Front Lawn

Shortly before guests arrived...

Finnegan Connor wrote: 9 Jul 2025, 21:45

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

gryffindor, third-year
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He regretted his decision to travel here by train, and then foot when he'd made it halfway up the incline. What time was it? And just how much bloody longer did this path go on for? The humble ivy-covered mansion had not seemed to be that far away, but that was half an hour ago, when his calves hadn't been feeling like lead. He stopped at a bend in the road to catch his breath and go over his posessions one more time. The invitation for the wedding had arrived late in the year, leaving far too little time between cramming classes and writing essays to truly properly prepare. Still, he had learned his lesson after his excursion to St. Mungo's. Not to stay away from danger, as one might expect, but to be better prepared and to be exceedingly cautious. While his Professors probably thought he was scraping by as usual, much of Finnegan's time was spent reading far ahead in his books, searching for the most useful spells that he could reasonably master in the time between the arrival of the invitation and the wedding. He'd found several. If the balls at Hogwarts had proved anything, then it was that festive gatherings such as these had a way of going tits up fast like. Not every calamity could be prepared for, but a Bezoar was mightily useful thing to have. Far easier to acquire than complicated antidotes and effective against most forms of poisoning. He still remembered his meeting with Pride at Paddifoot's, how the Slytherin had slipped Hemlock into his tea and how cautious Gideon had been with all he drank and ate. The Athanatos boys would be wary of or boast about poisons so much if they had never used them, and so bringing a Bezoar seemed a smart thing to do. He'd brought three small potions with him. Small enough to carry in his pockets without getting in the way. Gregory's Unctuous Unction had been an obvious choice. Whether slipped into someone's goblet or forced down their gullet, it never hurt to have a friend, even if it was artifical one. The Drowsiness Draught was ultimately the closest thing to a handgrenade that he had brought along. When smashed its fumes would induce lethargy, offering a distraction, diversion or potentially affording an escape if push came to shove. Last but not least was the Babbling Beverage, quite useful if you didn't want certain secrets to spill and noteable for its property of not requiring to be swallowed. Finally, he had brought one more peculiar item along with him, a collection of dark and beautiful feathers only to be used if all other options failed. He'd been reluctant to bring them, but their lightness made it easy to carry them, and it never hurt to have a final trick up your sleeve. Finnegan shrugged off his Summer Cloak and set it down on a large outcrop of jagged rock. Taking a step back, he cleared his throat and incanted a spell that he wouldn't be taught until after summer. “Indesmulo” While he had been sad to lose his invisbility cloak in the Forbidden Forest, he had been even sadder that he'd wasted money on getting on in the first place. Granted, there was no guarantee that the Bedazzlement Hex was quite as good as a cloak woven with Demiguise Hair, but it was certainly far cheaper, and a lot easier than mastering the Disillusionment Charm and the effect appeared to be much the same. Pleased with the result, Finnegan put the cloak back on and resumed his stroll up to the Augury Cloister while a stiff gale bit at his face. The air here was cleaner, fresher, saltier, and yet... ...it wasn't quite the same as memories of Wales or trips to the beach. The lone cry of a seagull overhead did not remind him of a leisurely holiday but rather emphasized his loneliness in the landscape. The waves did not lapse gently or invite swimming. They crashed and threw themselves against the rock with force, determined to break it. And whenever he looked out over the sea, he could not help but feel like something, or someone was watching from those bottomless depths below. Soon enough the wilderness of jutted rock and blowing grass and wind-whipped shores made way for something far too carefully placed and managed. Like someone had tried very hard to make things blend in with their natural surrounding, but had made all the wrong choices. Though Finnegan was unable to name the flowering vines, he could tell that they were out of place in this landscape, and they smelled far too strongly besides. Likewise, every decorative stone looked like it had been hauled from some faraway place and put down just so, same with the grass and vines, and all the other decorations that tried too hard to seem natural. Finnegan paused a dozen feet or so removed from the entrance. He had planned to scale the cloister, to get a high vantage point and observe the surroundings from above. The ivy made it seem easy to do so, but doubt had begun to gnaw at his mind from the moment he had set foot on the seaside path snaking up the cliffside. The cloister stood upon a cliffside of jagged rock and while reaching its roof from the northern sea-side would hide him from view, a single misstep could prove lethal. His goal remained the same, to remain hidden and to observe, to look for a breadcrumb trail if there was any to be found, but above all, to be cautious. Perhaps he could attempt from the side? The east side had no windows through which he could be spotted, but could he really risk it? There would undoubtedly already be staff at the site, hard at work to make this Pride's perfect day. Not half a year ago he might have brazenly walked into the Augury and improvised from there, but that kind of approach just didn't do, not when it came to dealing with the Athanatos family. Now that he stood before the cloister, a different plan formed in his head. While he could not slip through the overgrown fence like an eel, he could attempt to get over it. Though he couldn't be sure what was on the other side, it certainly seemed far less likely that he would run into anyone that way, and he wasn't so arrogant as to think his Bedazzlement Charm made him impervious to being seen. After a short moment of deliberation, Finnegan advanced toward the door, but did not enter through it. Instead, he listened carefully while he approached a corner in the building's brickwork and gently tested the sturdiness of the overgrown fence with his hands. With one foot on the wall and the other on the overgrown fence, though he didn't really doubt they would fail to hold him. Frankly, he was much more at risk of being blown away by a particularly strong gust of wind. Hidden by the noise of the wind and the sea and whatever cover his enchanted Summer Cloak afforded him, Finnegan stood quietly for a few more moments, to assure himself the coast was clear before he would attempt to scale the overgrown fence. Note for mods: Reducio If allowed, Finn will use the mirror in the compact he brought (declared in the Cathedral thread) to peek over the fence once he has already climbed up a good portion of the way. Else, this can be ignored. https://pasteimg.com/images/2025/07/09/ ... tering.png

