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Topics - Marius Ellwood-Luxe

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Elsewhere Accepted / Marius Ellwood-Luxe
« on: 06/04/2015 at 18:31 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Marius Wolfram Ellwood-Luxe
Gender: Male
Age: 27
Blood Status: Pureblood

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Slytherin, 1928-1935

Kensington, London, England

Obliviator for the Ministry of Magic

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?
The Ministry

Requested Magic Levels: special request sent.
  • Charms: 15
  • Divination: 12
  • Transfiguration: 14
  • Summoning: 9
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Ministry of Magic.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Dacian, Cassius Ellwood-Luxe, Catherine Severin, et al. etc.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)


It was brass, giving the hazy indication that its surface had once caught the light with ease, and had glinted as such to hold one’s eye. Now tarnished and dull, however, Marius peered through and realized that it was not, in fact, a spyglass, but a kaleidoscope: though the outside was dust-covered and aged, the colored glass and ribbons within had somehow retained their luminous qualities, and their collective colorful fractals glowed warm in the light as he turned, filled with wonder, toward the pale light from the window.

The kaleidoscope had always lived in the library wing, but never had he been allowed to touch it. He had often as a child visited his uncle’s manor by the sea, and he had explored the library more times than he could actually remember; more than once he had reached for the kaleidoscope, tucked up and away upon a shelf just beyond the reach of his little fingers, only to have his hand slapped away by someone or another—Cassius always had said that Aunt Aderyn had eyes in the walls, that every old portrait was her spy—and reprimanded with the same words: “Haven’t you any idea how old this is? It’s a precious heirloom, Marius; you mustn’t fuss with it.”

But everything in the manor by the sea was an heirloom, falling through time centuries and centuries and back and back—he used to wonder how Cassius could have felt about living in a house good as a museum, stuffy and dusted with ghosts.

If he had once resented Cassius for his position, those days had long since passed; because, indeed, if his uncle had never had children and those children had never had children, then Cassius would not exist and it would be Marius in line to inherit. A tall order, perhaps, but god or gods had favored him in the past: the things Marius wished for had an uncanny way of coming true.

But it would not happen. It the one wish that they would never have completed in his favor.

It wasn't a responsibility he any longer wanted. He was older than Cassius, and taller, and thought Lysander a fool for sticking his grubby fingers into the line of inheritance and wrenching-- he'd spend the rest of his days answering for whining relatives and writing arduous letters, granting complacency and asylum to greedy cousins, ignoring his wife and praising his ungrateful son, who would never learn to appreciate his status.

Politics were a fool's game. All Marius wanted was to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased.

His gaze broke from the swirling colored patterns and he squinted into the daylight, beyond the panes of the windows and into the distance, skimming the sea.

1961 1923


"Ydw," he answered, plaintive. He stuck his finger back in the whipped cream on his cocoa and licked it off with quiet relish. Auntie Aderyn had set them up in the kitchen, the four of them, while the adults finished the Christmas decorating in the parlour. It was Christmas Eve, and the family were expecting the rest of the guests to arrive that afternoon. "They've all got yellow hair. That's what papa told me. They never came before because they were angry with Uncle."

There was cream on Cassius' upper lip. "If we're related, then why've I never met them before?" He pouted.

"I just told you. And, 'cause you're a baby. And, 'sides," Marius answered, relishing their attention. "none of them speak Welsh. None of them."

There was a hush around the table. Cassius spilled a bit of cocoa into his saucer in his surprise, and even Persy's eyes widened; only Sander didn't react-- he was too little to care.

Cassius found the courage to give a little giggle. "Are they-- are they a bit-- you know."

"Daft," Persy cut in.

Marius gave a mysterious shrug. Persy and Cass exchanged nervous looks.

"You'll just have to be extra nice to them. The oldest one's your age, Persy. She's called Lucy."

"Lucy Chaucer," Cass repeated.

"Yes. You'll have to speak real slow when you meet her." Marius took a conspiratorial sip of his cocoa. "You don't want to make her father angry at you for confusing her."


The children had gathered in one nervous clump in the parlour, the adults standing around at casual pace-- chattering, drinks in hand--  when the fireplace burst into emerald green flames, and several silhouetted figures stepped out.

A tall man with curling golden hair strode forward, his face sooty but smiling, clutching in each hand the tiny fists of two identical straw-haired boys.

“Adelia will be through in a moment,” he said cheerfully, towing the boys out of the way just as the fireplace burst green a second time, giving way to a willowy, dark-haired woman, who had a baby in one arm, and, clutching her opposite hand,  another child with long, wavy golden hair, wearing a pout.

Marius nudged Cassius in the shoulder and whispered, “That one. That’s Lucy.”

