незнакомец/stranger open

Note: Thoughts, Russian, English

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The month of April came and with it the season of spring. Flowers would commence to bloom, the sun would rise sooner, and nightfall would be cast upon the land much later.

Yet for Boram, the days passed in a blur.

Time was no match for the nagging questions that popped into her mind. Hopefully, some of her questions may be answered. Soon.

Her eyebrows were furrowed, her expression stern as she walked the grounds as those before her— where she belonged. Through her veins and in her soul, she felt the magic from her family. With each step she took, she could almost hear the sound of her lineage's footsteps.

Too bad she was not there with her.

With a deep sigh, Boram glanced around as she played with the silver ring on her pinky finger. Feeling the engraving beneath her skin, she began to mutter as anger laced into her low tone, "You said we would bring the school to our feet... so why-", she paused. Her iridescent eyes followed a figure who seemed to be oblivious of her presence. Boram's head tilted as she noticed the young boy look around, Is he lost?

Boram blinked and shook her head, internally scowling herself as she muttered, "Oh please... as if someone could lose themselves here..." She continued to observe him for a moment longer, unless... her eyes narrowed, well... "I have never seen him before."

Humming a tune she and her cousin used to sing together, Boram walked up to him. His dark colored hair reminded her of someone; her expression was curious and she stopped humming just as she stood behind the boy.

Should she have left him alone? probably... Did she want to? no...

Clearing her throat, she spoke, poking his shoulder gently, her expression stern but her tone gave away her curiosity. "Are you looking for something?...."

Perhaps she should not have assumed the young boy spoke her mother tongue. Russian.

"How come I have never seen you around before?"

Roleplaying as Hans Jenssen

There are no strangers here; only friends you haven't yet met. -- William Butler Yeats

It's not everyday someone you are fairly certain should not be there materialises before your presence, so despite his writer's insistence that man could never become God, some deity must have plucked him from his jungle home and left him in this ice-bound fortress.

Arno Dorian was a boy Hans had come across two times prior. First, in the Hogwarts Gala of Mysteries, though then he was far too preoccupied with the happenings at Hogsmeade, Nikolai blatantly ignoring him, and his growing saviour complex, to pay much attention to which one of those insensitive brats were firing about spells. Second, a much more pleasant encounter, when his own moods had settled down, at Beauxbatons, where he had moderated a duel between the brunette and a British student. With that memory came the distinct announcement he had given, introducing Arno as a Castelobruxo student.

Hans squinted. Last he checked, his eyesight was still superb, which he attributed to Durmstrang's lack of screens. Same dark hair with eyes of the same hue. Same curly texture. Same way he carried himself. Though not as thorough an observer as the attentive Nikolai he was betting his allowance that the boy had fallen victim to the transfer programme, an odd choice and stark contrast, but with that sheer drive of his Hans would not be taken aback to learn he had grown to be too much of a handful. Arno, however, would fit right in among the Institutes try-hards, delinquents, and those who hit two birds with one stone and decided there was no harm in being both.

Well, it's a small world after all.

"Arno!" He greeted in English, as surprised at the memory of his name as he was seeing him here yet deciding there was no harm in reaching out, gregariousness an especially lacking quality amongst the unforgiving cold. So spreading his arms towards the boy he approached grinning, "Well it's been a while. What the hell are you doing in this frozen wasteland?" They were sure to make quick friends.

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незнакомец@Archer Duncan@Nabi Park

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"How come I have never seen you around before?"

Spoke a voice in russian. This voice was soft, yet firm, pulling Arno from his introspection. Turning towards it's source, Arno found it coming from a girl who stood few paces away from him. Her auburn hair framed her face, bearing a look of curiosity that resembled his own expression. She was tall, standing at about 5'2, with light green eye. "Are you looking for something?" she inquired, her accent carrying the lilt of what he had come to expect from his tutor. This was yet again a reminder of how different of a place he had been shipped to.

"I'm not sure" Arno called back to her, voice slightly louder in the vast expanse. He took a few steps closer to her, hands now out from his pockets as he jogged up to her. Someone had finally acknowledged his presence. "I just got here a while ago. I'm trying to roam around the place, get myself familiar with the setting. But i can't make any sense of this place" he admitted to her with a nod and sheepish smile, unaware and uncaring whether she'd even understand his english. Eyes darting to the scene beyond her and snow below their feet. Arno slicked some of his hair back, tucking away the few lose strands that were beginning to block his sight.

