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Messages - Azrael Nonpareil

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Elsewhere Accepted / Azrael Albear
« on: 27/08/2014 at 05:14 »

E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Azrael Jaime Indro Albear
Gender: Male
Age: 21

Hogwarts - Slytherin, Class of 1939

Hogsmeade Village

Anticipated entry into the Ministry of Magic; currently working under the directives of grandfather and family patriarch, John Charles Albear, to assume the status as Head of Family.

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?
None currently.

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: 8
  • Divination: 8
  • Transfiguration: 9
  • Summoning: 7
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
None currently.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Felix Oliveroot-Leontine

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres.

My father, and my father’s father, have always encouraged the practice of keeping journals; wise men, they would tell you, often share in the fact that they recorded and reflected upon their thoughts. But these words you read will never be committed to paper long before they taste the flame. A wise fool, perhaps, believes in the safety and permanence of tangible word, as if posterity will grant them what present never could.

The most noble pureblood family of Alvear never aspired to be wise, but great. My father, and my father’s father, know this as well as I do, for they were the ones who taught me. But the Alvears never believed in easy lessons, either.

I was the First.

The eldest child and heir of my father, who himself was born a second son. My duty, since birth, has been to follow in the footsteps of my father, and his father, to serve the family. Since I was young, I knew that this would be the path I would walk in life.

Do not have the misconception that as the first son, I was coddled. The path I follow is narrow, and solitary. Among all my brothers, I have stood longest beneath the scrutiny of my father and grandfather’s eyes. Eyes that do not, and never did, tolerate anything less than perfection and obedience. And sons, be they first or second or last, are never born perfect. In my father’s eyes, that is still no excuse. As for my grandfather… one never assumes to know what he thinks, or thought. One obeys.

Obedience came easy, after punishment. I was, if anything, always a smart child. And the hand that punished, if it did not please, did offer something better. In his left hand, my father offered his own glittering pride and shuttered cunning. In his right, my grandfather offered something better – power. These were the gifts these two men gave to me, more valuable than any treats or affection spoiled upon most children. A rare, and precious, tutelage.

I escaped most of the imbecilities of childhood because I was never allowed to act like one. As my brothers were born, for more sons soon followed the first, I was taught that I was to be an example and figure of guidance for them. To become the pillar my siblings looked to, as we looked to our father, and he to our grandfather.

Though if you want the truth of it: grandfather commands the attention of everyone who carries the blood of Alvear, a truth rarely needed be spoken aloud, as obvious as the fact that food and water are needed to survive. And I, as many of my blood do, craved his approval. It was the weight of those steely eyes that judged your worth. Or lack of it. With grandfather, blood was a right only for him: for all others, it was a privilege easily retractable. I remember, as my younger brothers do not, that the fate of our youngest aunt was no true death, but a living one. Blood tells, our grandfather liked to say, and it does not forget.

Never forgets.

What childhood I did have was wrapped in trappings of formality, restriction and exhausting lessons. Even as our family melds into the movements of the new century, the core of the Albear creed is built on a foundation of tradition. And Percival Albear was certainly one for that: ever a great believer in the ideal that children should be seen, not heard, and obey – o ayudarles a Dios. Respect there may be between my father and I, but there is little love lost. As for my mother, she has always been a distant figure. I read regret in her eyes when she looks on me and my brothers, who were never allowed to rest in her arms as she might have liked. Poor mother, who really never stood a chance beneath the thumb of her husband. Yet I never felt a want for this loss; perfect sons do not cling to their mothers’ skirts.

Ironically, the most honest bonds of affection for me were to be born, first, out of duty. My small charges, my younger brothers, began as what I grudged as nuisance responsibilities. Even beneath our father’s strict hand, we all still had a healthy share of siblings’ spats and quarrels. And yet… I became protective over them, knowing as I only knew – the way they could never know – that the position I held would always make them, in some way, “flawed” in our father’s eyes. Their trust bolstered me, hardened the foundation that father and grandfather had laid. Not only did they look up to me, but they trusted in me. And it was this, this legacy that was mine to protect.

