The Huntsman II
Leaving the courtyard seemed to be the one thing they could agree on.
And so it was that on that wintery Sunday, the odd, mismatched procession led by a cat and a Professor, marched across the yard and returned to the castle’s safety.
Finn sauntered after Professor Lécuyer, his footsteps dragging and scuffing over flagstones worn smooth by centuries of passing students. The stolen goods in his pockets felt heavier than they had seemed and he was curious to examine them closer. Eventually Aamon would discover his possessions were missing, of course, but for now the cowardly first-year was too dazed to think about the flask and the box. The box in particular was curious. What could a boy like Aamon be carrying around in a box? He grimaced at the thought that it might be medicine. Maybe he should return the items to Aamon… No, too late for that now.
Pale, winter light spilled through lancet windows as they passed by creaking suits of armour. The sound made Finnegan think of the dolls, those twisted little things that haunted Aamon. Were they made of metal too? Did they creak and groan as they stalked after Aamon? For the first time, he considered the true horror of what Aamon was experiencing, it seemed a cruel curse; a boy suffering from loneliness cursed to never again be alone, to always have to look over his shoulder.
And what of Avis? She had not asked to be involved in any of this. She had asked questions, but she had not pried and dug like he had, she could’ve backed out perhaps if he hadn’t gone up to her. They’re only first-years, he thought they made their way to Lécuyer’s office. The worst thing he had to contend with during his first year was his deplorable performance in Charms, killer dolls had never even crossed his mind. Frankly, he had been-and still was-much more concerned with the half-breeds that roamed the castle. The werewolves, the vampires, the bloodthirsty and insane. What if Aamon was one of those? What if he had just robbed the boy of his daily potion?
Their small procession wound higher into the castle’s depths, past portraits whose occupants glared at them, judging the three students to be misbehaving students who had been caught out by a watchful Professor and his cat.
The Professor’s study loomed ahead. Finnegan maintained a polite distance, allowing the Professor to open the door and enter first. Whatever impression the Professor had of him, he had a sudden sinking feeling that he was not going to be let off the hook for petrifying another student. Maybe if he’d seen me do it, I would’ve gotten some house points, he thought grimly. When it came to aggressive spell casting, his wand had yet to fail him.
@Orion Lécuyer, @Avis Marlong, @Aamon Athanantos
And so it was that on that wintery Sunday, the odd, mismatched procession led by a cat and a Professor, marched across the yard and returned to the castle’s safety.
Finn sauntered after Professor Lécuyer, his footsteps dragging and scuffing over flagstones worn smooth by centuries of passing students. The stolen goods in his pockets felt heavier than they had seemed and he was curious to examine them closer. Eventually Aamon would discover his possessions were missing, of course, but for now the cowardly first-year was too dazed to think about the flask and the box. The box in particular was curious. What could a boy like Aamon be carrying around in a box? He grimaced at the thought that it might be medicine. Maybe he should return the items to Aamon… No, too late for that now.
Pale, winter light spilled through lancet windows as they passed by creaking suits of armour. The sound made Finnegan think of the dolls, those twisted little things that haunted Aamon. Were they made of metal too? Did they creak and groan as they stalked after Aamon? For the first time, he considered the true horror of what Aamon was experiencing, it seemed a cruel curse; a boy suffering from loneliness cursed to never again be alone, to always have to look over his shoulder.
And what of Avis? She had not asked to be involved in any of this. She had asked questions, but she had not pried and dug like he had, she could’ve backed out perhaps if he hadn’t gone up to her. They’re only first-years, he thought they made their way to Lécuyer’s office. The worst thing he had to contend with during his first year was his deplorable performance in Charms, killer dolls had never even crossed his mind. Frankly, he had been-and still was-much more concerned with the half-breeds that roamed the castle. The werewolves, the vampires, the bloodthirsty and insane. What if Aamon was one of those? What if he had just robbed the boy of his daily potion?
Their small procession wound higher into the castle’s depths, past portraits whose occupants glared at them, judging the three students to be misbehaving students who had been caught out by a watchful Professor and his cat.
The Professor’s study loomed ahead. Finnegan maintained a polite distance, allowing the Professor to open the door and enter first. Whatever impression the Professor had of him, he had a sudden sinking feeling that he was not going to be let off the hook for petrifying another student. Maybe if he’d seen me do it, I would’ve gotten some house points, he thought grimly. When it came to aggressive spell casting, his wand had yet to fail him.
@Orion Lécuyer, @Avis Marlong, @Aamon Athanantos
Reducio
I had no clue where to put this, though I was very tempted to put it in the Headmaster’s office. If there is any chance Orion would be allowed to use that space for whatever reason or if Orion might involve the Headmaster, then obviously that space would be better. Feel free to move this thread!
I had no clue where to put this, though I was very tempted to put it in the Headmaster’s office. If there is any chance Orion would be allowed to use that space for whatever reason or if Orion might involve the Headmaster, then obviously that space would be better. Feel free to move this thread!
"He's a dweeby chocolate bar lip smacking nerd" - Evelynn Decipio
The Huntsman II
Aamon stumbled through the corridors like a ghost tethered to a body that no longer felt like his own. The world tilted if he moved too quickly, and the bitterness of bile still lingered in the back of his throat. Every step echoed in his skull, each sound sharper than it should have been—like the castle itself was alive and whispering its disapproval.
His breath hitched as the walls seemed to close in. Too narrow. Too dark. Too many shadows stretching and twisting. He didn’t know if it was the concussion or the dolls—or if there was even a difference anymore. He would have to use the wall, the handrails, perhaps even Avis if he could reach her to steady himself, the castle more like a fun house.
He hated this. The feeling of being marched along like a prisoner. The way the Professor loomed just ahead, his presence heavy and deliberate, like a predator herding prey. He was not fooled by Orion's amicable nature. He knew better than that. As young as he was, he was never privy to the details of his father's dealings, but he knew that on occasion his work was taken home with him. The screams. Oh the terrible noise. But now, it was not the howls his father thought the walls could buffer. No, the sound he heard most was the sound of Finn’s boots scraping against the stones, a steady reminder of the humiliation he’d been dragged through.
And Avis—Avis, who’d tried to help but hadn’t been able to stop any of it. She was there too, hovering somewhere between concern and guilt. But even she couldn’t erase the sharp burn of betrayal simmering under Aamon’s skin.
His fingers twitched, brushing against the folds of his robe. Empty. He froze mid-step, his stomach twisting violently. The flask. The box. Gone.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He felt sick again, bile rising in his throat, and for a moment he thought he might collapse right there in the hall. Finn. It had to be him. He was the one who had riffled through his pockets and withdrew whatever he could find like a common graverobber.
Aamon didn’t turn. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t—not yet. Not with Orion watching so closely. But his fists curled, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave crescents in his skin.
You really don't stop do you, he thought bitterly, his nails pressing harder. He had no proof of course. He never saw him take it. It could have been Avis or even Professor Lécuyer.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to keep walking. He couldn’t stop now—but his mind was already racing, trying to figure out how to get it back before it...
