had been energetic, participating enthusiastically in the sport of Quidditch from age seven and thriving in it until his last year at Hogwarts School. For the over active mind it was exhilarating to empty one's head for the time being and concentrate only on immediate actions and surroundings as a Chaser and a tactician. The Captaining role fell to him naturally once he started to gather a name in this new place, once he managed to push away the insecurities and portray that confident young man destined to get him further in life faster than he'd expected, and more deeply than he'd known he wanted.

But the wind was only his element as much as it fed his fires. And Marcus was a hungry boy.

Class became a slow business, for the world would never move fast enough, and most of his failures were due to his impatience, for his need to skip ahead even while his friends tried to keep his feet on the ground. His talent for Divination flourished, despite his dislike for the class - he disagreed with the way in which it was taught and the philosophy upon which it was based. Charms and Transfiguration tended to drag behind because their ideas were dry and less stimulating, while the concept of creating something from nothing was endlessly fascinating. But the Ravenclaw also held an interest in everything that was unusual, and books became best friends whenever there were new subjects to explore.

Anything to ensnare the mind of the opportunist.

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus - Last of the Five Good Emperors, considered one of the most important Stoic philosophers.


1.1 ANTARES
Red supergiant star in the Milky Way galaxy and the sixteenth brightest star in the nighttime sky. The Cor Scorpii, "heart of the Scorpion", the brightest star in the constellation Scorpius.

He could have been kind, like his father, but the boy was talented, and he was caught by all the little disruptions, all the tiny details that were good, but could have been better. As a leader he shone bright, as was quickly recognized - Captain, Prefect, Head Boy - but while he tried to give them all a chance, to encourage, in his heart he judged them. Still he judged himself the most, the dangerous critic that would always push and push again, until he found himself exhausted - there was always some moutain to climb, some crowd to conquer, some competition to win. And he had to win.

As a student he was always surrounded by friends, people as different as the shades of the earth, and sometimes very poorly matched. It took different personalities in order for the world not to become boring, in order to keep the stream of ideas constant. Ironically, he ended up driving them all away in the mission of finding himself, grinding upon his own insecurities. He was a person of extremeties - his smirks and witty remarks drew them to him, yet the shadows of his hidden pessimism would force him to retreat.

In many ways one could said that in the end he proved himself right, that in the end we're all alone. We cannot rely upon other people, cannot blame them for our mistakes, for we carry the full responsibility of our own lives.

Idividuality became his Law. And perhaps, even among friends, he always felt alone.

Greek - Antares: "anti-Ares" ("anti-Mars").


1.2 VEGA
The brightest star in the constellation Lyra, the fifth brightest star in the night sky and the second brightest star in the northern celestial hemisphere.

Already in his sixth year came trouble, in the form of the engagement of his purist girlfriend, Belicose Razi. While the Vegas were pureblood, the English branch of a family derived from Spain, spread and dwindled over Europe, it held impurities and had stepped away from elitist pasts. The two chose to stay together for a while, but it was, perhaps, his need to own her that that finally separated them. Once fiercely loyal, he received a blow to his ego that proved hard to repair and again he disappeared into himself and the philosophies that he cradled so carefully. Few were the bonds that could not be broken.

Irony made him less fond of the people around him the more popular he got, yet he was sick for the knowledge, sick for the power. And perhaps he chose his own suffering, for he saw its value, he saw that he would never gain the experience that he wished for if he did not seek out the very things that he feared.

Knowledge would always have its price.

In his seventh year had he already found his crowd of likeminded and developed the strength, or the coldness, to watch his own school be attacked, without lifting a finger to protect them, while he played out a mock fight with his future tutor, Francis Turin.

Upon his graduation in 1933 his death was faked - as he burned down his childhood home and set fire to a name he'd never carry again (for individuality, for independency) - following the deaths of Esme Faracy, of Orion Crow and Sebastian Petrocci. Out of the four only three should return, stronger, yet never more damaged.

Arabic - Vega: Loosely translated to "falling" or "landing", via the phrase "the falling eagle/vulture." The constellation was represented as a vulture in ancient Egypt, and as an eagle or vulture in ancient India.


2.0 LUKAS
Biblical - "Light." Lukas; the Norwegian equivantent of Luke the Evangelist.

Symbolism always stayed strong with the divination talent, he'd always been interested in history, in ancient objects, in everything that was conceiled yet open in the light to see for all who wanted and all who dared. He stayed in the darkness for a year, before he came back out, and the light burned him like the flames that had engulfed him and scarred his soul and his body. And perhaps had been always been shy, but he'd always been greedy, desperate as he realized his own meaninglessness, the way that he was forgotten, the way in which they lived on. He was changed and he was ever the same, but pursuing a game now, a purpose. Yet it was to disappear through his fingers like wisps of smoke - he could not catch the light within his hands and he could not give it back to those that he'd taken it from.

