Asta Adelaide Pendragon

[Eve Hallows]

Application for Salem Institute

→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.
Name: Asta Adelaide Pendragon

Birthday: April 3rd, 1926

Hometown: Unknown

Bloodline:
Unknown

Magical Strength (pick one):
Conjuring & Summoning

Magical Weakness (pick one):
Charms

Year (pick two): First, Second

Biography:
Her feet tapped lightly against the grey kerbstone ground, the rhythm steady as the pounding in her ears, a sting forming in her throat with every breath she took. The jugal in her arms was falling, and her fingers bore further into the soft fur, causing the puppy to give out a small yelp. Pulling it up with more force than needed, the small, golden Labrador jumped in her embrace, and Asta continued undeterred.

Twist had been one of the strays in Mulhouse, too young and too chubby to keep up with the others when they visited the gaff, and when Madame Noire wanted to pack up and leave, Asta had begged to keep him. The batlike woman had reluctantly agreed on the condition that she trained the dog as a buffer, but as either Asta was bad at teaching or Twist was bad at performing, he had eventually become a jugal instead. Her jugal.

Madame Noire. She was really named Duffy. Asta and Gustaf had snickered, as they had lain underneath the caravan in the dark green, moist grass, listening to the woman either suck up to an investor or yell at the workmen. Forever more beneficial when she was talking to investors, the two of them had safely pocketed the information for later use, making an entry in their secret language code to rename the feared proprietor of the troop Ducky. No reason why. Just because it sounded like Duffy and it was funny.

They had done that all the time. When you were pulled around to entertain men and women from all over the world, you picked up stray words in the language, trying to find out what it meant, twisting and turning it to crack it open, figure out its use and finally, apply it to the rebellion resources: your own language. Long summer nights while the tentmen, such as Jip and Don, the clowns, Chipper and Cruddy, and animal trainers, who Asta and Gustaf didn’t socialise with, went to the local bevvy, and cold winter nights, with nothing to do than tuck in the frayed blankets that they slept with, turned into secret messages and inventing codes for everything. Two copies had been made on paper they had nicked from the ken, safely tugged in the warm, safe environment in the green belly boxes under the reddish caravan (-ish because the colour had worn off from the dust grinding against the sides when they drove them down the road), torn a little from the moist they had endured on rainy days, but Madame Noire had never found them.

Asta had brought her copy with her, certain that it would one day help her to save Gustaf.

The distance lain behind her was long enough for the eight-year-old to finally take a break and throw a look over her right shoulder, and as fate would have it, the timing was just right for her to do it the moment a large, rather rubicund, flushed-looking man chose to step out in front of her. Normally, she would have neatly side-stepped, but Twist in her arms and eyes behind her, there was neither much room nor space for her to do damage control, and the inevitable happened.

“Ouf!” she exclaimed as her body pulled backwards from the impact, landing herself straight into a puddle assembled on the sloppy, uneven pavement, and she quickly felt the dirty water drench her now smeared, emerald green robe. If she had still been anywhere near camp, Madame Noire would have skinned her alive.

Meanwhile, the hood had fallen down, exposing her face to the stranger, and the dog, fighting to get out of the girl’s embrace, was clutched even tighter as her right-hand fingers curled around the brim of the hood, yanking it upwards in what could have looked like both a calm and frightened movement. The drunk of course started brawling, but Asta wasn’t particularly scared. He reminded her too much of Chipper.

There had been a reporter once, coming to the fun fair under the presumption that he was just any josser, but afterwards he had stalked around the grounds, finding their meat hall, walking around asking questions. Chipper had been in an unusually good mood, the corners of his lips tugging infinitely closer to his chin, a deadpan expression stuck on his features, as if someone had taken his face and turned it inside out. With the journalist disappearing in the distance, they had all beat up laughter to equal those of Agamemnon and Thor – at least the way Asta imagined them – and she had mimicked them, trying to pretend like she knew what they were laughing about.

Chipper’s facial expression had stayed put. He was mute.

Anyway, there had to be a reason why this man had stopped her right here. Fate. Some sign. Something she needed to see. Some-

Her gaze travelled upwards to linger by the wooden plank hanging outside the door, absentmindedly covering the black tights and sparkly, purple circus suit with her favourite pattern on, this time making sure to sidestep the fellow whose vision was apparently so blurred that he hadn’t noticed she’d upped and left.