Orion’s office loomed closer, the heavy wooden door looking far more like a cell than a sanctuary. Aamon’s legs felt heavier with every step, and by the time they reached the threshold, he had to force himself not to retreat.
This was it. He was trapped.
He hovered just outside the door, eyes darting toward Finn for the briefest of moments before snapping away. He couldn’t confront him. Not unless he wanted to be knocked to the floor again. Humiliated for a second round.
Instead, he took a shallow breath and stepped inside, his back stiff, his gaze flickering to Orion like a cornered animal.
“I didn’t lie,” he insisted quietly, his voice strained and brittle. “About the dolls. About what’s been happening to me. But I’m not crazy. And I’m not dangerous.”
His words sounded thin, stretched tight over the panic bubbling just beneath the surface. He didn’t know if Orion would believe him—not completely. Not after this mess. But it was the only defense he had left.
“I didn’t ask for any of this.” He repeated, his eyes darted to Finn again, anger flashing behind the fear. “And I didn’t ask to be attacked either.”
The words came out sharper than he’d intended, but he didn’t care. Let the Professor think what he wanted. Let Finn keep digging his own grave. Aamon wasn’t going to be the one buried.
His breath hitched as the walls seemed to close in. Too narrow. Too dark. Too many shadows stretching and twisting. He didn’t know if it was the concussion or the dolls—or if there was even a difference anymore. He would have to use the wall, the handrails, perhaps even Avis if he could reach her to steady himself, the castle more like a fun house.
He hated this. The feeling of being marched along like a prisoner. The way the Professor loomed just ahead, his presence heavy and deliberate, like a predator herding prey. He was not fooled by Orion's amicable nature. He knew better than that. As young as he was, he was never privy to the details of his father's dealings, but he knew that on occasion his work was taken home with him. The screams. Oh the terrible noise. But now, it was not the howls his father thought the walls could buffer. No, the sound he heard most was the sound of Finn’s boots scraping against the stones, a steady reminder of the humiliation he’d been dragged through.
And Avis—Avis, who’d tried to help but hadn’t been able to stop any of it. She was there too, hovering somewhere between concern and guilt. But even she couldn’t erase the sharp burn of betrayal simmering under Aamon’s skin.
His fingers twitched, brushing against the folds of his robe. Empty. He froze mid-step, his stomach twisting violently. The flask. The box. Gone.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He felt sick again, bile rising in his throat, and for a moment he thought he might collapse right there in the hall. Finn. It had to be him. He was the one who had riffled through his pockets and withdrew whatever he could find like a common graverobber.
Aamon didn’t turn. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t—not yet. Not with Orion watching so closely. But his fists curled, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave crescents in his skin.
You really don't stop do you, he thought bitterly, his nails pressing harder. He had no proof of course. He never saw him take it. It could have been Avis or even Professor Lécuyer.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to keep walking. He couldn’t stop now—but his mind was already racing, trying to figure out how to get it back before it...
Orion’s office loomed closer, the heavy wooden door looking far more like a cell than a sanctuary. Aamon’s legs felt heavier with every step, and by the time they reached the threshold, he had to force himself not to retreat.
This was it. He was trapped.
He hovered just outside the door, eyes darting toward Finn for the briefest of moments before snapping away. He couldn’t confront him. Not unless he wanted to be knocked to the floor again. Humiliated for a second round.
Instead, he took a shallow breath and stepped inside, his back stiff, his gaze flickering to Orion like a cornered animal.
“I didn’t lie,” he insisted quietly, his voice strained and brittle. “About the dolls. About what’s been happening to me. But I’m not crazy. And I’m not dangerous.”
His words sounded thin, stretched tight over the panic bubbling just beneath the surface. He didn’t know if Orion would believe him—not completely. Not after this mess. But it was the only defense he had left.
“I didn’t ask for any of this.” He repeated, his eyes darted to Finn again, anger flashing behind the fear. “And I didn’t ask to be attacked either.”
The words came out sharper than he’d intended, but he didn’t care. Let the Professor think what he wanted. Let Finn keep digging his own grave. Aamon wasn’t going to be the one buried.
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Huntsman II
Ugh. Cats. Avis shied away from the cat at her feet, shooting it a disgusted look. She hated cats. Even more than she hated Finn. They were just little divas that shed and smelled and were altogether disgusting creatures. She wrinkled her nose a bit as she tried to daintily step away. In truth, she may have been slightly scared of animals. They were much too...unpredictable. Uncontrollable.
After a faint hesitation, she fell in step next to Aamon, following Lécuyer, though she cast a glance towards Finn every few moments. As they exited the courtyard, she remembered. Aamon's things. She faltered a moment, glancing back towards the empty cobblestone when they should have been. Aamon hadn't grabbed them. She didn't think the professor had either. She narrowed her eyes at Finn. Thief-probably. Aamon walked along, seemingly having forgotten his possessions. If Aamon had forgotten about them, they couldn't be that important, could they? He was going to get them back, just maybe later.
More importantly, Aamon's breathing seemed uneven, a mixture of probably a thousand different problems, and disasters, mixed with a concussion. Avis winced. He really couldn't catch a break. She walked far enough away that she could keep an eye on Finn, while staying near enough that if he were to stumble, she could try to catch him. Finn, realistically, should have been the one doing that, at least being close to the same height as Aamon, but Avis did not want that, and she had a feeling Aamon wouldn't either.
Avis walked quietly, light on her feet, a stark contrast Aamon's forced, hesitant steps and Finn's dragging feet. If her mother had been here, she would have reprimanding Finn for "tromping about like an elephant." Avis resisted the urge to smile at the memory, but the walking quickly pulled her back to the present. Harsh, messy footsteps for a harsh, messy kid.
Concern, yes. Guilt, sort of. Closer to anger, if Avis were to try to place her emotions. Her genuine concern was mixed with guilty concern, but Avis wasn't straight guilty. She would save that for later, after this all was resolved. Because if Lécuyer could help, then wouldn't it have been worth it, for Aamon, no matter what humiliations he had suffered at the hands of Finn? She felt bad, sure, regretful, but not necessarily guilty, at least not yet. Rather, she chose to be bitter toward Finn. Even if this all ended well and turned out to be worth it, he was still a terrible person.
“I didn’t lie...About the dolls. About what’s been happening to me. But I’m not crazy. And I’m not dangerous.”
"We know." Avis muttered under her breath. Well, she knew. Or she thought she knew. She really hoped. In any case, if he was dangerous, it wasn't his fault.
“And I didn’t ask to be attacked either.” The words came out sharp. Sharper than the majority of what Aamon had said to her. Usually, he was panicked, scared, and for good reason. But he had found his bark, it seemed. Now all he had to do was learn how to bite. Avis'mouth twisted into a wry grin. She liked this side of Aamon.