"Well it's been a while. What the hell are you doing in this frozen wasteland?"

Arno's eyes light up with recognition upon noticing the familiar figure of Han's face, a wizard boy he'd met during his time in France. The surprise of hearing English in the midst of the predominantly russian-speaking school was as jolting as the warmth of familiarity that flooded Arno upon the sigh of a friendly face. "Hans" he exclaimed, " Yeah, just my luck. I wanted a change of pace and the opportunity to be here came up."Finally a familiar face in sight.

"My mother has chosen to work closely in our branch here. Thus for the foreseeable future, i'm to remain here." Arno's words were true, the boy hadn't expected this reception but he was stuck in this castle for the rest of time his mother was going to stay in a city nearby.

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Hans & Boram

Note: Thoughts, Russian, English, Arno, Hans

date would go here hehehehe.......

Boram watched as the boy turned to face her; his dark-colored hair complemented his eyes, which looked back at her. Her head tilted as her curiosity grew; she had never seen him before. Незнакомый человек? A stranger?

There? In Durmstrang?

"I'm not sure" his voice called out, the odd answer echoed in the distance between them while her eyes squinted as she attempted to see the boy better, о, англичанин? Oh, English? She knew English more than well enough, having spent her childhood making fond memories with her only cousin did have its advantages. Yet she had grown used to hearing her peers in the school speak in Russian. His answer finally registered in her head, and a small snort escaped her, muttering to herself, "как ты не уверен? how are you not sure?"

Was the boy that dumb?

The boy began to make his way toward her, causing her to straighten up. Her shoulders tensed slightly— Why was he getting closer to her? Her eyes widening slightly as she said under her breath, inaudible to him, "Нет, уходи... No, go away..." Boram had grown used to keeping to herself, never truly interested in making friends with some of the people in her school. So, who did this boy think he was to have a conversation with her?

Boram was silent as she watched him stand before her, her once curious gaze hardened. "I just got here a while ago. I'm trying to roam around the place, get myself familiar with the setting. But I can't make any sense of this place", her shoulders untensed slightly and she blinked once "oh..." Her head tilted again as she watched him closely, her expression softening once more, thinking of what to say. She noticed his sheepishness whilst his hands tucked his loose strands behind his ears, and she hummed softly Он симпатичный... He's cute...

"erm-" She was about to ask him a question when another voice interrupted "Well, it's been a while. What the hell are you doing in this frozen wasteland?" Her mismatched eyes flickered over to the source of the new voice, landing upon a boy of whom there was a possibility she had seen in the halls but never placed much mind on. Boram stood by quietly, watching how the strangers greeted each other; her hands folded together in front of her as she listened to the first boy speak, "My mother has chosen to work closely in our branch here. Thus, for the foreseeable future, I'm to remain here."

Her gaze shifted back to him, curiosity getting the best of her as she finally spoke, her tone modulated "What school did you transfer from?" She was looking at him, one of her hands gently rubbed the back of her neck as she realized she had not even asked him for his name... nor had she thought of introducing herself to either of the boys.

"ah... my apologies... I am Boram, Boram Borisova..."

banner by Matthew Campbell || interacting as Hans Jenssen

Hans had caught on to enough of Arno’s meagre first conversation to understand just how much a incomer he still was to the Durmstrang population. A stranger in a strange land, one that must have been jarring in comparison to Castelobruxo’s tropical atmospheres, the ice never melted easily so far up north, as metaphorical as it was literal. The endless winter nights had only just started to ebb away, but unlike the waxing and waning of seasons, those lacking gregariousness remained so year round. The girl stood across him seemed not quite the ambassador of amiability, their conversation one coming off as awkward and one-sided, with only short quips returned by the former, burdened not only by aloofness but a probable language barrier.

Hans swore the other’s boys eyes lit up like a raging bonfire as their gazes locked in recognition. Grinning welcoming as Arno reciprocated the greeting with his own name, the Durmstrang resident was just as grateful as its newest addition for a face with history behind it. Having prodded into the cogs that turned the Institute’s ice-draped hub, he knew its inner workings well enough to manoeuvre his way around its lethally-bladed social circles, yet one must admit the refreshing breath of air it with the annual new batch of the same pristine portraits, only painted in different colours at most. A change of pace was certainly one way to put this one part predicament, one part blessing.