Betrayal came to be connected with his person, shame with his mind. The cold walls of Azkaban prison would stand between blood brothers, while he chose his own name. Reborn, renewed, but never satisfied.

He wanted to pay his price to humanity, but humanity turned away.

The madmen burned their own purpose, and those who didn't go down with the ship would flee.

There was nothing left to lose.

Latin - Lukas: "Light."


2.1 ALTAIR
The brightest star in the constellation Aquila [the Eagle] and the twelfth brightest star in the night sky. Is one of the verticles of the Summer Triangle, together with Deneb and Vega.

[November 1974]
"Thirty degrees South of Vega, and one hour and fourteen minutes apart on ascension, you'll find the star called Altair," he said, and why he said it didn't matter. She could call him a nerd. And he could call her one back.

"But I'm all the way down here." Marcus looked at his shoes, blue and white sneakers where black jeans ended, at the muddy ground beneath.

Why did it all matter so much?

"Join me?" It was a request and not a demand. He'd grant her the opportunity to turn him down.

Arabic - Altair: An abbreviation of the phrase "the flying eagle".

He'd always been there, never left - Esme would know, for she could still see him as the child he had been, could probably still conjure the image of him dancing on top of the Ravenclaw Table as they announced him as Head Boy.

And it had always been him, for there was no way that he could imagine himself choosing differently. The world moved one part at a time, and the patterns would be readable, if you had the patience to wait for the appearing picture. Marcus Vega had never been patient though, diving into things as they appeared before him. But his falls had never been graceful, crashing against the ground where he thought there'd be water always bloody and painful.

He liked the shadows, and he needed them.

But the shadows could be frightening, and peace could turn into danger. For he had always loved being the centre of attention, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Maybe if Lukas was the anxious part of him in fear of too much light, then Marcus was the one who would bask out in the sun, all confident and full of himself.

He didn't regret it though. And there were certain things that he wasn't going to quit, no matter how many walls life decided to toss him into.

In the end it was his freedom to be himself that mattered.

"Does it really matter?"

He looked up again, smirking evidently, for she was reading his mind, not only once, but twice. And her question could be put into whichever context he wanted to choose.

He chose them all.

"Of course it matters," he replied, for he would always challenge what seemed obvious, and most of all would he challenge himself. He protested more because he wanted to agree with people than that he wanted to disagree with them. Somehow he thought that Eve would understand that pattern of reasoning, however illogical it might seem to others.

Smirking still, he turned, taking a few steps back into grimy leaves. There was no fun to following paths that other people had created.

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

"Are you coming?"

As if they'd been friends forever.

Chinese - Altair is known as the Cowherder Star, known from the legendary love story in which the Herder [Altair] is separated from the Weaver Girl [Vega] by the Milky Way. They are only permitted to meet once a year, when the Milky Way is crossed by a bridge of magpies.


3.0 STAR EATER

[1938]
Fate had always been cruel, unpredictable, pulling a long finger into people's matters to stir up their lives - their deaths, and everything inbetween. He'd been aboard the rollercoaster for as long as he remembered, then he'd reached out his own hand to grab it, separating himself from everybody else in a stunt that in the end left him feeling desparate more than anything. Slipping his palm around that wild wagon hadn't granted him control, only consciousness about the little details that could be moved and arranged - luckily he was good with strategy, with tactics, but this only left him addicted, always, wanting more.

It had been a circus, him and Esme grasping for the only thing seemingly somewhat stable, ironically turning them against themselves and each other. Francis had been a bomb waiting to happen, thrown out once he was showing any sign of wanting to explode. Spencer had never been stable, only cold, and in that way able to keep calm, until that moment he sat fire to everything and ran away. Everyone that ever mattered had stopped caring, and the girls that he'd once had - Belicose was gone, most likely because she didn't want to see him - Esme... Esme had never been his and in a way he had never wanted her.

That was his problem, he never wanted any of them - nor Damien, nor his family. Not enough that he wasn't willing to sacrifice them, always for something greater.

Marcus wasn't willing to sell his freedom for stability.

He might be unhappy, he might be lost, but he had never stepped away from himself, and it was up to others to judge whether that was extremely courageous or just incredibly selfish.

And then, of course, he had to run into people like Hero Savage. Her name implied she should be some sort of Pocahontas figure, the noble barbarian, but she was nothing more but a girl he'd once gone to school with.

He didn't want to see her.

Looking in a different direction, towards a large, steaming machine, he was reminded of how very little he liked places like these, and he missed her stunted reply. The Vegas had never been elitist, but they were ugly these muggles, these people, although no more ugly than the witches and wizard surrounding him every day, if he dared stepping outside of his dark cave.

"You were meant to be dead."

Blue eyes flicked back to her, and she might as well have spat him in the face. There was little comfort in the fact that he'd brought this on himself, for this was exactly why he kept avoiding them, their constantly judging eyes, manners, body languages. People never saw deeper than just beneath their own skin - they were concerned only with what was just in front of their noses, or more importantly, missing from there.

