Henrietta Montagne
| ▬▬▬❀▬▬▬ H𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖆 LEILANI M𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖓𝖊  ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇ ─ Retɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ─ Femalesᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ─ Humansᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ─ Ilvermornyʜᴏᴜsᴇ ─ Thunderbirdʏᴇᴀʀ ─ Secondᴀɢᴇ ─ Thirteenᴅᴏʙ ─ 02/26/09ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ─ Americanʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ─ Muggleborn▬▬▬▬▬▬▬  ❝There are darknesses in life and there are 🅻🅸🅶🅷🆃🆂, and you are one of the 🅻🅸🅶🅷🆃🆂, the light of all 🅻🅸🅶🅷🆃🆂.❞ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬  | │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ | H I S T O R Y ╾╾The Montagne family, vast and a monument of sorts, is distinct in their small Louisiana community, known for their many contributions dating generations back. For as long as any resident can remember, they’ve provided a large variety of fresh produce and meats to local markets, donated to dozens of charities, and hosted more than their fair share of get-togethers and general events. Historically benevolent and generous, the public was more sparkling than ever on February 26th, 2009, when Henrietta Leilani Montagne graced them, another ray of sunshine on a sun kissed town.╾╼╼╼╼╾╼╼╼╼╾╼╼╼╼╾╼╼╼ She was born to William Montagne and Julia LeBlanc, an unmarried yet long-standing couple who then began to take the next steps in their relationship with her out in the world, an extension of their love. They married shortly after that blessed day, the precious blonde toddler serving as their flower girl, clumsily tossing petals and blooms from a seemingly bottomless woven basket. What feels like hundreds of photos decorate their home to remind her of the wedding, as she was too young to recall it alone. They line the walls, the shelves, the fireplaces, just about anywhere the couple could squeeze one in. On these same walls are various photographs of the other members of the family, proof of the perfection and delight the surname Montagne has bred through the years, even if for only a heartbeat. Ret has lived on the ever-growing and fruitful family estate for her entire life, alongside the company of not only her parents, but her paternal grandparents, maternal aunt, a cousin, and two younger brothers. This full home has never been a bother to the destined socialite, eager to care for them and nurture their great familial bonds since day one. A life spent on the front porch swing with a pitcher of iced tea and a lemon wedge, was also a life spent in the garden, manning the clothesline, or prepping soup for any family members fallen ill. The farm was built on the ground of love and compassion, and it was the ground she would die on. Magic first came clearly into their lives on an autumn afternoon, the trees shedding their tired colorful leaves, carried by the wind to the front porch where her parents sat alongside the owners of the neighboring land. The details of the conversation were a mystery to the five-year-old, whose mind was dutifully set on attempting to catch the yellow leaves and tumbling all over the place face-first into the dirt. The mother-daughter tie, however, was deeper than any mere muddy bruise and misty childlike obliviousness. Julia sat with her legs crossed and lips in a tight line, flattening her perfectly ironed dress and combing her fingers through untangled honey-colored hair. One of the neighbors stood to leave, sporting a vicious sneer and meeting eyes with the little girl wearing a dead leaf as a hat. As he did so, the welcome rug flew out from beneath him and knocked him to the floor, little physical harm done, although an ego bashed through the wooden deck. When her mother laughed, it was a sweet coincidence, but as night fell, it was a realization. Time confirmed their suspicions, and Ret’s existence and power was explained come her first year sent to Ilvermorny rather than continuing her homeschooling regimen. To the dismay of those around the blonde, fostered alongside her magical ability was the primal rage that led to its first appearance, a now key-component to who she is. Yet, it remains vital to Ret to embrace her fond muggle heritage and the light side of her heart, and not a day goes by at home where the work gloves go lonesome, or the family goes without her amity. The Montagne farm remains successful and rich with benefits, not only for the lucky community that receives, but for the family that raises it with the infinite kindness in their souls. |
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| │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ | ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ P E R S O N A L I T Y ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ While Henrietta is allured by gossip and “harmless” mockery, she is generally regarded as the sweetest peach one ever did meet. There isn’t a thing alive she wouldn’t give her life for, undyingly willing to go without so someone else could go with. She has a hospitable nature, the type to invite someone in for a glass of tea when all they wanted was to tell her the cows had escaped the fence. She does tend to use ‘sayings’ that no one—not even her parents—can make a lick of sense from, but many whistle that away as southern charm. There is a slight, completely minor, drawback of talking with her. Unless you’re fond of the feeling of eggshells beneath your feet, it’s best to cut off the interaction quickly and before they begin to crack. Call it sensitivity, a general spitfire, even bottled fury, that doesn’t change that it is a reckless and merciless blaze. If someone were to say something Ret finds remotely offensive, regarding her or someone/something she cares for, her wrath is released. While she comes off as docile and innocuous due to her frail stature, the girl is adept at magic and unafraid to use it, along with prone to make anything a projectile.  | │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ │█│ |
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ᴍʙᴛɪ ─ ESFPᴇɴɴᴇᴀɢʀᴀᴍ ─ ???ᴀʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ─ ???sᴛᴀʀ sɪɢɴ ─ ???▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ᴀᴍᴏʀᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. ᴘᴏʟʏᴊᴜɪᴄᴇLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. ᴘᴀᴛʀᴏɴᴜsLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. ʙᴏɢɢᴀʀᴛLorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ʟɪᴋᴇs• • • • ᴅɪsʟɪᴋᴇs• • • • |
Code by Winnie Harper
Last edited by Levi Drakos on 3 Nov 2021, 23:39, edited 4 times in total.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. | #125947
Sta: 7 | Eva: 8 | Str: 4 | Wis: 6 | AP: 5 | Acc: 6
Metamorph | Charmer
Sta: 7 | Eva: 8 | Str: 4 | Wis: 6 | AP: 5 | Acc: 6
Metamorph | Charmer
Henrietta Montagne
STATS
Stamina: 7 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 1 | Wisdom: 9 | ArcPower: 9 | Accuracy: 8Is your character a Broom Racer? NO.