Arno’s explanation left Hans briefly wondering which sadistic company would have a branch in the far, unreachable corners of the Laplands. He wasn’t blatantly nor bluntly curious enough to ask such a trivial question though.

As for their underclassman’s own inquisitions, he let Arno answer for himself as they moved on to introductions instead. “Hans Jenssen,” he replied smiling as they eased into the familiar song and dance exchanges of conversation, the words slipping out as smoothly as honey off its dipper, “it’s nice to meet you.” Funny, how Hans had almost reached to shake her hand.

Boram Borisova, as he had been acquainted with — dark hair, contemplative eyes, and wearing the Durmstrangnian fad of stern expression. A girl perhaps a year younger than him, she was certain to have crossed his path in the isolated fortress yet, like her own attitude presented, found himself indifferent towards. Likely an heiress and yet another image of pure-blood perfection, his attention was quick enough to slip away from her.

Smirking lightly at the newcomer for his earlier mention losing himself in the many meandering routes of the institute’s most hallowed halls, he shared a knowing glance. Hans was not about to pretend he had no shared experience, for if your arbitrary castle was enough of a labyrinth, a magi-enchanted one would be a nightmare. For the first few days it had been, yet as he settled into routines, friendships, and the latter’s vehement desires to explore foreign grounds, soon all the cuts and corners straightened themselves into clean, orderly lines. From cold, stony-walled corridors they were soon to become paths he ran down with resounding laughter, all the veins of the beating heart that was his home he knew all too well. Soon, he was certain, Arno would soon be on the same boat as he.

Eyes flicking across the robed body of the boy in question before landing back on the coffee shaded eyes, he asked finally, curious to how the boy was taking to their attributed forbidding reception, “So how’s this place treating you, Arno? Did they force you into survival training too or are you enjoying your transfer privileges?” Tilting his head curiously he gestured, “I didn't know you speak Russian... do you?”

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незнакомец@Archer Duncan@Nabi Park

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The cold still hadn't left Arno's bones.

Even as the snow settled silently around him like an old, familiar and comfortable ache. He could still feel the tension inside him. Not just from the temperature, but from being present here. Standing between a stranger with eyes as sharp as frost and a potential friend from another time. The castle loomed behind him, like a quiet and watchful entity that was listening in on their conversation.

He hadn't expected this warmth here, not in the literal or figurative sense but Boram's voice was a small spark in frozen air. Her held back curiosity and caution in her voices folded behind guarded words. She didn't seem rude to Arno, perhaps just distant. A trait Arno was starting to recognize in the few Durmstrang students he had met. It wasn't offending to him. He understood distance, he liked it. He had lived in it since his father walked out and never came back.

His hands found their way back into his pockets for a moment, fingers brushing the edges of a folded slip his grandfather had once given him. A note that spoke something about finding warmth in places where others might not even choose to look. Maybe this awkward introduction and unexpected reunion was one of those places.

"Arno," he offered quietly, his voice steadying itself in the cold. "Arno Dorian."

He gave Boram a small nod, a polite acknowledgment. "I came from Castelobruxo. It's different from here. Much warmer, much louder." He added with a hint of dry amusement in his voice, breath misting faintly.

He caught's Hans' words and smiled a little. He hadn't realized how much he missed hearing English. Not just words, but ease of them. His first few days here had felt like someone dumped him into a frozen painting and expected him to move within it. With Hans however, a splash of color was thrown into this monotonous painting with English thrown in the middle of it.

"It's nice to meet you," Arno returned when Hans introduced himself to Boram, his tone more comfortable now, the formality easing into something less rehearsed.

Then came the question Arno was half expecting, "So how's this place treating you Arno?" Did they force you into survival training too or are you enjoying your transfer priveleges?"

Arno gave a soft chuckle, his head tilting slightly as if even he wasn't sure of his answer yet. "I'm liking it so far, I mean, I'm not sure if I'm enjoying it exactly," he admitted, glancing over at the cold castle that stood behind them. "But it's been fun ever since I got here. Everything's new, there's something freeing about not having a reputation yet."