While standing on the ledge to The… Le- Leak- Leaking Ca- Cau- Cowdrone (it sounded like one of those cows that had been abducted by aliens in the middle of a corn field, because they did that, aliens, abducted cows, and it was always from corn fields, because those were the easiest to make signs in with their laser beams), trying to get a firm grasp on the handle, two men butted their way out fiercely, grabbing the larger man, who obviously had trouble navigating his own legs, and dragged him along, slithering down the road from the weight of the heavy body. Asta observed them a little, almost mesmerized, until she heard the bell go off again and slipped through the legs of a couple of confused, exiting customers, Twist still tugged safely in her grasp.

As she entered the bevvy, the dog was immediately left to its own business on the floor, and dark eyes went over the shallow details in awe. She had never been allowed in a bar before, let alone a real pub. Not that they were even supposed to know that word. Once, she and Gustaf had asked around for the meaning of bevvy, which was, at least, their jib. Madame Noire had made them take care of the pig’s toenails. The great, grey ones, that was, not the brown, cuddly ones. Although, their toenails had probably been equally disgusting.

That was the way it was always done at the gaff. If something had gone wrong at camp and one of them had something to do with it, so did the other. The state of nature, as Madame Noire had learned the hard way, as she called it; experience.

“Chavi! Always learn from others’ failures. Much less painful!”

It was always said in a snuffling, drawling tone of voice, and often accompanied by a hiccup or two. The poor donah had no idea that she was their greatest teacher.

Perusing the people inside, eyes wide with fascination, she noticed they all wore cloaks just like hers, almost in as sprawled colours as her own. It had been a gift from Chipper and Gustaf. The only reason Madame had let her keep it, was because it was fanciful (and because she knew, by the end of their punishment, she would still get the pleasure of hearing them say ‘Thank you’ and ‘Bona’). Here they were, though, lined up, leaning against the bar as if they were normal people on an ordinary day. Travellers. Her head shot to the left. Some of them probably Romani. Definitely a challenge. Could she pickpocket them?

It was not that Asta meant to, it had just become habit. When people had lined up outside to buy tickets, or billets, as Madame called them, when they had been in awe on the benches over Eloise or choking on their own laughter from watching Chipper and Cruddy, when they were just walking around the fun fair, looking at animals or waiting in line for the galloper or dukkering, that was when Asta and Gustaf were truly in their ace. The market trained skilled thieves.

Another boy had been introduced once, Dave or David, Daniel or something, someone to ‘help’ them ‘expand their profits’. It had taken one pointed look between her and Gustaf, and the kid had been done for; a single, well-placed piece of jewellery hidden under his bed was all it took. Madame Noire took no excuses for good, and the boy had been working with the pigs until he had finally run away.
Of course, when Eloise had repeated the gesture and run away with Phineas, the red-haired pig-trainer who always gave them sweets, Asta had stepped in, taking her place.

She had always been the line-dancer, at first with net, because sometimes the mingers would come and supervise that everything went on according to the law (“But their law don’t apply here,” she heard the woman rage, “They’ll see.”), but on her sixth birthday it had been without (Madame called it a ‘treat’. Since then Asta had never understood Trick or Treat. Was it like pest or cholera?), and by her seventh she could sling herself down the corde pareille, just like Eloise, the princess dancing down from the roof, holding on with only her legs.

It had happened that she had fallen from the rope without the safety net (all the way down she had sulked about Madame Noire’s stupid treats), but the old woman had apparently had some sort of foresight, because the ground had turned all wobbly underneath Asta like an air matress, not hard at all, like it used to, and slung back into the air, her hand was quickly locked firmly around the rope once more.

Sometimes she had wondered if she was happy the D-boy had gone, or if she envied him. Now, however, she had gotten her escape.

It hadn’t been her intention to leave Gustaf behind, it really hadn’t.

No longer remembering who had come first or where they had come from, there was a common understanding that it didn’t matter, because they would always be together. It was a lie, of course, because it mattered where she came from, she knew, and they wouldn’t always be together. Like now; they weren’t together now. And she had promised with the pinky and the spit and everything. He was her best friend, her brother, and she had left him. But he had asked her to – did that make it alright?

