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Author Topic: Altair.  (Read 292 times)


    (10/12/2016 at 15:04)
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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:
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.):

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.

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.

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."

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.


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."

(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.
hail falls; | burn like fire; | hate turns; | the swell.

the end.