He didn't say the silence here suited him. That the cold kept him focused. Perhaps in some strange way, he needed this emptiness of unfamiliar walls to fill with something of his own choices. No longer a life shaped by those around him, but only his own choices.

When Hans asked if he spoke Russian, Arno smiled, an emotion between pride and humility threading his expression. "Я немного говорю," he replied, the words carrying the slow, careful rhythm of someone who had practiced the language repeatedly. "Я всё ещё учусь." "I speak a little. I'm still learning."

The sentence hung in air for a bit, his accent was present but not awful. He had worked hard for achieving whatever short amount of mastery he had managed to acquire in his short time. He had spent countless hours with tutors, and occasional quiet correction from his mother when she wasn't buried in her unending work. For once, he hoped she was proud of him, even if she wouldn't say it.

His gaze flicked back to the redhaired one, sensing she might speak more Russian natively than Hans. "I'm trying to get better," he offered, not as an apology but as a quiet olive branch. This wasn't home yet. Not like Castelobruxo had become, but Durm didn't have to feel like exile either.

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Hans & Boram

To be an open book.

Boram's face flushed slightly, feeling a mild burn across her face as she smiled lightly. Her green eyes squinted as her hand darted back to her side, and the boy spoke "Arno".

Что? Арни? What? Arnie?

Perhaps his tone was too low for her, so instead she nodded slightly, unsure if she heard well until he said his full name steadily, О, Арно... Oh, Arno... A faint but genuine smile began to crack her guarded expression, mentally face-palming herself for her mistake. Her eyes followed him before politely returning the nod, blinking as he answered the question she had momentarily forgotten.

"Oh.. I have heard of the school..." She nodded to herself, recalling a newspaper she had read, well not the whole newspaper, more like the Quidditch section; a sports special on the various Quidditch stars and their histories. Boram quickly learned that there was a world to explore, sights to see, memories to share; yet she found herself at home in the white coat of ice. There was a sense of stillness in the cold, as if time stopped beneath the flakes of white-colored tears. "I have never been there, but I will take your word for it."

How naive of her.

"Hans Jenssen", the second boy spoke, also introducing himself. Her eyes shifted to the boy she learned was named Hans, and her right hand twitched slightly. She did not know if she should shake their hands. Boram had been told to always shake the hands of adults or bow in respect... but it had never occurred to her what she should do regarding any peers nearing her age. Boram was never well with formalities, always giving a quick bow or a fleeting handshake in greeting.

Awfully unlady-like of her, and yet, she did not change.

Quite stubborn on her part.

Deciding to nod in response, she spoke in a mildly softened tone to both of the boys, "Nice to meet you too". She fell silent once again as Hans spoke to Arno, his question causing her to grow curious as well. Had the boy been given special treatment? Boram's eyes followed his head tilt, subconsciously mirroring him. A small hum left her as she said thoughtfully, "Reputations may be restrictive..."

She would know... maybe.

Boram had missed when the young Hans asked if he knew Russian, but her focus returned as she heard someone speak in Russian. It was soft, careful, but very well said for learning it as a foreign language. Her eyes lit up as a smile fully formed, "О! Это хорошее произношение Oh! It is a good pronouncation"

The unexpected Russian from Arno had caught her off guard as a flicker of excitement surged within her. It is not every day one meets someone learning her mother tongue. She looked at Hans as if hoping he would agree that Arno's pronunciation was well said, before looking back at him "I think it is pretty good right now... Russian can get confusing sometimes..." Tilting her head, she said curiously, "How long have you been learning Russian?"

banner by Matthew Campbell || interacting as Hans Jenssen

Despite the awkward distance that once hung in the air between them, “nice to meet yous” were not spoken in ingenuineness. It was always nice to meet new friends, and that went beyond the simple words that could have stated it. Although he thought his encounter with Arno would have merely been a fleeting one at Beauxbatons, fate seemed to have blessed him with both a new acquaintance and a reunion — for once, he was miraculously being favoured. He needn’t have listened to Arno’s introduction, but returned Boram’s polite nod at her words. Noticing her lack of further courtesy, Hans smiled inwardly. So she wasn’t a lady. Good. And that, Hans thought decidedly, was the extent his formalities would go today.

