E L S E W H E R E A D U L T
CHARACTER INFORMATIONCharacter Name: Alastair Helios Scorpius Darcy
Gender: Male
Age: 30
Blood Status: Pureblood
Education: 1940-47, Hogwarts-Slytherin
Residence:Thornhill Estate, London
OccupationMagical Equipment Use Regulator and Heir
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:
[Will send in an exceptional levels request and a special character request for Magical Empathy]
- Charms: 7
- Divination: 11
- Transfiguration: 7
- Summoning: 7
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason? No
Please list any other characters you already have at the site:Cayden Cox, Ryan Kennard
Biography: (300 words minimum.)It's amazing how circumstances can change a person. How a bookish little boy can grow into the person he is today.
Like most Pureblood heirs, Alastair Darcy's story wouldn't be complete without his father's. Elias Darcy was a regarded as a harsh but fair man, and with this Alastair agreed. One could consider him akin to a horse breeder; loving and caring of prized horse, and disdainful and neglecting of the rest. In his dysfunctional little family, Alastair was the prized son.
And, just like the others, Elias pulled the string of every aspect of his life, so Alastair danced, danced to the tune his father sang as his brother was banished and her sister was ostracized, crying for them in his heart but never on his face. Doing so would be weak and, as Elias so often liked to remind him, he was not. His father took pride how his son broke his own bones to fit the mold he had created, how he bent over backwards to his whims. Alastair was not foolish like his siblings; he knew he could never fight back against him, so he waited.
They were more alike that he'd like to admit. Cold, intelligent, and most of all, cunning.
His mother was a whole different story. Elizabeth Darcy was a puppet, a shadow of what she could've been, he liked to think. She was like a guardian angel that could never quite deliver on her duties; obedient as she was, she preferred to gossip over tea parties as her children had their identities and sense of self ground into dust. Perhaps there was a once a glorious and talented woman where she once stood, but whoever she was, she died the moment she took on the Darcy name. Alastair loved her, as a son should his mother, but resented her for her negligence. Not to him, but to Oliver and Lydia.
And Oliver, foolish foolish Oliver. A boy with big dreams and an even bigger attitude. Alastair loved him also, as a brother and as a friend and confidant, but it was astounding how different they'd turned out. The younger boy was never one to take hits lying down, and for that he was punished by having his name stripped from the records. Deep down, he admired him for doing what he couldn't do, for saying what he will never have the spine to say, for defying the life their parents had set for him. On the surface however, he is not talked about. Nothing but a long forgotten memory.
Lastly, Lydia. Poor, sweet Lydia. She was a truly special girl, meant for things greater than he and Oliver could ever hope for. Alas, Elias and Elizabeth would have none of it, and she was broken down, just like him, to fit the mold. Only, she didn't go down without a fight and when she did, it shattered her personality and made her into someone she was not. To this day Alastair dreads that the little boisterous girl he loved so much would be gone forever, but he could do nothing but stand on the side as her life was given away to a stranger. He did nothing because, once again, it was not his place to question his father.
What of Alastair himself? He liked to think of himself as a reflection of his upbringing, of circumstance. His surname brings him power, commands respect, and his first name signals the cold, distant, cunning man many would prefer to avoid. To the average man, he was just the carbon copy of his father, sprinkled with his mother's flair, his brother's charm, and her sister's spunk. He had accepted that this was his identity long ago, but on the occasional lonely night he'd imagine what could've been. Maybe he would've joined his brother in his adventures. Perhaps gave into his passion and became a writer. Or even played Quidditch, if fate would have it.
In the end, they were just that. Fantasies.
Roleplay: You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:Roleplay Response: [Option 2]
Snow in Diagon Alley was truly terrible; the bitter cold bit at his nose, even though his face was half covered with his scarf and his hands were stuffed deeply inside the pocket of his coat. It was obvious Alastair Darcy was in a foul mood, and the sour look on his face was enough for most people to step aside without much bothering him. That is, of course, some idiot crashed into him and showered him in red and gold glittering strands of tinsel.
"What the hell-" His anger only flared further as he regarded the man who had crashed into him, scrambling to get himself back up and also covered in tinsel, and apologising profusely. "How about you watch where you're going instead of being sorry?" he asked in a low, pissed off tone, not one to usually scream out his anger. Even now, heads were starting to turn; there was no need for his antics to worsen it.
With a sigh, he ran his hand through his carefully combed hair, trying to get the tinsel out, but failing and only messing it up further. He tried shaking his coat and using magic, but to little avail, and so he turned once again to the man with an accusatory look. "Now how are you going to fix this mess?" Because God forbid, if he messed up his coat, he would have his head.
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