@Finnegan Connor, @Aamon Athanatos, @Orion Lécuyer
After a faint hesitation, she fell in step next to Aamon, following Lécuyer, though she cast a glance towards Finn every few moments. As they exited the courtyard, she remembered. Aamon's things. She faltered a moment, glancing back towards the empty cobblestone when they should have been. Aamon hadn't grabbed them. She didn't think the professor had either. She narrowed her eyes at Finn. Thief-probably. Aamon walked along, seemingly having forgotten his possessions. If Aamon had forgotten about them, they couldn't be that important, could they? He was going to get them back, just maybe later.
More importantly, Aamon's breathing seemed uneven, a mixture of probably a thousand different problems, and disasters, mixed with a concussion. Avis winced. He really couldn't catch a break. She walked far enough away that she could keep an eye on Finn, while staying near enough that if he were to stumble, she could try to catch him. Finn, realistically, should have been the one doing that, at least being close to the same height as Aamon, but Avis did not want that, and she had a feeling Aamon wouldn't either.
Avis walked quietly, light on her feet, a stark contrast Aamon's forced, hesitant steps and Finn's dragging feet. If her mother had been here, she would have reprimanding Finn for "tromping about like an elephant." Avis resisted the urge to smile at the memory, but the walking quickly pulled her back to the present. Harsh, messy footsteps for a harsh, messy kid.
Concern, yes. Guilt, sort of. Closer to anger, if Avis were to try to place her emotions. Her genuine concern was mixed with guilty concern, but Avis wasn't straight guilty. She would save that for later, after this all was resolved. Because if Lécuyer could help, then wouldn't it have been worth it, for Aamon, no matter what humiliations he had suffered at the hands of Finn? She felt bad, sure, regretful, but not necessarily guilty, at least not yet. Rather, she chose to be bitter toward Finn. Even if this all ended well and turned out to be worth it, he was still a terrible person.
“I didn’t lie...About the dolls. About what’s been happening to me. But I’m not crazy. And I’m not dangerous.”
"We know." Avis muttered under her breath. Well, she knew. Or she thought she knew. She really hoped. In any case, if he was dangerous, it wasn't his fault.
“And I didn’t ask to be attacked either.” The words came out sharp. Sharper than the majority of what Aamon had said to her. Usually, he was panicked, scared, and for good reason. But he had found his bark, it seemed. Now all he had to do was learn how to bite. Avis'mouth twisted into a wry grin. She liked this side of Aamon.
@Finnegan Connor, @Aamon Athanatos, @Orion Lécuyer
Avis Marlong | ”She won't cry or beg for help...she'll isolate from the world and fight her own demons so that nobody can throw it in her face later.” |
"The odds of hitting your target increase dramatically when you aim at it." Benji Marecos |
The Huntsman II
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A change of scenery would do the group some good, especially since it was now an area that Orion was so familiar with. Still, Orion wasn't keen on allowing any students into his office, let alone three. Even his prodigal students had not seen the inside of it, as he often offered extra help within the walls of his classroom. It couldn't be helped; the books he needed were shelved within his office, as were any overtly powerful materials. He had moved the most dangerous after one too many break-ins.
When the group finally arrived at the large oak door shielding his office, the Frenchman held out his hand and started to mumble a few spells, disarming any locks he had placed on the door. "Take a seat, look around, do what you want, but don't touch anything on the shelves." The professor warned them as he strode across the room.
(I've put the article contents and photographs below for anyone who is curious *cough*Finn*cough*.)
A large, polished, dark oak desk stood at one side of the room, the top scattered with papers, quills, and bottles of inks. Behind the desk was a plush seafoam green office chair, offering a rare pop of colour in the otherwise dark room. Flanking the furniture was a tall bookshelf, crammed with aged tomes on various subjects regarding the dark arts.
Behind the dark was a large bulletin with various newspaper articles and a few photographs. Upon closer inspection one would see the articles were all written in French, except for an obituary for someone named Océane d’Estienne.
a dragon claw placed on top of a crystal orb, dark feathers, a mummified hand shielded by a layer of glass that wore a silver ring, a bronze astrolabe, a cracked mirror that seemed to ripple, a collection of wands held behind another glass display case, a large wooden box engraved with runes, a music top with a mechanical raven sitting on top, a wizard camera, and an old fashioned radio.
On the other side of the office was a roaring fireplace that cast flickering light over the two plush armchairs, that were the same seafoam green as the office chair. Dark furs blankets were draped over the back of the chairs. The walls were adorned with various accolades from the Frenchman's time as an Auror and hit-wizard. A tray of sweets sat beside one of the armchairs, while a large empty cauldron sat next to another.
More bookshelves lined the walls, the tops decorated with varies oddities, such as bottled creatures suspended in time in shimmering liquids, both human and non-human skulls,
Orion's long coat would be discarded over his desk as his attention focused on the shelf of tomes next to his desk. He riffled through them before pulling out a book bound in black leather, the spine cracked and its title barely legible in gold embossing.
He walked over to the table that held the pile of sweets, a strange sight among the otherwise foreboding decor, and relocated the plate to his desk. The book fell onto the small table with a a resounding slam, a cloud of dusk accompanying it. With a simple wave of his finger, the book responded as if it were alive, the brittle pages flipping open with a soft ruffling sound. It seemed as if the tome itself were searching for something within its pages instead of being under the Frenchman's control. Finally, it landed on a page that displayed faded ink sketches and wavy handwriting, detailing accounts of hag magic.
The illustrations were better off in a horror novel; horrifying charms made of hair and human bone, shadowy wright-like figures hunched over boiling cauldrons, and a symbol drawn in dark red ink. Orion ran his finger along the text until he paused, "Here it is. The book doesn't display the dolls as cute and clean as you've described them, but it is the closest thing I can think of. Cursed Effigies of Binding Magic," He repeated.
"Sinister creations steeped in binding magic, tethering victims' essence and will. A grotesque imitation of life designed to extend the influence of the user. Overtime these effigies take on the likeness of their target, until the target's life itself is taken over. Signs are as follows; vivid nightmares, ill fortune, emotional distress, seemingly random accidents to loved ones or those close to the victim." He paused, his eyes flickering up to Aamon, "Does all this sound familiar to you?"
Reducio
It is with profound sadness we announce the death of Océane Delphine d’Estienne (née Lécuyer), a beloved wife, mother, and sister. Born into the world on April 19th, 1990, Océane left an indelible mark on the magical community, following in her father's footsteps to become an Auror. Océane passed in the line of duty on November 6th, 2020 in Appleby, England, while protecting the magical community.
She is predeceased by her father, Phillipe Lécuyer, who gave his life during the second wizarding war. She is survived by her devoted husband, Benoit d’Estienne, her children, Antoine and Lunette, her mother, Delphine Lécuyer (de la Beaufort), and her three brothers, Orion, Basile, and Leonardo Lécuyer.
Two memorial services will be held; one at the Appleby Town Church, on November 10th, 2020, and one at the d’Estienne family estate in Haut-Rhin on November 17th, 2020. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to local healing foundations.