“Much warmer, much louder,” Hans repeated Arno’s description of his former school, “Sounds nice. ” It did, and Hans wished he too could go there someday, perhaps not as a student but a visitor. His Beauxbaton excursion had introduced him to more sights beyond the generic tragedies of Hogwarts. If only every one of the eight schools could host an event within his time as a student — that would be heaven for his adventurer’s heart

After the exchange of informal cordiality was done, Hans looked towards Arno for an answer to his question, and watched as the newcomer only cocked his head slightly. His reluctance to categorise emotion as enjoyment was sympathised with, clearly directed towards the coldness of Durmstrang, both inside and out, gilded into walls and planted into hearts. When he had first arrived at the castle he was struck by sudden doubt at its imposing walls, a fact no less reinforced as he trekked to his dormitory only to find the wordless, distant figure of a Volkov wolf, eyeing him down as if he was prey. And in response, what had Hans done? Not keep his head down and ignore the frigid world, but force it to orbit him as he pushed on, made himself a furnace of gregarious warmth in the algid Institute that quietly reminded its students that power was the only language it cared to speak. Well, pity he hadn’t cared much for that either. After all, permafrost be damned, come springtime the ice still melted.

However was his second remark that elicited more of a reaction as a smile crept up Hans’ lips. The sentence made a childish curiosity take him by the collar. Now what sort of reputation exactly was Arno referring to that made him so delighted to start anew on the clean slate of fresh snow? His eyes narrowed slightly, as if considering what the boy was referring to, but bar from a few absurd guesses, he decided to allow Dorian himself to answer.

Yet just as Hans was about to respond with a burning question and good banter to serve along with it if Boram hadn’t cut in with the soft hum that caught his attention despite her low volume, commenting on the restrictions of reputation. That, he could agree with, but if one knew how to wield it… a good impression could be the first step to the power the school was so desperate to drill into them. At the combination of the two’s words, the youth who knew an image’s power more than anything raised a curious brow, as if to wonder, not in challenge but inquiry, What do you know about reputation?

“Reputation? ” Hans asked, with a good-natured laugh and a tone that would have otherwise bordered on a scoff. “I wonder what sort of reputation you had back at Castelo. Ohh Arno, ” he teased in a purr as the smile spread into a devilish grin and a feigned gasp, “You weren’t a bad boy were you? ”

Then as their conversation shifted towards language (hopefully after Hans got his answer), the sharp sounds of Russian, formal and familiar, feeling right on Dursmtrang grounds, cut through their predominantly English conversation, warped around the edges in an accent that was noticeable, but not terrible. Returning his smile carefully he meant encouragement through the gesture, not an empty white lie but rather in response to the good footing Arno seemed to have landed on approaching the foreign tongue. Boram too reacted with pleasantry, eyes lighting up at the simple utterance of the language. In all frankness, he never understood why the Institute operated on the language, given its location, but that was a debate left for another day.

Arno had been correct to look towards the native rather than himself. Russian too was far from Hans’ mother tongue — in fact it was the third one he had learnt. But despite that inconvenience it outperformed the monotonous English and was by far the language he spoke most often. A slow burn of immersion, Otto and he, then six, shared the words as a code only they could understand, his once Durmstrangnian mother’s far too rusty to understand their shouts and whispers. As a child there was no language he loved more speaking it, pretending he was a secret agent and his mission set in the Federation, relishing in the bewildered glances sent his way from confused passersby. Having lived in the echo chamber of his grandfather’s accented speech, his too had carried German hints before his time at the Institute. Yet, soon enough, the unnatural undertones were washed away into nothingness after his share of socialisation.

“Don’t your worry Arno, ” Hans reassured, patting the boy on the back. He gave Boram, who too complimented his linguistic abilities, a nod, signalling he approved of what she said, especially as a non-native himself. “Russian may seem intimidating at first with its 32 letters but you speak it far better than I would expect from a new learner. It doesn’t matter though, once you get acquainted with the people here it’ll become much faster. Similar to any other language, you shouldn’t be afraid to talk in it — that’s your best bet at improving. ” Perfect advice from a boy as talkative as himself.

“So, ” he clapped his hands and looked at Boram for confirmation, “Why don’t we practice a bit? ”