Then again, no matter how much he told himself he'd done it for them all, he knew he'd done it first and foremost for himself.

He wanted to punch walls, but he'd gathered a huge amount of self control in the years of training that Francis had put him under. Still, Marcus had never been a good liar, perhaps because he'd rather see people facing the truth, and there was a fragile layer of poison on top of his words as he spoke.

"You were meant to be alive."



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:

Here we go again.

How was it this had started? The ravenfeather quill held by a restless hand, trying to put another mess of impossible words onto the paper. How could he explain it, how he was always this professor that was there for a year, then disappeared, to re-appear, and then re-disappear? He knew of his inconsistency so well, saw every flaw that defined him drawn like sharp edges, deep, black valleys in an appearance he cared, then stopped caring about, and then cared about again.

Had he changed?

Hardly. And yet there were so many things now that were different. He wanted to try again, needed to prove to himself that it was possible, that he could convince not only them, but also himself - that he had something to give. Besides, they knew, that when he was in the game, he would deliver. Perhaps this was what had finally made him sign the piece of parchment and send it off.

Now, that he was here, he felt this was a process through which he'd gone so many times before. Always balancing on the edge, Marcus found he somehow had a tendency to be able to press himself through the eye of the needle, at the strangest of times.

"You are late."

Yes, they'd been here before, he was absolutely certain. Because they knew each other. Because some patterns just couldn't be changed.

She was pointing it out although she'd known it would happen.

Because her mind was clean, and his was beyond messy.

He looked right back at her, matching her Russian winter with his Norwegian, clear eyes, blue, unwavering. And he gave her a nod, curt, telling her that he knew, that they could move on to business now. Yet, she was his boss, and the look she was giving demanded more.

He sighted, allowing himself to submit to her superiority, if only because he actually wanted the job.

"It won't happen again," he said - pointless words - and it was more than likely that she recognised it like just another fickle lie. In the end he was like that - his incosistency would always shine through, his path everchanging. The neverending need for this cursed private space, combined with an impossible loneliness that, time and time again, would inspire him to coming back.

3
Elsewhere Accepted / Muspell
« on: 04/06/2016 at 21:10 »
SHOPKEEPER PERMIT
You must have applied as an Elsewhere character before completing this permit.

Shop name: MUSPELL
Shop Type: The location is a bookstore. The business is a combination of a bookstore, library and bookfinding business. Its primary role is Marcus offering to find rare books for customers, as long as he gets to copy them and keep the copy.
Location: Knockturn Alley
Subforum? Yes please!

Short Description (50 words max): Lost a book? Want a book? Wish there was a book? Muspell has it, finds it, brings it.
Long Description (200 words min):

Muspell is not a very inviting place. There are no windows pointing out to the street - well, except the one on the front door (painted in olive green), which provides a minimum insight for the overly curious. All that can be seen from here is, however, not very interesting (see the next paragraph). Most of the time the shop looks closed down, and most of the time it is. Muspell has no set opening hours - it opens whenever the owner is present, and whenever the owner feels like opening it. This means, among other things, opening in the middle of the night and in early morning before anyone (beside Altair himself) are actually awake.

Once you enter, the first thing you meet is not the actual shop, but a tiny hallway. Clothing articles hang on the walls, most of them jackets and cloaks of various sorts. On the floor are shoes, and on the wall a small handwritten note asking that others remove their shoes before entering. At this point it looks like customers are entering someone's home. When they arrive through the next door (deep blue) though -

The main room of the store is much larger than you'd expect from the outside. Along all sides are bookshelves full of books. Some of them (like the Hogwarts staircases) move, and customers may find themselves getting trapped (although only rarely). The titles are diverse, and there is no limit to the variation of topics. Some books are stored away and only taken out by request.

Not all books are for sale. Some can be borrowed. Speak to the owner for clarification. All books carry protection spells that means they cannot be passed through the blue and the green door without permission. Either way, any kind of book can be ordered, including books that are not yet there. Altair finds book from any location in the world, on request, as long as the customer can pay, and as long as he gets to read it. The time it takes to complete a request can take anything from a day to a year, depending on factors such as travel distance, spell protections, and general risk. Prices vary accordingly, and may rise at unforseen difficulty. If you cannot pay, the book remains at Muspell.

The floor is covered in a dark grey wall-to-wall carpet. The room is sparsely lit, but can be fully lit on Altair's command. Workstations are scattered about. In the middle of the floor is a glass desk. There is nothing fancy on display, although the room looks elegant enough - the fancy is brought out on request.

This is, however, only the part of the shop visible to visitors.

The secrets rooms -

- remain secret. To everyone.

Also - try not to get on Altair's bad side.