Small memories. Helping my brother Michael to hide after one of his outbursts of rage, from our father’s greater wrath. Leaving my schoolbooks laying within Ra’asiel’s reach, after hearing our mother remark he liked to read them while he was stuck in bed. Sentimental, perhaps, and a weakness. But the danger is in not knowing your weaknesses, not in having them.

I attended Hogwarts as soon as I was of age. My sorting was no surprise, but another expectation. Even so, there are some things we take in hand ourselves. As the Hat was placed onto my head, I dared it to place me in anything but Slytherin. Some that night said it had spoken to them, whispered in their ear.

I never heard a word, besides the shout of “Slytherin!”.

My studies were exceptional to the point of being unremarkable. I was not permitted to be too involved in any student activities, and so failed to achieve quite the same lauded fame as some of my schoolmates. And yet, there were none who called themselves my enemy either. Openly. I achieved a considerable amount of influence during my years at Hogwarts, just another expectation. But though none named me enemy, I named none friend. Even as my brothers began to attend school, I was ordered to monitor them and report back to my father.

I anticipated continuing the path laid down for me when I left school, to enter into the Ministry of Magic. The Albears had been steadily worming their way into Wizarding politic in Britain, where my father was still active and my grandfather’s influence, though retired, was still felt. But the latter had different plans. Instead of entering into the Ministry immediately after graduating, I was pulled under my grandfather’s wing.

And it began with being pulled into my grandfather’s office, an imposingly austere abode of bookshelves packed with the tomes of la familia, and guarded by ancestral sphinxes in darkening portraits. He watched my eyes, with a crocodile’s reptilian guile, while he told me that he and my father had selected a bride for me. I said nothing while pin-drops of seconds stretched out; it was the incline of my head that elicited his satisfied nod, the level meet of my eyes with his.

I, more than anyone, knew what was expected of me.

For a span of several months, I traveled to meet with the other factions of our family abroad, familiarizing myself with the sprawling scions of our house. My father’s position in the Ministry made obtaining the necessary WiSA easy, but even so it could only be extended so far. When I returned to Britain, my youngest brother Ra’asiel, home schooled for so long, had finally been allowed to attend Hogwarts. I was given the familiar order to keep an eye on my brother and report on his progress, taking up residence in Hogsmeade.

And to prepare.

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:

There was a space around him, as he moved with the crowds through Diagon Alley. He never did, or said, anything. A well dressed, handsome young man – who by all rights, should’ve been jostled just as much poor pretty Amelia. The one difference between them was the presence that clung to those well-tailored clothes and aristocratic bones; a natural set in his shoulders and poise in bearing, smooth force in his walk.

People parted as easily as an ocean before it, sometimes with a glance, but most of the time without being aware of it at all. They gave way. That was just how it was. It was the sort of presence that dominated, made lesser wills wither as it passed, shriveling like paper before a hot breeze.

Azrael Albear. No one needed to recognize him, but that was his name.
He was on his way to meet with his father, his intention the delivery of his latest report on Ra’asiel. The youngest Albear son had barely left for Hogwarts, and already their father’s suspicions were curdling.

Or, he had been on his way to meet his father.

Now there was a woman suddenly sprawled on the ground in front of him.
Azrael stopped short, his eyes unreadable as they watched Amelia scrabble around on the dirty cobblestones. They were curiously light colored eyes, like pieces of glass, and just as hard to fathom. Or chips of ice: cool, and uninviting.

His father would be waiting for him, noting ever tick of the clock past the appointed time. Yet it was unlike his eldest son to be late, and doubtless he’d be more concerned, in a way, than angry. Still. Azrael didn’t plan to be late. Nonetheless, this woman was still in the way.

“Are you hurt, Miss?” He asked, leaning down to take her elbow. His voice was quiet, moderated but not what one would call soft. Pleasant, polite, an openness consonant and vowel that was what betokened ‘educated’. Everything about his figure, from just enough incline in angle, to the consciously gentle touch upon her arm, was – frankly – charming.

And on his face, just enough cool degrees of politen to close his expression off from being inviting.

How did you find us? Rooster/Tori literally told me about you guys while we were at a theme park and now I’m not allowed off this ride.
for the record: omfg my poor fingers WORDS /sobs

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