ReducioThe photographs were mostly of Orion and Galahad, one of their younger years in a warm embrace, one that looked more professional as the two posed with their robes and wands within a hallway that looked rather formal, the next a present day Galahad and Orion. The only photographs that did not feature the two were a picture of two young children who had blue eyes and blonde hair, and one of a woman who appeared in her late 20s, she had the same blue eyes as the children but a cascade of chestnut hair falling from beneath a pointed hat.
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│ │ | │ │ | STA: 10 • EVA: 15 • STR: 5 WIS: 20 • ARC: 10 • ACC: 20 | │ │ | • Calming Presence • Perfectionist • Evasive Maneuvers I & II • • Nonverbal Magic • Wandless Magic • Occlumency • Legilimency • | │ │ | │ │ |
The Huntsman II
Hags
An Overview
Hags are ancient, malevolent creatures that blur the line between human and monster. They are predominantly female and are often depicted as grotesque, withered women, though they possess the ability to disguise themselves as beautiful or unassuming figures to lure victims. Hags are deeply tied to dark magic, curses, and bargains, often preying upon the desperate, lonely, or greedy.
Life Cycle
Hags are not born but created, typically through dark rituals or deals with infernal entities. A mortal woman, often a victim of despair, corruption, or a twisted pact, transforms into a hag over time. This transformation begins with the implantation of Mind Slugs—larval parasites that corrupt the mind and body, eventually replacing the host’s essence. This process is often referred to as the change and occurs on the 16th year of the victim.
Once a hag is “born,” she becomes immortal, capable of existing for centuries unless deliberately destroyed. While hags can function independently, many form covens, abiding by the rules of three, which amplify their magical abilities and provide mutual protection.
Reproduction
Hags reproduce through the use of Mind Slugs, parasitic organisms that they implant into human hosts. These creatures burrow into the victim’s brain, gradually eroding their thoughts, memories, and willpower until the host’s personality is entirely subsumed by the hag’s essence. The result is a full transformation into a new hag, effectively continuing their species without traditional reproduction. While traditional reproduction is possible, the resultant child is not a hag.
Hag Items
Dolls
Hag dolls are cursed constructs crafted through ancient rituals, each designed to torment, control, or replace their victims. These effigies carry fragments of the hag’s dark essence and can be nearly impossible to destroy without precise countermeasures.
Reflection Dolls (Possessive Doppelgängers)
Description: Reflection Dolls are faceless at first but gradually take on the features, voice, and mannerisms of their target. They exist to replace the victim, feeding on their essence to grow stronger until they can fully supplant them.Abilities:
○ Mimics the target’s appearance and actions when unobserved.
○ Causes the victim to experience weakness, nightmares, and loss of identity.
○ Attempts to lure the target into dark, isolated areas (such as forests) where the hag’s magic is strongest.
○ Their eventual goal is to replace the victim.
Countermeasures:
Breaking the Bond: Reflection Dolls are linked to their targets through hair, blood, or personal belongings used in their creation. Destroying these materials through fire can sever the link. However, if not burned completely, they will become resistant to flames.
Unmaking the Doll: Shattering the doll’s core (often a hidden gemstone or shard of bone) can dispel the curse.───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Binding Dolls (Control Puppets)
Description: Created to enslave and control their victims, these dolls are often wrapped in thread or chains to symbolize binding. Victims experience paralysis, hallucinations, and a gradual erosion of free will.Abilities:
○ Causes physical pain or injury when manipulated.
○ Allows the hag to mentally influence the victim’s thoughts and actions.
○ Gradually converts the victim into a servant.
Countermeasures:
Cutting the Threads: Physically removing the bindings while invoking counter-curses can release the victim.
Purification: Immersion in saltwater combined with a cleansing ritual can neutralize the doll.───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Whispering Dolls (Tormentors)
Description: Whispering Dolls are designed to drive their victims insane. They whisper secrets, threats, and lies only the victim can hear.Abilities:
○ Causes auditory hallucinations that grow louder and more hostile.
○ Erodes mental stability, inducing paranoia and fear.
○ Due to mounting psychological tensions victims often self-isolate, making them easier to attack.
Countermeasures:
Shattering the Voice Box: These dolls have a hidden compartment containing an enchanted voice box. Destroying it renders them powerless.
Silencing Rituals: Casting spells of silence or anti-possession charms can break the doll’s hold.Hag Artifacts and Cursed Items
Hag Stone (The Eye of Deception)Description: A smooth, naturally holed stone used to see the unseen—ghosts, curses, and illusions.
Curses:
○ Compels the holder to look through it obsessively, distorting reality and inducing hallucinations.
○ Causes visions of horror or glimpses of the hag, breaking the victim’s mind over time.
Countermeasures:
○ Burying the stone in the earth, but if unburied it could effect others.
○ Shattering it under moonlight.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Mind Slugs (Seeds of Corruption)Description: Parasitic larvae implanted into victims, slowly transforming them into hags.
Curses:
○ Induces nightmares, paranoia, and physical decay.
○ Fully consumes the host’s mind, leaving them a vessel for the hag’s will.
Countermeasures:
○ Early removal.
○ Burning the slug in fire if extracted intact, otherwise crushing them.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Shadow Veil (Cloak of Obscurity)Description: A cloak woven from shadows, allowing the wearer to vanish into darkness.
Curses:
○ Weakens the wearer’s connection to light and sanity.
○ Gradually binds them to the hag’s will, turning them into thralls.
Countermeasures:
○ Exposure to sunlight or fire can unravel the cloak’s enchantment.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
The Glove (Manipulator’s Gauntlet)Description: A magical glove bound to a mask that allows its wearer to control others.
Curses:
○ The glove takes partial control over its wearer, forcing them to commit dark deeds.
○ Causes mental erosion, eventually turning the wearer into a puppet.
Countermeasures:
○ Must be removed by severing the connection to the mask with a curse-removing charm or consuming a potion that counters curses.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Blood Mirror (Reflections of Despair)Description: A mirror that reveals a person’s worst fears and failures.
Curses:
○ Traps the victim in endless reflections, draining their soul.
○ Allows the hag to watch and manipulate the victim remotely.
Countermeasures:
○ Shattering the mirror under moonlight disperses its hold.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Wailing Bell (Death’s Chime)Description: A bell used to summon spirits or mark the hour of death.
Curses:
○ Attracts hostile spirits to torment the ringer.
○ Marks the victim for misfortune and fatal accidents.
Countermeasures:
○ Must be buried with salt and iron.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Grasping Roots (Hag’s Snare)Description: Enchanted roots that entangle victims, draining their life force.
Curses:
○ Restrains and slowly suffocates victims.
○ Creates fear and hallucinations of being buried alive.
Countermeasures:
○ Fire or saltwater can burn away the roots and neutralize the magic.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
Tooth of Hunger (Devourer’s Relic)Description: A cursed fang that causes insatiable hunger in its bearer.
Curses:
○ Drives the victim to consume anything, even inedible objects.
