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Author Topic: Dunn, Cain  (Read 1083 times)

* Cain Dunn

    (01/08/2017 at 22:31)
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Application for Hogwarts School


Name: Cain "Raven" Dunn

Birthday: 3 September 1938

Hometown: Romani nomad, caravan is currently passing through Presteigne, Powys. He was born in Portugal, but they remained there for only two days before crossing the border to Spain. Has travelled all of his life. While prowling the European continent, he went to Beauxbatons, but received a letter from Hogwarts upon entering the UK.

Bloodline: Muggleborn

Magical Strength (pick one): Divination

Magical Weakness (pick one): Summoning/Conjuring

Year (pick two): 2nd, 3rd


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

The morning sun  through the little gaps between branches and leaves, slowly filling the little clearing with its warm presence. In front of a Romani caravan, beautifully painted with organic plant movies, sat a boy on a chair, leaning back, one foot tucked underneath him. He was clad in a long, loose shirt, vivid red and covered in a bright, floral pattern, sleeves reaching about half the way down on slender arms.

And through the warmth, a light breeze made a lost, hopeless attempt of catching the green-tinted feather sticking out from behind an ear.

He drew a card.

"You'll die, today," he drawled, placing the card in front of the customer, upside-down. It clinked in golden ear rings as he bent forward, in the gleam of glassy beads shimmering in the colours of the rainbow, caught in sunlight - attached to strands of long, black hair, to the string around his neck, side-by-side with old coin-like bronze amulets.

"And you'll die tomorrow." Another card drawn with slender fingers, the sinews of his hand visible and defining underneath a thin veil of soft skin - he might live in a caravan, but he always made a point out of being meticulously clean. Nails, smooth and pink and just a tad long, did not ruin the almost narcissistic grace of his hand movements, expression apathethic in the face of another piece of his tarot.

"And you'll die the day after tomorrow," he said, as the third card was put forward, a proper death in all its skeletal glory, an open jaw of pearly teeth shining against the morning, the shimmering white of a bulging skull set above a cage of spread-out ribs, all perfectly portrayed on this little piece of stiffened paper.

His eyes rose then - a vivid blue that contrasted brightly with the dark of his hair, standing out wild about his head, though very much deliberately so, a characteristic that had caused the grown-ups to take to calling him "the Raven", which in turn was a nickname he'd readily adopted, feeding his own ever-hungry ego - to meet those of the customer, staring back at him in part shock, part disbelief of the mere arrogance displayed by the mere thirteen-year-old.

The Raven caught onto that.

"With a bit more coin it might change," he said, though his expression was serious, with no hint of amusement, the glimmer of his eyes direct and straight-forward - this was business as much as any other. They needed food on the table, and this provided just that (though his price necessarily had to mirror that of children's play). Neither was he able to comprehend (or care for) the mere emotion that could spur at being faced with the fact you were set to dying three times over.

Not that he was stupid - this had worked too many times before, and he did not intend on ending his successful business on a sale of indulgences brought into modernity.

Today it would not work, that much became clear pretty fast, as the male on the opposite side of his round table - all clad with a purple cloth and crystal ball and little pieces of animal bones spread about - sent him a highly offended glare, though he was too speechless to actually manage to say anything, pushing angrily away, so that the chair tipped backward and hit the ground with a dull thump.

Cain's dark eyebrows lifted in mild reaction as he watched him march away, before turning his attention fully to gathering up his cards, consisting exclusively of tarot Death cards, a numberable collection of the number thirteen, collected over many years of travelling the world. He pushed them together with careful movements, making sure not to ruin any edges or backs, and prepared the soft rubber band with which he usually locked them in place, kept around a refined wrist for the session, so he would not lose it.

People could be put into two cathegories mainly, the first being the one who judged him utterly ridiculous, riding on a wave of selfish (though extraordinarily lazy) cunning, and those who were actually somewhat intimidated by the mere self-confidence of someone who had the nerve to turn up looking like they'd put their hair in a mixer and clad themselves in their grandmother's clothing. Not that he was the only one - his father sported the most impressive, black mustache, that had somehow ended up covering half his face, while his mother found herself wearing almost exclusively white. Coupled with the otherworldly quality of her skin and the dark make-up that she used to frame her eyes, she appeared most like a walking ghost.

"Losing your touch, little brother?"

A casual shrug, emotionless, not bothering with turning his eyes to the girl that had appeared at the corner of the caravan, but remaining focused on the task that was placing these cards perfectly on top of each other.