What purpose will this shop serve other than selling things and being the home of your character? Why would people want to RP there just for fun? Well, Marcus might take on special cases of teaching, but contact building is among its major purposes. It could become a meeting place for "people like Marcus" whatever that means. Also a place for him to gather his books. It is needed.

Edit: Eh, is it okay if Marcus sets up the shop under the alias of Mr. Anansi? He's probably under the radar of Hexenreich due to former MoD stuff and would love not to attract too much attention (which is why he wants to stay in the shadows of Knockturn rather than to set up something in Diagon Alley). The business is also likely to borderline to illegal activity (there's a bit of dark stuff in there for instance). Mr. Altair (Anansi) takes full responsibility! I'm sure he'll be happy (read: annoyed) to deal with the consequences.

4
Archived Applications / M. Lukas Altair
« on: 03/04/2014 at 18:39 »


CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character name: Lukas Altair (officially - going by old first name Marcus usually)

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Lilith Ricardus, Jarvis Ricardus, Maximilian Yates, Michael Gray, Eugene Prothero etc...

Character age: 26 (I don't know how that happened)

Character education:
1926-1929: Gokstad Academy
1929-1933: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Ravenclaw
1933-1937: Privately tutored by Francis Turin
1938-1941: Uni self-study/research - specialised divinations

Honours
1930-1933: Quidditch Captain
1931-1932: Spellbound Writer
1931-1932: Prefect
1932-1933: Head Boy
1932-1933: Advance Guard

Work experience
1933-: Member of the Order, Political Party, United Kingdom
1936-1937: Co-professor in Art of Dueling, with Francis Turin, at Hogwarts School
1938-1941: Duelling referee, Hogwarts School and Beauxbatons School
1939-1940: Professor in Theory of Dark Arts, Beauxbatons School

Strength and weaknesses (details please):
Magical strengths - Divination and Conjuring/Summoning
Magical weaknesses - Intermediate at Charms, awful at potions
Personality - Marcus always was a person of contradictions and his strengths can often be turned to weaknesses and the other way around given the situation. The typical Ravenclaw mind mixed with a pinch of what could probably be described as Slytherin ambition, he never learned how to stop when it was enough, mainly because it never is. There is always more - always more to find, more to see, more to learn. The thirst for knowledge and, to some degree, for acknowledgement (although he always had it - more, more, more) had him bite over a bit more than he could chew, perhaps, and it has sent him spiralling a couple of tiems. Marcus never got his feet planted on the earth but fluttered somewhere else, separating himself from everyone in order to find his own individuality, but however he turns it there's always another perspective. He is guided by his goals, and when he has none he gets lost. Selfish, honest to the point of being rude, extremely stubborn. But he has a sharp mind.

Physical description:
He's 6'2'' and slender. There was a time when he trained a lot of Quidditch, but that's some time since now. I don't suppose using magic gives too much muscle, but I wouldn't consider him weak either. Probably somewhere around the "normal" range on that front.

Personality (nice, rude, funny etc. Paragraph please.):
Marcus tends to rely heavily on the sarcasm and he likes to give an impression that he cares less than he does, but he isn't that bad really. He is very mixed in nature and does not really believe in good and bad in terms of black and white. He'll pull things too far just for the fun of it, and considered himself among the worst former Headboys, because he liked to well to play with the rules. He won't be a better professor, that's for sure. But he's interested in teaching, if only because it forces him to view things from a different angle.

Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:
Distracting himself, research, getting better at magic. Educating himself more than educating the students, always.


BIOGRAPHY


1.0 MARCUS
Biblical - "Polite, shining." Markus; the Norwegian equivalent of Mark the Evangelist.

His mother had known he'd be a thinker even before he was born, the darkhaired boy that she'd seen in her dreams. His eyes would look up at her, bright and lively, but veiled, intelligence conceiled yet visible in little moments. He had been shy back then, hungrily taking in worldly impressions to construct his own universal interior, the architect of his own dreams and beliefs. Blue eyes looked to the sky and when he was up there it was hard to pull him down. She told him of the stars and the myths connected to them, she told him of worlds beyond, and he'd listen, pointing out cracks in her stories that she'd never questioned and she knew he had the potential to look far.

She knew that she would die before the time came to her, and when she entered the waters it had been because of her own curious stupidity. They'd been the rocks of the family - Tiril Eir and Marcus Antares - and with her gone the heavy responsibility would lie upon the shoulders of a father crumbling underneath its weigh. Marcus would critisize him, never forgive him for it, but always love him, silently.

Latin - Marcus: "Hammer. Mars - the Roman god of war."

The boy had been energetic, participating enthusiastically in the sport of Quidditch from age seven and thriving in it until his last year at Hogwarts School. For the over active mind it was exhilarating to empty one's head for the time being and concentrate only on immediate actions and surroundings as a Chaser and a tactician. The Captaining role fell to him naturally once he started to gather a name in this new place, once he managed to push away the insecurities and portray that confident young man destined to get him further in life faster than he'd expected, and more deeply than he'd known he wanted.

