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Elsewhere Accepted / Finlay Bramston
« on: 03/04/2020 at 18:04 »
E L S E W H E R E A D U L T
CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Finlay Oliver Bramston
Gender: Male
Age: 27 (date of birth: 2 April 1932)
Blood Status: Halfblood
Education: Hogwarts, Gryffindor (1943-46); dropped out in 3rd year.
Residence: Isle of Dogs, London
Occupation: Sinner
Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (for example: the Ministry, Shrieking Shack) or to take over an existing shop in need of new management?
No.
Requested Magic Levels:
Adult characters have 32 starting levels to distribute across these four categories (less levels can be used if you so desire, but no more than 32). The number of levels on the lowest ability must be at least half of the highest ability.
If you want levels above the usual 32 total, or a significantly uneven distribution of starting levels, please fill out and submit the Special Request form here.
- Charms: 5
- Divination: 2
- Transfiguration: 3
- Summoning: 4
No.
Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Calypso Ross & co.
Biography: (300 words minimum.)
finlay is 12.
cecelia is 6.
cecelia is 6.
“Let me out, Fin!”
Finlay locks the wardrobe door. He leans down and peers through the keyhole. Cecelia’s blue eyes peer right back.
“Say please.”
“Please.”
“Say it like you mean it, Cece, c’mon.”
“Please, Fin!” Cecelia is nearly in tears. She’ll start crying soon. She always does.
“Sorry.” Finlay takes a step back from the wardrobe and shrugs. “Can’t hear ya from all the way in there.”
At dinner, Thomas asks where Cecelia is.
Finlay shrugs, “Ain’t seen her.”
finlay is 14.
ewan is 17.
ewan is 17.
“What d’ya mean, you dropped out?”
Finlay looks at Ewan like he’s stupid. Ewan isn’t stupid, not really, but Finlay reckons he’s still smarter. Ewan’s always been blinkered by his love for their mother. Finlay doesn’t have that problem. He knows a mess when he sees one, and he decided long ago that the mess which is Theresa Bramston isn’t really worth his time—not when he isn’t worth hers.
“Pretty much what it sounds like.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Finlay shrugs. He’s pretty good at shrugging. “What’s the point? You ain’t there and Kieran ain’t there ’cause you ain’t there, so I ain’t stayin’ while you lot all piss around back here.”
“That what this is to you?” Ewan gestures at their mother on the sofa, barely aware of her surroundings. “Pissin’ around? This ain’t a joke, Fin.”
Finlay looks at Theresa Bramston.
“Looks like a joke to me.”
finlay is 18.
theresa is 40.
theresa is 40.
“Mum?”
Theresa is in the bathroom, slumped against the side of the bath. She looks at him with glazed eyes and smiles.
Finlay swears, not because he’s worried—this isn’t the first time she’s been like this and it won’t be the last—but because he’s the only one home and that means he has to deal with her.
“We’d be better off if you were dead,” he tells his mother. She doesn’t hear him, or if she does, none of the words register. He says it again, in a yell this time.
When he stands up and makes the mistake of glancing in the mirror, there are unshed tears in his eyes. He punches his reflection.
When Ewan comes home, he asks why the mirror over the sink is now lying in pieces on the floor.
Finlay ignores him. His bleeding knuckles speak for themselves.
finlay is 19.
melvin is 43.
melvin is 43.
His mother is dead and Finlay is glad.
He tells his father this seventeen days after her death, late at night in the kitchen, because he never knows when to shut up.
Melvin’s fist collides with his jaw and Finlay drops what’s left of his whiskey.
Glass shatters.
His face is throbbing and he’s disappointed with himself—he’s usually better at dodging than that.
finlay is 23.
thomas is 29.
thomas is 29.
“I might need a loan.”
Thomas looks at him from where he’s sitting on the sofa, a beer in his hand. Finlay pushes himself away from where he’s been leaning against the doorframe and takes a seat in Melvin’s favourite armchair.
He doesn’t like asking for things—least of all from Thomas or Ewan, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. And of his two older brothers, he knows which one is more likely to say yes.
“Might?”
“Do,” Finlay corrects himself grudgingly. “Do need one.”
“What for?”
Finlay shrugs, “Shit happens.”
Thomas, frowning, asks again, “What for?”
Finlay knows better than to push his luck, “Had a deal fall through. Made a mistake, didn’t I.” He and Cecelia are both good at making those.
“What kind of mistake?”
“An expensive one.”
Silence.
Then, “How much d’you need?”
finlay is 26.
kieran is 27.
kieran is 27.
“I saw her first.”
“Yeah, well, I spoke to her first. And it’s me she likes, not you.”
“That’s ’cause she ain’t met me yet.”
“And she ain’t gonna, neither. This one’s mine.” Kieran tosses down his cards. Finlay’s not sure whether he’s talking about the round or the girl. It doesn’t really matter which; the answer is the same either way.
“You wish.” Finlay’s cards join Kieran’s—royal flush.
Kieran swears.
“Tell you what, I’m feelin’ generous—you keep your money. And I’ll take what’s-her-name off your hands instead.”
creation of finlay bramston & powerplay of cecelia bramston approved by cecelia's player.
Roleplay: You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:
Option One -
Amelia Nixon was many things, but she was never a pushover reporter that people could just usher away with a busy shuffle past. She was dedicated and eager to cut to the very middle of the current political tensions because she was Amelia Nixon and her articles would most certainly become front page material.
“Sir, please! It’s for the Prophet, how do you feel-“
Another one brushed passed her, the shuffling busy masses making their way through Diagon Alley for the lunchtime rush. This had been the best possible time to get people, but none of them were giving her anything to go with.
Only momentarily discouraged, the short red headed lady took a seat on a nearby bench. Her quill resting in her left hand and her notepad ready in the opposite hand. Amelia pouted, tapping the quill against her leg as she scanned the waves of people for somebody - anybody - who looked like they had something to say.
She had been dreaming of her name in bold print, Amelia Nixon: The Source of Today’s Tomorrow. She had been dreaming of the larger office and the secretaries that would fetch her the morning coffee and fetch her anything she needed. The VIP interviews and the most exclusive press passes. But all Amelia had was a page seventeen piece on the rising number of frogs in London.
Hardened by a day of no success, the reporter stood up and started to trod off down the alley. A loose stone on the cobble path caught her heel, sending the distraught girl toppling down to the ground.
“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!” she yelled as she tried desperately to recover her shoe frantically in the middle of the Diagon Alley moving crowds.
Roleplay Response:
Diagon Alley was so much brighter, busier, and more bustling than Knockturn. Finlay Bramston, as he stepped out of the shadowed underworld and back into ordinary life, let his lip curl in distaste for the crowd and the dull lives of the people caught up in it.
He sidestepped the young mother struggling to keep control of her twin boys, giving their chocolate-covered hands a very wide berth. He crossed the street to avoid the lorry parked up on the kerb by The Rose and the crates being unloaded from it. He failed to notice the woman on the pavement right in front of him.
Finlay tripped, swore, and then swore again.
“For Christ’s sake.”
The redhead on the floor wasn’t attractive enough to be causing such a pile-up, though he supposed the shrieking probably wasn’t doing her any favours. A banshee on the streets—
With that thought still lingering, Finlay let a smile twitch at his mouth. He glanced down at the woman again, “You got a wand, ain’t ya? Shut up and use it.”
OTHER
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