Salome was only fifteen, though her face was already heavy with her mother's make-up, words released through her mouth in exaggerated sensuality, to the point where she could have been some sort of lost spirit whispering sweet nothings into your ear though she was undeniably see-through and out of touch. She was his sister, one out of three, where the two oldest would take turns on doting and teasing their only brother, while the youngest, three years below, had fallen under his mercy and been created into more of his personal servant.

His was not a powerful figure, not one used for much physical exercise (he made his younger sister do those for him), slender and starting to show the lankiness of the about-to-be-teenager, though if he was a spider, he was one with an impressive control over its fragile limbs. Another slight gust of wind caught the end of a light purple scarf and caused it to wave, lazily, at something in the distance, before settling back down to rest upon the almost dress-like fabrics in which he was clad, loose and colourful, and in strong expression of identity, be it with the group with which he identified himself, or individually (- mostly individually).

Being the only boy among them did nothing to exclude him from the constantly ongoing competition that had the three oldest siblings meeting in front of the mirror every morning, though he was far more occupied with his hair looking more like some half-dead crow's nest. Which may be the reason why he'd found his Hogwarts letter in his hair (an area of him that was usually strictly prohibited from any sort of external interference) one morning after they'd successfully entered into the borders of the UK after several nights on a boat.

And so they'd ended here, and so he cheated his way to his money, but what could he say? They were a family of Romani fortune tellers - it wasn't as though they could sink any deeper in the eyes of main society, thought they were muggles, and jealousy ran high already the first time he'd received a letter like this. But they'd survived a whole generation of grandparents disappearing into concentration camps when he was only a baby, and the shrinking of the extensive Romani family into just them.

Pieces had been gathered, and surely they would survive this as well.

And so, perhaps he was a dreamer, more than anything. Though somehow, the things that mattered, or didn't matter to him, had turned to taking the backseat. On wait, as the trees unfolded their branches above their heads, patience and laziness necessarily had to be connected, somehow.

He could have been a ghost, too, if not for the wild raven hair, if not for his golden rings and feathers and glassy beads, clinking and shining and screaming for him not to be just that. To close his eyes and turn the world to poetry, to listen to the rhythm of his own beating heart.

To balance on the point where all broken things became beautiful.

And remember the fact that even with sisters like his, there was really nothing that could compare to the feel of their warm, sleeping bodies on each side of him - Jaelle's arm flung accross his torso or the even, quiet breath of Salome. Even the hushes snores of Malina at the other side of the caravan. And perhaps all the things that mattered needed to take the backseat for that time being, to give him time.

To figure out the colour of lies, of deceit and fraud.

The difference between fact and conscience.

All seeped through by the never-waning philosophy of 'me first'.

Would the Raven finally jump down from the door fram to stop its stubborn, repeated croaks, or would it remain inside of its own lonely, self-fulfilling denial? In a world where every card drawn would wave its ugly, skeletal finger at you - had there ever even been possibility?

But death in tarot never meant dying, but change. And perhaps he'd drawn those cards for himself.

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.


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

House Request: I'd really like to see this guy in Slytherin, but feel free to sort :)

Personality: He would very much like to be special, to be original, and to a certain degree he is able to gain this through his Romani ancestry, though he has a way of trying to make even that into his own sort of thing. Image is a most important thing to him, and it is possible that the way he portrays himself started off as something he would do to make himself into someone who could frighten off potential bulliers (the Romani are looked very down upon in most parts of the world), while this has undoubtably developed into something far more over time, identity shaping by combining with his general interests.

Cain's grandparents were taken away to concentration camp during the WWII, where they all died, and this has greatly influenced the family while it may have had some influence on Cain's occupation with death and literature, more specifically along the lines of Edgar Allan Poe and Howard Pillips Lovecraft, though with the occassional element of Shakespearian romance (everything that is aestethically pleasing, to the eye or to the ear). His skill in the English language can be largely attributed to his father, who was born and grew up mainly within UK borders, while his mother is of the constantly travelling sort (her main language other than Romani is French), as though she is always looking for something. Cain does have a tendency to pick up and plow through every discarded book found on the way whose language he can make some sort of half-sense out of, and though he definitely has the head for non-fiction, he is pulled more toward anything that is of the more dreamy quality. Being Romani, he is necessarily bi-lingual, fluent in English and good enough at French to function well at attending Beauxbatons for his first one-two years.