But the wind was only his element as much as it fed his fires. And Marcus was a hungry boy.

Class became a slow business, for the world would never move fast enough, and most of his failures were due to his impatience, for his need to skip ahead even while his friends tried to keep his feet on the ground. His talent for Divination flourished, despite his dislike for the class - he disagreed with the way in which it was taught and the philosophy upon which it was based. Charms and Transfiguration tended to drag behind because their ideas were dry and less stimulating, while the concept of creating something from nothing was endlessly fascinating. But the Ravenclaw also held an interest in everything that was unusual, and books became best friends whenever there were new subjects to explore.

Anything to ensnare the mind of the opportunist.

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus - Last of the Five Good Emperors, considered one of the most important Stoic philosophers.


1.1 ANTARES
Red supergiant star in the Milky Way galaxy and the sixteenth brightest star in the nighttime sky. The Cor Scorpii, "heart of the Scorpion", the brightest star in the constellation Scorpius.

He could have been kind, like his father, but the boy was talented, and he was caught by all the little disruptions, all the tiny details that were good, but could have been better. As a leader he shone bright, as was quickly recognized - Captain, Prefect, Head Boy - but while he tried to give them all a chance, to encourage, in his heart he judged them. Still he judged himself the most, the dangerous critic that would always push and push again, until he found himself exhausted - there was always some moutain to climb, some crowd to conquer, some competition to win. And he had to win.

As a student he was always surrounded by friends, people as different as the shades of the earth, and sometimes very poorly matched. It took different personalities in order for the world not to become boring, in order to keep the stream of ideas constant. Ironically, he ended up driving them all away in the mission of finding himself, grinding upon his own insecurities. He was a person of extremeties - his smirks and witty remarks drew them to him, yet the shadows of his hidden pessimism would force him to retreat.

In many ways one could said that in the end he proved himself right, that in the end we're all alone. We cannot rely upon other people, cannot blame them for our mistakes, for we carry the full responsibility of our own lives.

Idividuality became his Law. And perhaps, even among friends, he always felt alone.

Greek - Antares: "anti-Ares" ("anti-Mars").


1.2 VEGA
The brightest star in the constellation Lyra, the fifth brightest star in the night sky and the second brightest star in the northern celestial hemisphere.

Already in his sixth year came trouble, in the form of the engagement of his purist girlfriend, Belicose Razi. While the Vegas were pureblood, the English branch of a family derived from Spain, spread and dwindled over Europe, it held impurities and had stepped away from elitist pasts. The two chose to stay together for a while, but it was, perhaps, his need to own her that that finally separated them. Once fiercely loyal, he received a blow to his ego that proved hard to repair and again he disappeared into himself and the philosophies that he cradled so carefully. Few were the bonds that could not be broken.

Irony made him less fond of the people around him the more popular he got, yet he was sick for the knowledge, sick for the power. And perhaps he chose his own suffering, for he saw its value, he saw that he would never gain the experience that he wished for if he did not seek out the very things that he feared.

Knowledge would always have its price.

In his seventh year had he already found his crowd of likeminded and developed the strength, or the coldness, to watch his own school be attacked, without lifting a finger to protect them, while he played out a mock fight with his future tutor, Francis Turin.

Upon his graduation in 1933 his death was faked - as he burned down his childhood home and set fire to a name he'd never carry again (for individuality, for independency) - following the deaths of Esme Faracy, of Orion Crow and Sebastian Petrocci. Out of the four only two should return, stronger, yet never more damaged.

Arabic - Vega: Loosely translated to "falling" or "landing", via the phrase "the falling eagle/vulture." The constellation was represented as a vulture in ancient Egypt, and as an eagle or vulture in ancient India.


2.0 LUKAS
Biblical - "Light." Lukas; the Norwegian equivantent of Luke the Evangelist.

Symbolism always stayed strong with the divination talent, he'd always been interested in history, in ancient objects, in everything that was conceiled yet open in the light to see for all who wanted and all who dared. He stayed in the darkness for a year, before he came back out, and the light burned him like the flames that had engulfed him and scarred his soul and his body. And perhaps had been always been shy, but he'd always been greedy, desperate as he realized his own meaninglessness, the way that he was forgotten, the way in which they lived on. He was changed and he was ever the same, but pursuing a game now, a purpose. Yet it was to disappear through his fingers like wisps of smoke - he could not catch the light within his hands and he could not give it back to those that he'd taken it from.

Betrayal came to be connected with his person, shame with his mind. The cold walls of Azkaban prison would stand between blood brothers, while he chose his own name. Reborn, renewed, but never satisfied.

He wanted to pay his price to humanity, but humanity turned away.

The madmen burned their own purpose, and those who didn't go down with the ship would flee.