Once, they had lain sprawled on a mound a little outside the troop’s area, trying to visualise the stars through the rays of the sun. Someone had once told her the stars were suns too, but obviously they were wrong, because the stars twinkled and were much smaller, and while she lay there, contemplating the meaning of such nonsense, Gustaf had asked if she wanted to marry him. They hadn’t been very old, of course, Asta told herself, and he had only made a ring out of a flower (it was an especially appropriated skill that the girl would have liked to educe from herself, but Gustaf had been the one blessed with dexterity), but she had turned him down.

Wanting to was not enough, she had learned from an early age, because she had dreams, and one of those dreams were being married so she could take her husband’s name and finally become someone, belong to someone, feel part of a family. Gustaf didn’t have a last name either, so if they married, they would keep on being nobodies with no last names, and Asta didn’t want that.

The troop was their family, of course, but Asta didn’t fancy herself sliding down ropes and pulling money from people’s waist pockets when Madame dictated they hadn’t paid enough (which was just about always) for the rest of her life.

No, the world she had entered here was exciting and new, and people looked like her. She was no outcast, and she was free. Asta decided to stay.

It wasn’t as if Asta hated Madame Noire. The woman had always looked scary, thin like a skeleton, her long, greasy, black hair falling in cascades to her waist, the thin lips coated in red lipstick, but never had they quirked upwards in a smile. That would have been even more scary. Predictable to the very end, Ducky had a predilection for old, worn hats she had fixed up herself, and not even that, but she always did the troop the courtesy of putting on one to match her mood. Asta kept track.

A tall, black one for her maestro time in the manége, a purple one with a dotted net to cover her eyes for mischief (like talking to investors), a red beret for punishment etc. etc.

Bats could be nice too, though, Asta mused secretively to herself, and even Madame Noire had redeeming features about her. Normally, the two of them got clothes. Often bought in a chovey (second-hand, of course), but sparkly and puffy, just the way she liked it, patterns of stars, moons and suns in colourful splashes. However, there had been rare fractions of life, little niches in time where the woman had set it upon herself to read to them too. Grand tales of big heroes and old gods introduced Asta to a world of symbolism, one she had even been allowed to explore herself as the donah had brought the children to a public library once. The girl had known what she wanted and attempted to spend hours there, simultaneously knowing all too well that she wouldn’t be allowed, due to Madame’s mercurial fancies of the moment, but she had gotten things done and had reached a point where a whole piece of paper had been filled with her handwriting on the origin and meaning of her name.

Of course, she could spell. “Who else would have the time to write the bills, hmm?” Madame’s voice sounded in her head.

 
Pocketing the notes safely in the forest green satchel that flopped back against her waist as she released it, she quickly rummaged through the contents, assuring herself that all her other notes and the secret code was still there. Not that she expected anyone to be skilled enough to steal from her, not that anyone would understand much of it if they did, but there were dinari down there too, and she needed those. Besides, those notes were important, just not to anyone but her.

One piece stuck out from the others. It was written on neat, completely white paper. Madame had said something about an official investor, and Asta had gratefully snapped the opportunity to write visibly, all her notes on aliens.

You see, Madame was like one person, accommodating both Chipper and Cruddy, but never in balance, never at the same time, so when she had learned that Asta had used her tales to research her heritage, she had told her the real story of her mother and father; how they had been in love and lying on a corn field, eating lots of corn and kissing (“Eww,” remarked Asta, scrunching up her nose and craning her neck to the side, but the woman had grabbed her ear and yelled at her to listen), when suddenly, the sky had darkened and the evil aliens had taken all the cows and Asta’s parents.

Since then, Madame Noire had always surrendered her cut-outs from newspapers of the new sightings, and Asta had never quite taken a liking to lightning.

Cramming the paper down again, she suddenly eyed a man, and considering him observantly, she witnessed him looking around himself six times to each side, before stepping out a small door on the other side of the smoky room. Six was her lucky number, so twelve had to be double as lucky, right?

Crouching down, she took a hold of the unwilling puppy, eyes still trained on the stranger, quickly jumping to her feet and traversing the damp, crowded room, with the lovely warmth emanating from pipes and loud, clattering chit chat. He almost escaped her, but she hooked him once more as she pushed through the legs of a couple of older men, one with a squeaky, quivering voice, the other a deep bass (just like Chipper and Cruddy, Asta realised), and the wild hunt continued, inattentive as she was to her pet’s vigorous protests.