○ Leads to madness and eventual self-destruction.
Countermeasures:
○ Extraction and destruction with fire.
Note: While the work is mine, this was run through Chat GPT for formatting and cleaning because this is a textbook so should not be reflective of my writing.
Some stories should never be told...
The Huntsman II
It had always struck him as peculiar how Professor Lécuyer guarded his office like a fortress—or perhaps a very dirty closet. Bitter irony gnawed at him: he had visited Professor Fresnel's office multiple times despite being rubbish at Charms, yet Lécuyer's door remained sealed even though he was well ahead of his peers in DADA.
So when the Professor swung the door open, Finnegan half expected some corpses to spill out, the bodies still warm. After all, what else could an ex-hit wizard be hiding in his office?
Several things, it turned out.
The office crawled with artifacts that belonged in Knockturn Alley's darkest corners - ancient things, rotting things, decrepit things. For once, Finnegan was all too keen to heed the instructions and kept his hands folded neatly behind his back.
Then he saw something else.
Between indecipherable newspaper clippings, several photographs had been pinned together forming a small cluster. A woman bearing a passing resemblance to Orion was at the heart of it. Who was she? A sweetheart? His eye fell on pictures of Browne and Lécuyer, one in all-too-friendly embrace, another more formal and restrained. Could it be? Lécuyer seemed to enjoy hanging around Galahad Browne mostly and some of the hottest gossip had even suggested that... well, it was no matter. Finnegan dismissed the pictures of Galahad and stepped closer to read the newspaper clipping. The Professor had said not to touch anything, but had said nothing about looking or reading.
A sister? He'd never heard any mention of her. She had even made it past thirty...
His gaze fell on a smaller, older picture next portraying a boy and girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, the connection seemed obvious. Although... Orion had brown hair and though it was not impossible to imagine it had darkened with age, he couldn't be certain the boy and the Professor were one and the same.
"...But I’m not crazy. And I’m not dangerous."
Finnegan turned around sharply and sized Aamon up with his eyes. "You're so right," he muttered without elaborating further.
"I didn’t ask for any of this. And I didn’t ask to be attacked either."
"We know."
Finnegan dipped his chin toward Avis. "What she said. You have to understand Aamon, it's for your own good." Spoken like a true parent, it probably made Aamon just as annoyed hearing it as any child, but it was the truth. Aamon was not equipped to deal with what ailed him and the sooner he came to understanding that, the better.
When Orion began reading from one of his books, Finnegan shuffled a little closer, trying to get a closer look at the text and the accompanying illustrations. This was nothing like their textbooks: no illustrations of wand movements, but horrific, tortured depictions of twisted figures drawn in midnight ink. While Orion waited for Aamon's answer, Finnegan read on: "reflection dolls... mimics apperance... Avis?" he motioned for her to come closer. She had been the one to tell him about the dolls, it was only right that she should learn all she could about them too.
"Oh Aamon, you'll like this bit... their eventual goal is to replace the victim." He gave Aamon a pointed look. "Maybe, I don't know, but maybe you can find the time to be worried about that rather than giving me stink eye? Just a thought," he shrugged, then read on for as long as Professor Lécuyer would allow him.
@Orion Lécuyer, @Avis Marlong, @Aamon Athanantos
So when the Professor swung the door open, Finnegan half expected some corpses to spill out, the bodies still warm. After all, what else could an ex-hit wizard be hiding in his office?
Several things, it turned out.
The office crawled with artifacts that belonged in Knockturn Alley's darkest corners - ancient things, rotting things, decrepit things. For once, Finnegan was all too keen to heed the instructions and kept his hands folded neatly behind his back.
Then he saw something else.
Between indecipherable newspaper clippings, several photographs had been pinned together forming a small cluster. A woman bearing a passing resemblance to Orion was at the heart of it. Who was she? A sweetheart? His eye fell on pictures of Browne and Lécuyer, one in all-too-friendly embrace, another more formal and restrained. Could it be? Lécuyer seemed to enjoy hanging around Galahad Browne mostly and some of the hottest gossip had even suggested that... well, it was no matter. Finnegan dismissed the pictures of Galahad and stepped closer to read the newspaper clipping. The Professor had said not to touch anything, but had said nothing about looking or reading.
A sister? He'd never heard any mention of her. She had even made it past thirty...
His gaze fell on a smaller, older picture next portraying a boy and girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, the connection seemed obvious. Although... Orion had brown hair and though it was not impossible to imagine it had darkened with age, he couldn't be certain the boy and the Professor were one and the same.
"...But I’m not crazy. And I’m not dangerous."
Finnegan turned around sharply and sized Aamon up with his eyes. "You're so right," he muttered without elaborating further.
"I didn’t ask for any of this. And I didn’t ask to be attacked either."
"We know."
Finnegan dipped his chin toward Avis. "What she said. You have to understand Aamon, it's for your own good." Spoken like a true parent, it probably made Aamon just as annoyed hearing it as any child, but it was the truth. Aamon was not equipped to deal with what ailed him and the sooner he came to understanding that, the better.
When Orion began reading from one of his books, Finnegan shuffled a little closer, trying to get a closer look at the text and the accompanying illustrations. This was nothing like their textbooks: no illustrations of wand movements, but horrific, tortured depictions of twisted figures drawn in midnight ink. While Orion waited for Aamon's answer, Finnegan read on: "reflection dolls... mimics apperance... Avis?" he motioned for her to come closer. She had been the one to tell him about the dolls, it was only right that she should learn all she could about them too.
"Oh Aamon, you'll like this bit... their eventual goal is to replace the victim." He gave Aamon a pointed look. "Maybe, I don't know, but maybe you can find the time to be worried about that rather than giving me stink eye? Just a thought," he shrugged, then read on for as long as Professor Lécuyer would allow him.
@Orion Lécuyer, @Avis Marlong, @Aamon Athanantos
Last edited by Finnegan Connor on 27 Dec 2024, 17:46, edited 1 time in total.
"He's a dweeby chocolate bar lip smacking nerd" - Evelynn Decipio
The Huntsman II
Aamon hated this office.
He hated the way the air felt heavier the moment he stepped inside, like the room itself wanted to squeeze the breath out of his lungs. He hated the crooked shadows cast by flickering candlelight, stretching too long, too thin, bending in ways shadows shouldn’t bend. Most of all, he hated the Professor.
Orion Lécuyer didn’t need to do anything to make Aamon fear him. He existed like fear incarnate, always watching, always calculating, as if his very presence could flay secrets from the skin. And now he was here, trapped in this crypt of an office, and Aamon’s legs felt like stone pillars, too stiff and too brittle to move.
The door shut behind him, and the finality of it rang louder than it should have.
For once, Aamon didn’t care about the mess of paper clippings on the walls, or whatever sordid history Lécuyer buried under this pile of yellowed articles and faded photographs. Aamon had already decided the Professor was far too old for anything even resembling a love life—gods, he probably kept his suits pressed with the weight of his own judgment.
He couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling. That man’s practically a relic. A fossil. Who even has time for all of this? Does he sleep standing up in a coffin? He saw the skulls, and looked over at Avis and Finn mouthing I told you so.
But there were more important things than telling the others that he was right, they were in danger. Terrifying things. Things with eyes and limbs and sharp edges that had followed him across hallways and dreams and even here, in his mind, where they never fully went away.
When Lécuyer produced the book, Aamon’s hands stayed firmly at his sides, clenched into fists so tight his nails left half-moon indents on his palms. He didn’t dare touch it. He was told to not touch anything, so this was of course a trick. he was not so easily fooled.
The pages felt cursed just looking at them—crammed with black ink sketches of bodies bent wrong, faces that weren’t faces but hollow, gaping shapes. He skimmed the words, his eyes catching phrases like mimics appearance and replaces the victim.
His stomach churned.
“Maybe, I don’t know, but maybe you can find the time to be worried about that rather than giving me stink eye?”
Aamon flinched at Finnegan’s voice, sharp and cutting like everything he said. He didn’t have the energy to glare at him again. Instead, his gaze flicked to Avis, almost pleading, before darting back to the book.
“It’s—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s similar. But not exact.” There was a twinge of hope however, the author seemed to have some understanding. Some means of dealing with these things.
He hesitated, his eyes flicking over the sketches again, trying to piece together the fragments of his nightmare. “They… like the faceless ones.”
But that is not what bothered him. A shaky breath escaped him. “But," there had to be a but, "what about the other things?" He bit down on the words, but they slipped out anyway, bitter and trembling. “Are there pictures of the other things, like the mirror?"
His fingers twitched as if reaching for something that wasn’t there, something he’d lost long ago. “I don’t—I don’t know if it’s connected, but I remember my cousin complaining about mirrors and glass. About the screaming reflections.” He frowned. No pictures to be seen.
His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “It still feels like it’s watching me.” His mind back on the dolls.
His head dipped down, and he let the silence stretch, waiting for someone else to pick apart the mess he had spilled out before them. The floorboards creaked under his shifting weight, but nothing else moved, nothing else dared to break the terrible stillness that had settled over the room.
He hated the way the air felt heavier the moment he stepped inside, like the room itself wanted to squeeze the breath out of his lungs. He hated the crooked shadows cast by flickering candlelight, stretching too long, too thin, bending in ways shadows shouldn’t bend. Most of all, he hated the Professor.
Orion Lécuyer didn’t need to do anything to make Aamon fear him. He existed like fear incarnate, always watching, always calculating, as if his very presence could flay secrets from the skin. And now he was here, trapped in this crypt of an office, and Aamon’s legs felt like stone pillars, too stiff and too brittle to move.
The door shut behind him, and the finality of it rang louder than it should have.
For once, Aamon didn’t care about the mess of paper clippings on the walls, or whatever sordid history Lécuyer buried under this pile of yellowed articles and faded photographs. Aamon had already decided the Professor was far too old for anything even resembling a love life—gods, he probably kept his suits pressed with the weight of his own judgment.
He couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling. That man’s practically a relic. A fossil. Who even has time for all of this? Does he sleep standing up in a coffin? He saw the skulls, and looked over at Avis and Finn mouthing I told you so.
But there were more important things than telling the others that he was right, they were in danger. Terrifying things. Things with eyes and limbs and sharp edges that had followed him across hallways and dreams and even here, in his mind, where they never fully went away.
When Lécuyer produced the book, Aamon’s hands stayed firmly at his sides, clenched into fists so tight his nails left half-moon indents on his palms. He didn’t dare touch it. He was told to not touch anything, so this was of course a trick. he was not so easily fooled.
The pages felt cursed just looking at them—crammed with black ink sketches of bodies bent wrong, faces that weren’t faces but hollow, gaping shapes. He skimmed the words, his eyes catching phrases like mimics appearance and replaces the victim.
His stomach churned.
“Maybe, I don’t know, but maybe you can find the time to be worried about that rather than giving me stink eye?”
Aamon flinched at Finnegan’s voice, sharp and cutting like everything he said. He didn’t have the energy to glare at him again. Instead, his gaze flicked to Avis, almost pleading, before darting back to the book.
“It’s—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s similar. But not exact.” There was a twinge of hope however, the author seemed to have some understanding. Some means of dealing with these things.
He hesitated, his eyes flicking over the sketches again, trying to piece together the fragments of his nightmare. “They… like the faceless ones.”
But that is not what bothered him. A shaky breath escaped him. “But," there had to be a but, "what about the other things?" He bit down on the words, but they slipped out anyway, bitter and trembling. “Are there pictures of the other things, like the mirror?"
His fingers twitched as if reaching for something that wasn’t there, something he’d lost long ago. “I don’t—I don’t know if it’s connected, but I remember my cousin complaining about mirrors and glass. About the screaming reflections.” He frowned. No pictures to be seen.
His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “It still feels like it’s watching me.” His mind back on the dolls.
His head dipped down, and he let the silence stretch, waiting for someone else to pick apart the mess he had spilled out before them. The floorboards creaked under his shifting weight, but nothing else moved, nothing else dared to break the terrible stillness that had settled over the room.
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Huntsman II
Was that a skull? A HUMAN SKULL? Gah, what was wrong with these people? A human skull? Avis froze for a moment, unable to tear her eyes from the skull on the bookshelf. It wasn't even that there was a human skull, but rather that it was displayed so casually on the bookshelf. Slowly, she looked at Lécuyer, eyes wide. She had known he used to be a hit wizard, yes, but knowing and understanding were two very different things. What if the skull was from one of his victims?
She turned, placing the skull outside of her peripheral vision, and yet it seemed to hover, seared into her eyes. The skull was proof of death. Everyone told her to be careful, that Hogwarts was dangerous, but Avis had yet to see any actual proof, and it rattled her, how casually it was displayed.
Aamon, apparently saw them as well, though he seemed to think they were proof of his ideas. Which it was, but that was hardly a comforting thought. What must this kid have gone through, what must he have seen, to see a human skull and be happy he was proven right? The whole thing was cursed.
"What she said. You have to understand Aamon, it's for your own good." Finn seemed to have completely misinterpreted her affirmation. She wheeled on him, before catching a glimpse of the skull and diverting just a bit, so she could see Finn but not the skull. Out of sight, out of mind. "What? No, I'm not saying it was a good thing you attacked him, that was certainly not 'for his own good.'"
The room was not helping with sorting out her thoughts. It was a tangled mess of secrets long since buried, and answers that shouldn't be found. It was a museum of relics that she was pretty sure no one wanted to know the stories to, and yet the histories pressed in, calling. It sent a shiver through her spine, and though they were inside, she was hardly warm. Her fingers danced, sharp jerking movements as her mind whirled, instinctively cataloging the room. As if knowing what was there had ever helped her before.
Especially the skull. Avis couldn't stop thinking about the skull.