There was nothing left to lose.

Latin - Lukas: "Light."


2.1 ALTAIR
The brightest star in the constellation Aquila [the Eagle] and the twelfth brightest star in the night sky. Is one of the verticles of the Summer Triangle, together with Deneb and Vega.

[November 1974]
"Thirty degrees South of Vega, and one hour and fourteen minutes apart on ascension, you'll find the star called Altair," he said, and why he said it didn't matter. She could call him a nerd. And he could call her one back.

"But I'm all the way down here." Marcus looked at his shoes, blue and white sneakers where black jeans ended, at the muddy ground beneath.

Why did it all matter so much?

"Join me?" It was a request and not a demand. He'd grant her the opportunity to turn him down.

Arabic - Altair: An abbreviation of the phrase "the flying eagle".

He'd always been there, never left - Esme would know, for she could still see him as the child he had been, could probably still conjure the image of him dancing on top of the Ravenclaw Table as they announced him as Head Boy.

And it had always been him, for there was no way that he could imagine himself choosing differently. The world moved one part at a time, and the patterns would be readable, if you had the patience to wait for the appearing picture. Marcus Vega had never been patient though, diving into things as they appeared before him. But his falls had never been graceful, crashing against the ground where he thought there'd be water always bloody and painful.

He liked the shadows, and he needed them.

But the shadows could be frightening, and peace could turn into danger. For he had always loved being the centre of attention, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Maybe if Lukas was the anxious part of him in fear of too much light, then Marcus was the one who would bask out in the sun, all confident and full of himself.

He didn't regret it though. And there were certain things that he wasn't going to quit, no matter how many walls life decided to toss him into.

In the end it was his freedom to be himself that mattered.

"Does it really matter?"

He looked up again, smirking evidently, for she was reading his mind, not only once, but twice. And her question could be put into whichever context he wanted to choose.

He chose them all.

"Of course it matters," he replied, for he would always challenge what seemed obvious, and most of all would he challenge himself. He protested more because he wanted to agree with people than that he wanted to disagree with them. Somehow he thought that Eve would understand that pattern of reasoning, however illogical it might seem to others.

Smirking still, he turned, taking a few steps back into grimy leaves. There was no fun to following paths that other people had created.

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

"Are you coming?"

As if they'd been friends forever.

Chinese - Altair is known as the Cowherder Star, known from the legendary love story in which the Herder [Altair] is separated from the Weaver Girl [Vega] by the Milky Way. They are only permitted to meet once a year, when the Milky Way is crossed by a bridge of magpies.


3.0 STAR EATER

[1938]
Fate had always been cruel, unpredictable, pulling a long finger into people's matters to stir up their lives - their deaths, and everything inbetween. He'd been aboard the rollercoaster for as long as he remembered, then he'd reached out his own hand to grab it, separating himself from everybody else in a stunt that in the end left him feeling desparate more than anything. Slipping his palm around that wild wagon hadn't granted him control, only consciousness about the little details that could be moved and arranged - luckily he was good with strategy, with tactics, but this only left him addicted, always, wanting more.

It had been a circus, him and Esme grasping for the only thing seemingly somewhat stable, ironically turning them against themselves and each other. Francis had been a bomb waiting to happen, thrown out once he was showing any sign of wanting to explode. Spencer had never been stable, only cold, and in that way able to keep calm, until that moment he sat fire to everything and ran away. Everyone that ever mattered had stopped caring, and the girls that he'd once had - Belicose was gone, most likely because she didn't want to see him - Esme... Esme had never been his and in a way he had never wanted her.

That was his problem, he never wanted any of them - nor Damien, nor his family. Not enough that he wasn't willing to sacrifice them, always for something greater.

Marcus wasn't willing to sell his freedom for stability.

He might be unhappy, he might be lost, but he had never stepped away from himself, and it was up to others to judge whether that was extremely courageous or just incredibly selfish.

And then, of course, he had to run into people like Hero Savage. Her name implied she should be some sort of Pocahontas figure, the noble barbarian, but she was nothing more but a girl he'd once gone to school with.

He didn't want to see her.

Looking in a different direction, towards a large, steaming machine, he was reminded of how very little he liked places like these, and he missed her stunted reply. The Vegas had never been elitist, but they were ugly these muggles, these people, although no more ugly than the witches and wizard surrounding him every day, if he dared stepping outside of his dark cave.

"You were meant to be dead."

Blue eyes flicked back to her, and she might as well have spat him in the face. There was little comfort in the fact that he'd brought this on himself, for this was exactly why he kept avoiding them, their constantly judging eyes, manners, body languages. People never saw deeper than just beneath their own skin - they were concerned only with what was just in front of their noses, or more importantly, missing from there.

Then again, no matter how much he told himself he'd done it for them all, he knew he'd done it first and foremost for himself.