Following him silently into a small backyard, she crept into the shadows, staying glued up against one of the crummy walls, only thinly disguised by the shadows provided in the rainy atmosphere. It had almost been a shock, stepping out, but Asta had known worse weather, and she had benefited from the heat inside the dusty old pub.

His figure was blurred in her vision, and she didn’t see his movements exactly, but what she did see was a bunch of stones suddenly moving. Her mouth trailing a silent “Woah,” the Labrador suddenly still in her arms, she watched as the wall opened and the man passed through. What was he? An alien?

Suddenly realising she would have no answers unless she decidedly went out there and got them, her feet almost burning with excitement (yes, her feet started to burn, not her stomach or her fingers or her head, because with Asta, her feet was always as good an indication as any that fireworks were about to start), and she got a move on, the complaints rapidly starting from beneath her chin again.

Walking into the alley, her eyes widened and her head turned and twisted, trying to capture all the details of the venue she had stumbled upon. People in different-coloured cloaks, just like her own, sprawled colours all around, almost no children. Asta would have guessed this was a fun fair if it hadn’t been for the lack of children.

You couldn’t have a fun fair without children, could you? Who was going to eat the candy floss of ride the galloper? Of course, only the adults could play E.O., but all the stands – Asta knew from experience that people were fond of their children, and children wanted to try out more things than parents because they didn’t have to give dinaris, and because of that correlation, children dragged their parents around to keep the gaff going. That was at least how Madame Noire had expressed it.

However, this seemed to go fairly well, even though it was pouring rain, and Asta stood on her bare feet, because she had forgotten her batts at home, observing the rustle and bustle of the street, wondering how you could have a camp that stayed the same place all year around. Because you couldn’t move real houses around, could you?

It certainly was a fancy gaff.

Meandering down the cobblestone ground, there were so many sights to be seen, and the eight-year-old didn’t for a second register the many eyes falling on and following her as she walked, naked feet, carrying a three-month-old golden Labrador, her cloak and satchel green and drenched. Nor did she stop until she stumbled upon a funny-looking sign.

Pen- Pan- Pen… dra- dragon, Pen-dragon!

That sounded like a Romani name. Asta Adelaide liked Romanis. They called her ‘rakli’, and she liked that.

Stepping up to the door, she solemnly knocked (why didn’t they just have a coloured veil?), and waited tentatively for someone to answer her. Houses were nice. At least they provided shelter from the downpour of the stupid rain.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.
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→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.
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'Twas unfair. Omi was probably having the time of his life, and she wasn't even allowed to do anything but boring Sybill Wort-essays - why did the Merricans have such weird names for their fights anyway? The Thirty Year's War that Nani had once spoken of had seemed pretty straightforward, considering it had lasted for thirty years.

With a pout and a sigh, Asta dropped the quill she'd been tapping against the cover of her book for the last five minutes, straightening with a red mark on her cheek from the hand that had cupped her face while her gaze slowly turned from the blazing sun and people on the Quodpot field outside to the boy next to her.

A desolate pair of eyes came to rest on some old pieces of paper, sallow with age, and the girl tilted them upwards with one end of the feathered quill, a flash of disgust crinkling the bridge of her nose at the mushroom of dust that rose when she finally closed it again.

Asta would have given anything to be able to comment on the Quodpot game instead of sitting, nearly choking from the stuffy air that crammed the two of them inside the library on the most beautiful day in all of September.

"How about I write the essay and stuff?"

Quickly, head spinning from the movement, she turned to glance at the boy to her left. 'Twas too goo-

"Nu-uuh. You'd just tattle-tail on me!"

There was not an ounce of trust in the young girl's voice as her eyes narrowed suspiciously to catch his reaction to that, and a satisfied smirk penetrated her features as she mused she'd probably caught the perpetrator right in the act.

→ ABOUT YOU.

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[Elizabeth Birch-Hurst]

Miss Pendragon,

Congratulations, your application to Salem Institute has been accepted.

Term begins 01 January 2013. Currently, students have gathered at Camp Loki. Your admission is joint for both the school and 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. We look forward to seeing you at the School.

Regards,