"reflection dolls... mimics apperance... Avis?" Avis jumped as Finn beckoned her towards the book. She moved to stand next to him, already reading the page before she came to a stop. As she scanned, her eyes widened with each passing paragraph. There were so. many. types of little trinkets that could control a person and destroy them. Avis didn't know if she'd ever wear a pair of gloves again. Imagine putting on a pair of gloves and then just not being in control of yourself.
“Maybe, I don’t know, but maybe you can find the time to be worried about that rather than giving me stink eye?” Avis bit back a snicker that was quickly erased as Aamon glanced at her, pleading. "Finn, I don't think...I'm sure he's worried enough." She dropped her voice to a whisper, hoping only Finn could hear her. "There's only so much worry your body can take before it starts to ignore it as a defense mechanism. Think about how much anxiety he must have right now."
"I remember my cousin complaining about mirrors and glass." Great. Was anyone in his family not being destroyed by -she consulted the book- hags? Hags. Hags. She knew something about them. "Finn. In the library, you said something about hags, about his family." She hadn't really paid attention then. She was now starting to realize maybe she should have.
“It still feels like it’s watching me.”
"We'll fix it." Avis tried to reassure him, although she wasn't so sure. How exactly did one " Shattering the doll’s core" when the doll wasn't even visible? Her gaze flickered back towards the skull, an endless cycle of looking and looking away. There is something magnetic about things so grotesque, a part that forces you to stare at it, no matter how much you want to look away.
@Aamon Athanatos, @Finnegan Connor, @Orion Lécuyer
She turned, placing the skull outside of her peripheral vision, and yet it seemed to hover, seared into her eyes. The skull was proof of death. Everyone told her to be careful, that Hogwarts was dangerous, but Avis had yet to see any actual proof, and it rattled her, how casually it was displayed.
Aamon, apparently saw them as well, though he seemed to think they were proof of his ideas. Which it was, but that was hardly a comforting thought. What must this kid have gone through, what must he have seen, to see a human skull and be happy he was proven right? The whole thing was cursed.
"What she said. You have to understand Aamon, it's for your own good." Finn seemed to have completely misinterpreted her affirmation. She wheeled on him, before catching a glimpse of the skull and diverting just a bit, so she could see Finn but not the skull. Out of sight, out of mind. "What? No, I'm not saying it was a good thing you attacked him, that was certainly not 'for his own good.'"
The room was not helping with sorting out her thoughts. It was a tangled mess of secrets long since buried, and answers that shouldn't be found. It was a museum of relics that she was pretty sure no one wanted to know the stories to, and yet the histories pressed in, calling. It sent a shiver through her spine, and though they were inside, she was hardly warm. Her fingers danced, sharp jerking movements as her mind whirled, instinctively cataloging the room. As if knowing what was there had ever helped her before.
Especially the skull. Avis couldn't stop thinking about the skull.
"reflection dolls... mimics apperance... Avis?" Avis jumped as Finn beckoned her towards the book. She moved to stand next to him, already reading the page before she came to a stop. As she scanned, her eyes widened with each passing paragraph. There were so. many. types of little trinkets that could control a person and destroy them. Avis didn't know if she'd ever wear a pair of gloves again. Imagine putting on a pair of gloves and then just not being in control of yourself.
“Maybe, I don’t know, but maybe you can find the time to be worried about that rather than giving me stink eye?” Avis bit back a snicker that was quickly erased as Aamon glanced at her, pleading. "Finn, I don't think...I'm sure he's worried enough." She dropped her voice to a whisper, hoping only Finn could hear her. "There's only so much worry your body can take before it starts to ignore it as a defense mechanism. Think about how much anxiety he must have right now."
"I remember my cousin complaining about mirrors and glass." Great. Was anyone in his family not being destroyed by -she consulted the book- hags? Hags. Hags. She knew something about them. "Finn. In the library, you said something about hags, about his family." She hadn't really paid attention then. She was now starting to realize maybe she should have.
“It still feels like it’s watching me.”
"We'll fix it." Avis tried to reassure him, although she wasn't so sure. How exactly did one " Shattering the doll’s core" when the doll wasn't even visible? Her gaze flickered back towards the skull, an endless cycle of looking and looking away. There is something magnetic about things so grotesque, a part that forces you to stare at it, no matter how much you want to look away.
@Aamon Athanatos, @Finnegan Connor, @Orion Lécuyer
Avis Marlong | ”She won't cry or beg for help...she'll isolate from the world and fight her own demons so that nobody can throw it in her face later.” |
"The odds of hitting your target increase dramatically when you aim at it." Benji Marecos |
The Huntsman II
|
|
Orion's lips pulled into a thin line as his eyes scanned the text laid out before him. He knew enough about hags to recognize the danger they posed and their usual tactics, but reading more about their less known methods caused an entirely new surge of rage to bubble within him.
Finnegan Connor’s incessant snide commentary certainly didn’t help. Despite his remarks being correct, he was disappointed in his prodigal student. If he could not keep his pride under wraps it would end up consuming him.
"Reflection dolls," He started, turning his attention away from the book in front of him. "Are not a trivial threat. Can you tell me how these dolls differ from the one in the books? Do you know what personal belonging was used for their creation? I would assume that is why Mr. Conner has pocketed your belongings; to try and find a dark object."
"Which cousin?" There were too many for him to keep track of at this point, but the one that came to mind was Erin Ryan. Her unstableness unsettled even Orion. "Mirrors are a common theme when it comes to curses. Almost everyone owns one, and the superstitions behind them have bled even into muggle culture. If there is something screaming inside the mirror, it is less likely a delusion on her end and more likely that someone is trapped inside of the mirror. Hags do use them, they use Blood Mirrors to trap their victims, but you can release them if you break the mirror beneath the moonlight."
Orion turned his attention back to the book, he knew there was a section in here about mirrors. His reading halted at the mind slugs, a memory coming to mind, he found himself frozen in place—Santario's panicked eyes, the students shouting, the stench of slug slime as her maw stretched unnaturally wide to dispose of the slugs wreaking havoc on her mind. Tears, pain, horror, and betrayal aimed in his direction.
It was all because of that idiot Gray kid, who had convinced her that she could get rid of Ryan's slugs WITHOUT the help of a professor. Santario, the closest thing he had to a child, was gone—That was then, this is now.
He could help this student before it got any worse.
Or maybe not.
Every time he allowed himself to care, it rotted and became sick with sadness.
|
│ │ | │ │ | STA: 10 • EVA: 15 • STR: 5 WIS: 20 • ARC: 10 • ACC: 20 | │ │ | • Calming Presence • Perfectionist • Evasive Maneuvers I & II • • Nonverbal Magic • Wandless Magic • Occlumency • Legilimency • | │ │ | │ │ |
The Huntsman II
"What? No, I'm not saying it was a good thing you attacked him, that was certainly not 'for his own good.'"