He wanted to punch walls, but he'd gathered a huge amount of self control in the years of training that Francis had put him under. Still, Marcus had never been a good liar, perhaps because he'd rather see people facing the truth, and there was a fragile layer of poison on top of his words as he spoke.

"You were meant to be alive."


SAMPLE ROLEPLAY

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:

Marcus had never been punctual. Not when it came to time. He'd been punctual in many other ways, having his weird way of sorting things until he held their absolute control, and then to let them deteriorate again. He supposed that came with priorities.

And his bookshelves had always been tidy to the extreme.

Maybe it came with all Ravenclaws. Although the know-it-all attitude had always bothered him in school. Most people who acted like they were above others were the ones who had the longest way to fall. He knew, because he'd been one of them. Still was. Not by blood - he had never cared about blood, perhaps because he was as close to a halfblood as a pureblood could get - but intellectually. And it wasn't that he claimed to be smart (truly, he didn't), it was just the way that he found others to be so ridiculously stupid.

There had been a time at which he had liked to get into trouble just so he could have the challenge of wriggling himself back out of it.

Then there was the pointlessness to people's lives. The way in which they were satisfied with doing the same thing over and over and over again. But perhaps his own way of fleeting restlessly across the world had to more to do with escapism than it had to do with knowledge. More to do with the fact that they all had to die and be forgotten. And Marcus didn't want to be forgotten.

Ever.

Yet he preferred the shadows. Didn't like screaming for attention. Preferred to allow people find him. Paradoxically.

Found her expression slightly amusing.

"I'm not that late," he said, keeping the smirk just at bay. Perhaps she knew him better than anyone there (and he would have preferred nothing more than to wave the invisible Supra Mortalitas banner right in from of her face just there and then), but in his case it was precisely the reasons why this was the place to go. To return to.

Again.

He sat down, put one leg across the other. Leaned back.

"So, what's up?"

He didn't care too much for staring contests.

5
Archived Applications / Roland Astor
« on: 14/12/2012 at 00:04 »

Application for Beauxbatons Academy




→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.
Name: Roland Astor

Birthday: 11 June 1919

Hometown: Auvergne, France

Bloodline: Pureblood

Magical Strength (pick one): Transfiguration

Magical Weakness (pick one): Conjuring & Summoning

Year (pick two): 1e Annee, Te Annee


Biography:
The wind rustled through the threes and the leaves chimed as if a thousand muses had breathed life into them, making them come alive, each of them with a tone so spectacular -

A shattering noise caught his ears and Roland looked up from the paper, black ink seeping through the white as his eyes sought the culprit of the disturbance, finding nothing. Looking to his side he found his brother sitting beside him. Charles should be doing homework, but he was fidgeting with something instead of actually concentrating, and for a second their eyes met before Roland turned his own away. Had the look lasted for a little longer he knew one of them would have been bound to come up with some idea and they'd be out of their seats before any of them could finish.

It had always been that way, and maybe it always would. Responsibility was one part of being a big brother, and one that he often liked avoiding. Him and Charles had always been on the same level, always agreeing at the essentials.

He turned a page of his book, raven feather quill dipped carefully into his bottle of ink before he looked over the words.

Her eyes
like Diamonds
of deep set blue
Sapphires
twinkling like
far-away Stars


He always left his prose half finished like this. It was in need of continuation, obviously.

against a sky
of White Perfection
The skin of an angel
passing through
my World
on her way to Heaven


And he looked up, cathing the eyes of the blonde across the room, completely unexpected. His eyes darted away and a hand went automatically to his head, stroking through strands of dark, and he looked back up, but she'd turned away. He nudged his brother's arm lightly with a finger, giving a short nod in her direction. And maybe had he always been a romantic, something that was harder to hide from Charles than from anyone else - he'd long since given up, and besides, the girls found it intriguing, but his subjects of affection seemed to change on a weekly basis.

He could have said that nothing held true beauty. But he knew that it was the matter of who looked and how you were able to formulate yourself. And who you were able to trick.

Sometimes telling someone that no, their nose wasn't big and the dress didn't make them look fat was worth the snog. If you could charm your way into people's hearts then why struggle your way into them?

"Eat your vegetables, Pascale," he said, without looking at his sister. She was sitting at the other side of the table, eating her lunch, and she would never eat them, so Roland tended to humour himself with terrifying the girl with stories about all the nasty things that would happen to her if she didn't.

"Vegetables are necessary to kill the meat. Or the meat will grow into an animal that will claw its way out of your stomach." Usually these stories ended in tragic death. Although God will judge you for it, was also a classic. God saw everything, even little girls who didn't eat their vegetables.

But it had always been more about being someone than responsibility. He couldn't save his family, so he didn't try to. But he liked to shine and he did his best to do so, before friend and foe. Never had Roland Astor lacked creativity and always had he known how to use it, for better or for worse.


→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.
Note: This section is optional, and is up to you to complete.

