CHARACTER INFORMATIONCharacter Name: Able Lewis Sorley.Gender: Male.Age: 23.Education: Hogwarts - SlytherinResidence: Wizarding LondonApplying to be: (select one, see here) Photographer*OOC access to graphics editing programs (e.g. GIMP, Photoshop, Microsoft Paint) and some graphics editing knowledge highly recommended.
**If Bureau Manager, fill out the section at the very bottom at the application. Please also note that these applications may take longer to process.Department of choice: (select one)DomesticWhy did you request that particular department?It was what was available, yo.Requested Magic Levels: (see here on how to do this)- Charms: 9
- Divination: 5
- Transfiguration: 9
- Summoning: 8
Please list any other characters you already have at the site:Lincoln Litchfield, Eugene BryceBiography: (300 words minimum.)Able was a nosey person. He’d worm his way into any situation he could, always wanting to know what was going on, regardless of the consequences. His parents heaved a sigh of relief when he was finally on his way to Hogwarts; not that they didn’t love their little boy, they just… needed a break every once and a while. And Able didn’t mind, Hogwarts meant learning new things and meeting new people, and a wide variety of new dirt to dig up. It was no surprise to those who knew him to find out he was sorted into Slytherin – even as a child, he was ambitious, clever, self confident, and resourceful.
He wasn’t the best in his class, always the student that got all his work done but at average quality. However, if someone wanted to get back at a bully, or blackmail some halfwit, Able was the kid you went to. He made a small business of it: a few knuts for something embarrassing, a couple sickles for some real good blackmail, and if you forked up some galleons it could get you some spying with pictures.
Annoying and immature, sure, but no one could doubt that the guy had skills. It was this ability to gather information that spurred him to take a job at the Daily Prophet.
Roleplay:Reply as your character to the following:Jim hated Mondays.
He had always hated Mondays, really; that cursed beginning of the week, that day where it still should have been the weekend and yet there was work to be done - deadlines to be made - stupid lunch meetings to attend. Even when ‘lunch meetings’ had been just plain lunch; ‘work’, homework, he had despised the start of classes and - all at once - the next five un-fun days before the weekend started up again.
Now, cloudy October morning, Jim hated Mondays more than ever.
His desk filled with the wide-open arms of the Sunday Prophet, he scribbled furiously over sections with a bright red ink.
All the new graduates with their impeccable NEWTs and superb teacher recommendations had come in last month, only too eager to start preaching the truth -
their truth - to the whole of Wizarding Britain.
Jim’s train of thought was bitter, but he smiled wanly, for he had once been one of those recruits themselves.
Most of their dreams should have been been smashed in the first week, from the first time people like Jim had told them to fetch the group some coffee. Day after day, hour after hour, that was what they now said to their youngest colleagues, as their older counterparts had told him years before:
At some point everyone has to fetch us our drinks.Almost every year, the new recruits sat down and took it - and fetched the group some coffee - and maybe it was just the age or the nostalgia, but Jim was fairly certain that they deserved it all.
They did
not deserve to publish half-coherent drafts with way too many adverbs and completely unmodulated opinions.
Jim threw down the quill in disgust, ink splattering onto his button-down shirt as though it were blood.
Smartly, he piled up bits of paper, and then, still angry, face marred by an unhappy Monday, deposited the pile in front of his door before reaching out to grab at the first person he saw.
“
What happened to this paper?”
Roleplay Response:“Excuse me?” replied Able through a mouth full of sandwich. He swallowed hard and coughed, pulling his nice button down out of the man’s hand before frowning down at his lunch that now decorated the gaudy carpet beneath them.
That had been the only thing he had had to eat so far.
With a deep sigh Able looked up at Jim and adjusted the glasses that had slipped down his straight nose, “Look, I’m just a photographer,” he rattled the large camera around his neck for emphasis, “Do I look like I bloody well know? Find yourself a columnist, mate.”
OTHERHow did you find us? The angels that hang out with Old Lady Josie down by the car lot.