He felt Cass shift as he scrutinized the pack of newcomers. The adults all broke away, leaving the two blond boys to clutch one another, and Lucy, standing stiffly by the fireplace. Cassius seemed to have arrived at some kind of resolve, and, without a word, strode evenly across the room.

He’d always been the bravest of them, after all.

“Hello,” Cassius said to Lucy. Marius had to crane over Persy’s head to hear properly, Lysander having anchored himself to the hem of Marius’ now-untucked shirt. “I’m Cassius. It’s very nice to meet you.”

 Lucy said nothing, just blinked sullenly, pout only more pronounced. Cassius blanched.

“Er-- we’re cousins, you and me. Mother said.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder to where Marius stood. Marius nodded, signalling that he was on the right track. Persy trembled. “It’ll be nice having a girl cousin. I think your hair is very pretty, Lucy.”

Cassius drew himself up, clearly proud of his little speech, but Lucy-- of course, that wasn’t his name at all-- wasn’t so impressed. The pout on his face contorted into a bereaved scowl, and his little hands balled into fists.

“My name is Lucien,” He said bitterly, tone beginning to rise, masking a thin, juvenile fury, “AND-- I’M NOT-- A GIRL!”

Without hesitation, Lucien wound back, banking his strength behind his shoulder, and struck forward as hard as he could-- he landed a sound punch straight in the flat of Cassius’ jaw, and Cassius was knocked straight back, landing on his behind in front of Lucien, shock clearly played out upon his face. The adults swarmed around them, pulling Cassius up and spiriting Lucien away, clucking and tutting over their behaviour.

From behind Persy, Marius had descended into a fit of giggles, and had to cover his mouth with both hands to disguise it. He’d met Lucien ages ago.


Dead. All but one of them.

If it hadn't been for Cassius-- alive, but disgraced-- their name would have been all but exeunt in the main line, left to branch family wolves to snap at, vicious, all sense of decorum gone to the wind; Persy had died years ago, towed out by some malicious tide at Disgleirio, and drowned-- and now Lysander, his brother, killed--

There had been a telegram midmorning, followed by the newspaper, with the most curious of headlines.


Marius had always thought assassinations only happened in dusty, gilded royal courts and whitewashed Roman verandas; a political murder, in this modern age, felt far-off and incredible.

But there, at the base of the article, was a photo: Lysander, sneering next to the Minister's daughter.

"I always knew this would never end well," Marius' father had said. "going against fate, tossing Cassius out-- foolish. He was always a bit funny."

Funny was not the word Marius would have used to describe Lysander. It wouldn't do to write him off so easily.

The Chaucers were never of any help in these situations, always just beyond arm's length, offering moral support, consolatory pats on the shoulder, but little else; Marius suspected they preferred it that way, as Ellwood-Luxe scandals, and politics, too often involved intrigue and questionable morals. The Chaucers, dear friends as they may have been, would never be one of them, not truly, and therefore Marius did not expect them to understand-- he had learned to stop expecting things of Lucien, who had proved himself to be not much more than a lapdog, anyhow.

"There's the matter of inheritance, father," Marius said, because he knew his father was thinking it. The matter of a death in the family always shifted the pieces on the proverbial board, and he had always loved chess.

"Yes-- I expect the line is to be followed, which would put-- no, Nehemius is--"

"Lysander has a son-- an infant, but still a son."

"You don't say," his  father sat back, and gave an ugly scoff. "An infant, governing our family. I'd sooner see Cassius back."

At least four people would have to die before Marius would be considered for the title of head of family. He couldn't bring himself to care who held the honour-- even if it was Cassius, smug and no doubt holed up with that halfblood girl, Hallows--

-- it was far too much effort to spare it a second thought. They would all, someday, meet fate; Lysander and Persy had just done sooner.

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:

With the amount of time he spent on his days off haunting certain locations, he was frankly surprised he hadn’t made the full shift to ghost-- floating around London and lurking in corners of cafés, smoking at the lip opening of back alleys, observing. He’d had to learn to entertain himself one way or another, as living alone was boring and Marius thoroughly enjoyed the company of others. Maybe he could have gone to visit Cassius, but Cassius was even more boring than wandering around on his own-- no good. Marius would have rathered, frankly, to be lonely, than to incite old rivalries by showing up at his cousin’s door.

As such he was sifting through books outside of a bookshop, crowd streaming on past in a lazy, two-way stream. Their chatter was unremarkable, normal for the time of day, but suddenly a shrill cry rose above the regular din.

“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!”

Marius snapped the book he’d been holding shut, straightening to see over the heads of the crowd.
Pushing in, he elbowed his way to where the cry had come from, and stopped, holding his arms out to give the woman some elbow room.

“Can you see it?” He asked her, giving a thoughtless shove backward as someone ran into him. Women’s shoes were so impractical.

How did you find us? it was google. it was so long ago. milennia.

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