Ecole Request: Humanities! (Prose)

Communaté Preference: Charlemagne.

Personality:
Roland likes being popular. He likes succeeding, so he surrounds himself with friends and keeps his grades up top, but in truth he isn't as practical as he pretends to be. However, he is extremely creative, and very good with words, and seems to be able to make people believe almost whatever he wants them to. That's his safety - Roland is good at telling stories, and he will tell them, no matter how true or untrue they really are. He's secretly a romantic and has quite a few feelings buried undearneath for those who'd care about digging them up. He's dreamy, but he likes to pretend he's not.

He dislikes people who doesn't like him, and he dislikes people who treats others badly, especially women. Or possibly only women, as men should be able to take care of themselves. Roland can be quite the gentleman, and appearance is important at all times (especially hair), although he can be snarky and hide sarcasm in his comments. He gets his way around, because he wants to. And when people simply doesn't believe his stories he just ignores them. Anything to avoid trouble. Everything to receive glory, to stay popular. Usually he acts confident, but you could ask yourself whether his lies reflects a more insecure inner life.

Appearance:
Roland is a writer of nature and this is reflected in his appearance. He does not have the stocky build of a sportsman or the graceful ways of a dancer. He's not particularly tall or particularly well built, but appears more like something in inbetween a poet and a business man. He is, however, quite goodlooking. And he knows it.


→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.
You come across this post on the site. Please as your character. Remember, you can only roleplay your own character's actions!

The dining hall was a loud, calamitous thing. Students sat scattered through the vast room, speaking various languages, laughing, and simply having a gay old time. A group of students towards the front of the hall sat huddled over a pile of sheet music. Black notes melted on to the off white parchment, splaying out a secret language, only readable to those who carried the gift. Another group sat watching a tall, thin upperclassman parading around her new ballet point shoes in awe. There seemed to be a group in the hall for everyone.

Everyone except Hilary, that is.

Poor Hilary stood soaking in the scene before her with a slight grimace on her face. Before coming to Beauxbatons, she had been overjoyed to begin studying magic, but now as she waded through her third week at the school, she felt lost in a sea of strangers. It wasn't that she was shy, no. Indeed, she even tried to reach out to some students. It was more that everyone seemed to already have their own clique, and Hilary felt so very unwelcome in all of them.

On her plate, she fidgeted with an assortment of vegetables and a delicate pork chop. That was the nice thing about Beauxbatons. Despite the many cold-shouldered students, the food was still incredible.

With a hefty sigh, Hilary strode into the dining hall. As she did, she let her mind wander to what life at the academy might be were she royalty. The students would bow at her feet! And of course she would only ever don the most elegant of robes, decorated in sequins, rhinestones, and laced with frills. All of the girls at the school would fawn over the level of grace she exhibited. Hilary would make wonderful royalty, yes that was certain.

Though, lost in her fantasy, Hilary failed to notice the leather bag lying at the center of the walkway. Failing to notice the bag in her path, naturally caused her to trip, spilling the contents of her plate all over the student sitting just beside the bag.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!"


Roland wasn't particularly impressed by anything at the moment. Except the food. The food was nice. And his company was good. And he didn't really have anything to complain about. Also, the view to the ballet girls was good, which was also a bonus. So why exactly he wasn't feeling great he didn't know.

"You know," he said, turning to his sidemate, smiling, continuing to chew his food for a moment as he pointed his fork in the direction of the ballet dancers.

"I heard Danielle Decroux had a run-in with professor Koren," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the girl in question. "If you know what I mean," he added, and his eyes moved now to find those of his mate, a smirk on his lips. Whether this had or had not happened didn't particularly concern him. A good rumour was always fun, if you were only vary about putting them out in the right place. Especially those that were about yourself.

He didn't have the time to hear the response though, as an entire meat suddenly came flying into his lap. Roland froze, hands clutching knife and fork in mid-air, eyes to his chest and the food upon it, before his head rose slowly, his insides struggling with the anger that was trying to gather up.

And it was a glare that the girl received, at first, before his face broke in a pretended smile. There was nothing that he'd rather do than to return the treat, but he did not know who this was, and there was a possibility that he could work her into his pocket.

"That was an interesting introduction," he said, placing his cutlery on the table and getting up to offer the girl a seat beside him. Charles might have caught the sarcasm in his voice if he'd been around.

"Sit, and I will go get you another meal." He could laugh it off if he wanted to, or he could stay a gentleman. But he was covered in sauce and he could turn this - while he could use the opportunity to clean himself up he was also conscious that everybody liked the hero who offered the new girl a chance even when she'd made herself a complete failure.

And maybe that was exactly the kind of rumour that he'd like to see his sidemate spreading around.


→ ABOUT YOU.

Previous Characters (if applicable): Eugene Prothero + a million

How did you find us?: In my dreams. And yours. Together. FOREVER.


Pages: [1]