Is your character a Quidditch Player? NO.
Is your character a Duelist? YES.ABILITIES
First Year Ability: Perfectionist
ReducioA life spent working did not equate to a life made strong, in the case of Henrietta. From birth on, she was a feeble and unintimidating person, and this was a downfall that often came back to bite her. Whether she required more help than she liked, was manipulated or hurt with no fear of repercussions, or was unable to participate in something due to her weakness, it was a lost fight. In battles, it becomes tiresome to be on the losing team, to suffer at the hands of others or to be chuckled at like a bunny-shaped predator. No matter Ret’s efforts, however, the blonde never grew any stronger. Weightlifting did little but crush her like a bug, push-ups were more like fall-downs, the list dragged on. So, when another way to excel fell into her grasp, she couldn’t help but dive in, submerse herself in it, and stop at nothing to become its master.
It was a sense of relief like never before. Magic, in a way, provided Ret with a substitute for strength, a second option with a thousand more reaping benefits that spread like fire as she aged. What the blonde lacked in her physical body, she could make up for with a wand and a well-enunciated incantation. Upon her first year at Ilvermorny, life showed its reward for that passion: she was indeed adept at magic, but there was no amount of prodigal ability that made up for hard work. A philosophy of her parents, sure, but not one that failed her as long as she’d been alive. She wasn’t some outlier who could perform everything upon first try—that was, until she began to practice.
The first time she failed at casting a spell, there was a heartache familiar, but not numbed by time and expxerience. A child wanted success, craved to impress and outperform, and to zero out across the boards, magic and strength alike, tugged at her soul like nothing else could. To be gifted, then have it taken away. That very night was the starting session, the beginning of an addiction, an obsession, with that stream of light, that defining color of a spell well casted. It started with an abandoned room, a closed door, and thirty times casting the same spell. Drawing the movement in the air, whispering the syllables. From then on, she spent every evening alone, practicing spells until she could hear the click of her tongue over the whoosh of the wand and vice versa, all depending on what she wanted. Until she could do it with her eyes closed. Until it was perfect.
Even now, when Ret walks down a pathway or corridor, echoes will bounce off the walls, hisses of incantations to ensure emphasis is perfect, her tongue is sharp. If sitting still, sometimes you could notice her finger tracing proper wand movements in the air, switching between right and left hands every so often. It has bloomed into something that isn’t only an hour session at the closing time of the day, it’s life, incorporated into everything she does to ensure that this illusion of strength never slips from her grasp again.
WC: 528
Second Year Ability: Advanced Casting
ReducioComing from a muggle family, it isn’t abnormal for (judgmental) people—including Ret herself—to be surprised by the young blonde’s capabilities behind her wand. Put yourself in her shoes, or if it is more your favor, the shoes of those behind the leering, critiquing eyes. A muggleborn girl, exceptionally frail and unremarkable outside of that southern drawl and septum ring, but she casts a near-flawless jinx and blows you to the ground coldly. The pain subsides, but the bruised ego remains a steady ache. Surprise, perhaps, is expected. But the blood in her veins, while it may not date back, is just as real as that of a fellow twelve-year-old pureblood. And maybe, it isn’t so innate. Maybe, she refuses to sleep and practices until dawn kisses her forehead in congratulations.
Henrietta refused failure for the entirety of her first year. Couldn’t bear to be unsuccessful, so perfectionism was born in an addiction. Fair enough. However, all this effort did not go unrewarded. When her focus is intensive and her tongue precise, not only do her spells succeed and ignite the area however the girl pleases, but they also can outperform. They do more than succeed, they thrive, they can be critical to her target or intention. Her lumos is bright, her incendio burning, true, but she stands out among her peers as more likely to amaze.
Because at some point, during her late second year at Ilvermorny, managing to properly cast a spell was no longer enough. Sure, success was brilliant, and the girl was happy to win after those long years of losing, but there lingered a question: wouldn’t it be even more thrilling to dominate? To stun, in every sense? Leave mouths agape and jaws broken from dropping so far, so fast? The thought was enough to breed an entirely new rigorous regimen. Longer nights locked away, mastering each spell so that every now and then, the result was so beautiful and alive that even Ret herself was left speechless. To outdo yourself was a feeling like no other, an assurance that the future was golden.
Then it was every day. It’s the same story: a girl tries hard to get what she wants, gives up for no measure of anything, and wins. But this time, oh this time, it was more than that. It was stronger, more exciting, a thrill completely new. Every night, it would happen again, perhaps more frequently than the previous, a powerful success. Listening in class became ten pages of notes. Homework requiring a minimum foot of parchment became triple that. One hour made two, made three. Where she previously swore to keep touch with her muggle roots, Ret began to bring the magic home. While she couldn’t cast, there was the whisper as you work philosophy. A young girl, picking strawberries, mumbling the words Wingardium Leviosa like a mantra, making sure her emphasis was flawless. It always lingers in the back of her mind: a means to improve—a means to astound.
WC: 502
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