Finnegan rolled his eyes dramatically toward the ceiling and is shoulders slumped with the weight of being so thoroughly misunderstood. There was no point repeating himself with these half-wits. For whatever reason, they just would not belief that he had selflessly acted in their best interest, in the best interest of the school itself. But had anyone thanked him? Had the Professor bothered to compliment him for sticking his neck out? Slowly, like a cloud rolling in over the hills, his features darkened. It wasn't easy being a chivalrous Gryffindor when all you got for thanks was accusations and frightened, even angry looks.
His attention drifted from the book's grotesque illustrations as the others continued talking. Lecuyer's office was like a museum of dark curiosities, each shelf and surface holding something more fascinating than the last. Bottled creatures floated in sickly green liquid, pressing against the glass as if still trying to escape. A mummified hand wore a silver ring that caught the firelight, its fingers forever frozen in an unsettling gesture. Then there was a cracked mirror on the wall that rippled like water, though nothing moved before it. Most fascinating of all however were the dark feathers. Cautiously, politely, he took a sly pace back from gathering around the book and shot a curious gaze toward the mesmerizing things.
They lay arranged in a careful fan on one of the shelves, seeming quite ordinary at first glance. But these weren't like the soft quills they used for writing. The edges had been honed to razor sharpness, glinting with a keen edge. What sort of bird did they come from? What kind of magic required feathers that could slice and cut? The questions itched in his mind like scab begging to be picked.
"I would assume that is why Mr. Connor has pocketed your belongings; to try and find a dark object."
He was brutally yanked from tempting thoughts and pulled back into the present moment. His heart skipped a beat, but his face remained a mask of earnest innocence, he'd picked up a thing or two from Gideon by now. "Oh! Right, sorry about that." He fished in his pockets with exaggerated care, producing the small box and flask. "Thought it best... for safekeeping..." He set them on the Professor's desk with a weak, innocent smile.
Inwardly, he regretted the loss of the potion and the small box. Now he'd never know what they'd been for. Not unless he could squeeze the answer out of Aamon at least. In all likelihood, the young Slytherin was having similar thoughts, but the Athanatos boy would not understand that Finn's ire was not at all directed against
him.
As Orion launched into an explanation about cursed mirrors, Finnegan gradually edged away from the desk. He clasped his hands behind his back, the very picture of an attentive pupil. His movements were casual, just a restless student shifting his weight, happening to drift toward the back of the office; closer to those fascinating feathers, closer to his reward.
He deserved to have one. The Professor really should have let him keep the box and the potion for his selfless act.
The sin of theft weighed lightly on his conscience. After all, he'd given back Aamon's things, hadn't he? And if the Professor had really wanted to keep his trinkets safe, he shouldn't have invited students into his office in the first place. He tuned back into Orion's lecture just enough to nod at appropriate intervals, mind already spinning with possibilities for his newly acquired treasures. Maybe something good could yet come of this day.
@Orion Lécuyer, @Avis Marlong, @Aamon Athanantos
Finnegan rolled his eyes dramatically toward the ceiling and is shoulders slumped with the weight of being so thoroughly misunderstood. There was no point repeating himself with these half-wits. For whatever reason, they just would not belief that he had selflessly acted in their best interest, in the best interest of the school itself. But had anyone thanked him? Had the Professor bothered to compliment him for sticking his neck out? Slowly, like a cloud rolling in over the hills, his features darkened. It wasn't easy being a chivalrous Gryffindor when all you got for thanks was accusations and frightened, even angry looks.
His attention drifted from the book's grotesque illustrations as the others continued talking. Lecuyer's office was like a museum of dark curiosities, each shelf and surface holding something more fascinating than the last. Bottled creatures floated in sickly green liquid, pressing against the glass as if still trying to escape. A mummified hand wore a silver ring that caught the firelight, its fingers forever frozen in an unsettling gesture. Then there was a cracked mirror on the wall that rippled like water, though nothing moved before it. Most fascinating of all however were the dark feathers. Cautiously, politely, he took a sly pace back from gathering around the book and shot a curious gaze toward the mesmerizing things.
They lay arranged in a careful fan on one of the shelves, seeming quite ordinary at first glance. But these weren't like the soft quills they used for writing. The edges had been honed to razor sharpness, glinting with a keen edge. What sort of bird did they come from? What kind of magic required feathers that could slice and cut? The questions itched in his mind like scab begging to be picked.
"I would assume that is why Mr. Connor has pocketed your belongings; to try and find a dark object."
He was brutally yanked from tempting thoughts and pulled back into the present moment. His heart skipped a beat, but his face remained a mask of earnest innocence, he'd picked up a thing or two from Gideon by now. "Oh! Right, sorry about that." He fished in his pockets with exaggerated care, producing the small box and flask. "Thought it best... for safekeeping..." He set them on the Professor's desk with a weak, innocent smile.
Inwardly, he regretted the loss of the potion and the small box. Now he'd never know what they'd been for. Not unless he could squeeze the answer out of Aamon at least. In all likelihood, the young Slytherin was having similar thoughts, but the Athanatos boy would not understand that Finn's ire was not at all directed against
him.
As Orion launched into an explanation about cursed mirrors, Finnegan gradually edged away from the desk. He clasped his hands behind his back, the very picture of an attentive pupil. His movements were casual, just a restless student shifting his weight, happening to drift toward the back of the office; closer to those fascinating feathers, closer to his reward.
He deserved to have one. The Professor really should have let him keep the box and the potion for his selfless act.
He kept his posture straight, face arranged in an expression of solemn concentration as Orion spoke about trapped souls and moonlight rituals. His fingers, hidden behind his back, inched closer to the shelf. The feathers were cool to the touch, smoother than he expected. With practiced subtlety, he slipped them into his pocket, the movement masked by a thoughtful nod at whatever Orion was saying about blood mirrors.Finnegan attempts to steal Feathers of the Mockingbird... Success!
Feathers of the Mockingbird:
Reducio
These delicate, shimmering feathers are a paradox of beauty and peril. Appearing as fragile plumage, each feather conceals a razor-sharp blade, enchanted with a unique and sinister magic. When used as weapons, the Feathers of the Mockingbird inflict the same damage upon the wielder as they do upon the victim, creating a bond of shared suffering.
Rolls:
Reducio
Finn rolling Accuracy at disadvantage: 32, 29 => 29
Orion wisdom: Critical failure! 1+20 => 21
OOC note: These feathers are an item Winnie/Orion has specified. We agreed that Finn could attempt to steal something from Orion's office if Finn rolled his attempt at disadvantage.
The sin of theft weighed lightly on his conscience. After all, he'd given back Aamon's things, hadn't he? And if the Professor had really wanted to keep his trinkets safe, he shouldn't have invited students into his office in the first place. He tuned back into Orion's lecture just enough to nod at appropriate intervals, mind already spinning with possibilities for his newly acquired treasures. Maybe something good could yet come of this day.
@Orion Lécuyer, @Avis Marlong, @Aamon Athanantos
"He's a dweeby chocolate bar lip smacking nerd" - Evelynn Decipio