Among his less fortunate qualities is a certain hang for laziness, not bothering to lift his hand or his head for anything he doesn't find worth his time (and even a few things that he does). He can be sarcastic, sometimes mean, and may not be the best big brother potential - he often tricks his little sister, Malina, into doing things for him, and finds himself entertained by it. His conscience and empathy may not particularly developed at the moment - Cain is used to a harsh reality, and he makes a business out of swindling his costumers (see bio), while he often gets away with for being so young, or finds himself getting outright pitied for it (which he will also exploit, sometimes). While he doesn't care about hurting people, he doesn't really care about not hurting them either, and has a very distinct 'myself first' view of the world.

As he comes from a family of 'fortune tellers', it is important to make clear that all of these firmly believe that they are, indeed, magical, even though they're actually muggles, and there's some sibling jealousy involved with the fact that only Cain gets to join a magical school. His every day is pretty immensed in this muggle belief in magic and he will bring with him this into Hogwarts - he is very much convinced that muggles, and especially the Romani, have their 'own sort' of magic. That said, his family does not live on 'swindling' people (only Cain, who can be a huge prat sometimes), but is in fact offering the services of their culture to those who are willing to pay.

Summed up: Cain is a colourful little Romani with an obsession of death and poetry. He could be that silent, observing boy in the back of the classroom, though there is no way he goes unnoticed with the way that he looks. He's got plenty of smarts, but may be too lazy to actually use it, and often he'll drift off into his own world rather than to pay attention.

Appearance: Highly eccentric. Dresses in a lot of 'flowing garments', plenty of colour, and somewhat feminine. Wears holden rings in his ears, beaded necklaces and occassionally also beads in his hair, which is long, black, and usually deliberately made messy. Overly occupied about his looks and maintaining his image, he will go to deliberate lengths of getting ready in the morning, and that's possibly the least lazy thing about him.

Once Cain starts on his growth spurt, he will become extremely lanky and pretty tall for his age, but not overly so. Thin frame, bordering on the fragile, though more elegant than clumsy. Long limbs, long fingers, and with that characteristical 'raven' hair, framing a pair of bright blue eyes.

Please reply to one of the Sample Roleplays below.

They fell heavily upon him, these thick stone walls of the Hogwarts castle, tall and thick and full of grandeour - what Beauxbatons held in elegance, Hogwarts caught up in massivity, in the hard nature of cold stone, harsh and unforgiving. He didn't particularly like it, the way these walls appeared to shut him in - he was so used to open skies and the small space of the wooden caravan, himself caught between the warm bodies of two sleeping sisters. However cramped, that was familiar, and despite the space that opened here, this place appeared surprisingly containing - it didn't hold Beauxbatons' light, flowing decorations, stretching for the eternal skies.

Still, it fascinated him, and he allowed for a few soft fingers to drag along the moist of a dungeon wall, holding onto some of his clothing to lift it off from dragging against the ground while stepping carefully around some sort of wet puddle. And it struck him that the castle here was more diverse.

Like the people.

Turning his head at the sound of some sort of noise, these buildings appeared more like prisons to him, yet it should not surprise him when he was, in fact, walking through the part of the castle that was clearly described as the dungeons. Walking so lightly, he, too could have been a mere ghost haunting its halls.


The smaller figure of a girl coming into view, as unrecognisable as the rest of the people in this place. He didn't like the uniforms, their expressionless anonymity - it forced him to emphasise the parts of him that weren't covered by this particular piece of clothing.

It glimmered in a golden ear ring as he turned he tilted his head at her without actually breaking his own silence, the ragged look of his hair casting an uneven, dark shadow against the wall behind him.

"Hello! Is Emma Birch here?"

"Who is Emma Birch?" he responded, finally.


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« Last Edit: 01/08/2017 at 22:38 by Cain Dunn »

* Ella Galanis

    (05/08/2017 at 09:55)
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Dear Mr. Dunn,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Term begins 1 September 2017. Currently, students have gathered at Camp Loki, and we encourage you to spend your summer there. Should you choose, you may also visit our Elsewhere board via the Floo Network to visit or purchase school supplies.

Yours sincerely,

Ella Galanis
Head of Ravenclaw
do you remember the twenty-first night of september?
love was changing the minds of pretenders while chasing the clouds away
our hearts were ringing in the key that our souls were singing
as we danced in the night, remember how the stars stole the night away