Physical Description: Tresses of ginger, curled and tangled from the wind, Atelia wears a bird nest upon her head, often left to lie on her shoulders and back, or tied up when she needs to. Freckles and a slight tan adorn her face, from her time working on her parents' land and the adventures she finds herself getting into. She takes after her mother in her bow-shaped lips and Green eyes; however, hers are far more murkier, and the rest of her screams her father.

While not willowy in frame, her tall height makes her father's stocky frame look lean and athletic; with wide shoulders and long arms and legs, she looks more built for a swimmer than a cattle farmer.

Mental Description: Atelia is a wildcard when it comes to her personality; her isolation in her early childhood fostered a unique confidence within her due to her supportive Muggle parents; however, at times, she finds the world overstimulating and overbearing, the noises never really becoming a comfort for her as she began her move to the city.

She is witty and loves to laugh, a sharp and loud explosion of giggles with a crude sense of humour, often times leading her into trouble more than not. To the point and blunt, her conversation doesn't falter far from her honesty, which can often put her foot in her mouth when speaking.

With her mischievous antics, she finds solace in adventure and the outdoors, often climbing trees and scraping her knees or placing herself in dangerous situations by following breadcrumbs of red flags and pretty creatures.

Biography: Raised originally in the rural highlands before settling in East Kilbride, Atelia only knew her family, her cattle and the odd characters spotted around the farms. Atelia mostly bonded with the livestock around her, finding them far more interesting in conversation due to her being far younger than those situated around her and having no playmates. When she was 11, her family sold the farm due to the rising costs of maintenance and her mother, a gentle soul who was often frail and ill, needed more care in an urban hospital than the esoteric practices her paternal grandfather often administered.

First Instance of Magic: It was Atelia's first year in the city, the cars and smoke almost nauseating as she stood by the school gates, a heavy lump in her chest. Her mother had shed a single tear as she left the home in pride, her father, always the silent sort, had harumphed in approval, and the initial excitement she had felt had drained into a puddle on the floor beneath her.

She had never seen so many children her age before. Originally homeschooled by her mother and her grandmother, she felt vastly inferior to those who sprinted past her with friends in tow, her weathered boots compared to their branded footwear a stark reminder of her roots and how isolated she was to modern fashion. Atelia walked briskly, hands folded within themself as she marched forward to the office she had no idea how to find. 'It's an adventure' she thought to herself tersely, ' A new adventure that I must conquer'. It did nothing to dull the ache of anxiety within her, but it kept her steadfast in her goal.

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Atelia bit the skin around her fingernails as she eyed the trio of girls in the corner of the school yard, whispering and sending brief looks her way as she sat in the grassy area between the fence and the school, swearing she could hear the soft titter of giggles as they grew the confidence to eye her longer and longer.

' Does she even brush her hair when she wakes up in the morning, or is she simple?'

The comment made her wince, shutting her eyes tightly as she gripped the grass in front of her, pulling out strands with her hands to ease the shame washing over her. Her fingers fumbled against the earth as a small dirt patch appeared, and her hands were slowly smudged with dirt.

It wasn't really fair of her to take it out on the grass; it had done nothing to her, and she looked mournfully at the mess she had made as she kept her head downcast, her thoughts filled with home. She could almost taste the air once more, the soft bleats of her cows, the constant chatter of her hens. The way the frost settled on the land in the mornings, the grass was dewy after a long chill night. She sank her fingers deeper into the dirt in a desperation for home, anything to remind her of where she was raised.

The peace was short-lived, and was replaced with a small gasp as she felt movement around her fingers, immediately retracting her fingers in shock. She had touched a worm, or so she thought as she clutched her hands to her chest, eyes wide as the patch of dirt began to move and tremble with sprouts of green. Atelia scanned the yard before her, eyes wide as she tried to see if anyone else could see what she saw before her.

No one even bothered, too busy in the paved courtyard playing games or avidly focused on their own conversations to notice. The grass grew taller and taller, the patch now completely covered and slightly towering over the trimmed grass around it. She gripped her chest tighter; she couldn't mention this to anyone; no one would believe her, and they already thought she was a freak. Atelia bit her lip anxiously, desperate to flee the scene as she quickly picked up her backpack, brushing the grass and dirt off her tights as her fingers flexed and trembled.

Her parents' faces crossed her mind briefly; they had told her once of a distant aunt who babbled odd things and always seemed quite strange to the rest of the family. It had been a funny story around the dinner table, recounting her tales, questioning if fairies and werewolves were real and in the forests beyond the farm.

She looked around once more, the tip of her ears red. She would not tell a soul, she couldn't. Eyeing the grass, she watched it softly sway in the wind. Spinning on her heels, the leather boots creaking in protest as she briskly walked from the scene.