Veni, vidi, vici 05/07/2025 Augury Cloister

Declaring my inventory upfront since this is a modded scenario.

• Gregory's Unctuous Unction [Trunk]
• Drowsiness Draught [Trunk]
• Babbling Beverage [Trunk]
• Bezoar [Trunk]
• Feathers of the Mockingbird [MS Earned Item]
• Winter Cloak [Trunk, Standard Item] - There is no summer cloak item that I was able to find. For flavor purposes I will claim this winter cloak to be a summer cloak to be more seasonally appropriate.
• Muggle compact - intended as a flavor item, just brought along because it has a mirror, which may yet prove useful. Has no magical effect. Mentioned to be on his person in the Sanctum Noctis thread.

The Narrator wrote: 9 Jul 2025, 23:57

The Bedazzlement Charm had been cast over Finnegan's cloak, not to render the boy invisible (heavens, no), but to make him less seen. As though the Gryffindor was draped in a thousand tiny, shifting mirrors, each reflecting back a sliver of the world around him. The result was something strange: not quite concealment, but a suggestion of absence. People rarely look to the flickering shadows at the edge of their perception. Beneath this veil of concealment, Finnegan would become a person half-remembered, half-glimpsed from the corner of the eye.

An iron fence ringed a stone patio on the southwestern side of the Cloister. The black fence was hemmed by a hedge of carefully cultivated menace—oleander and yew, alternating like chessboard squares. Pink blossoms bloomed in bursts beside their darker, evergreen counterparts. Together, they rose to just above his knees as Finnegan studied the barrier, testing its strength. One could not be too careful when intruding on an Athanatos event.

Finnegan's fingers curled around the cold iron. He gave it a pull. The fence did not budge. A firm pull confirmed it, this fence was sturdy enough to hold his weight, should he need to climb. Besides the slight gap in the hudge where Finnegan's legs sood, the cloak distorting the reckless blooms, it would be a challenge to notice the young spy.

Clandestine as a cat, Finnegan drew his compact mirror from beneath his shimmering cloak. A disembodied hand held the charmless glass and with a slight twist if his wrist, the wizard would catch a reflection from the other side—a stone patio, encircling a large fountain. A quartet of padded benches surrounded the fountain like solemn sentinels. But what truly caught his eye were the shimmering glyphs etched into the stonework—glowing rings of purple, blue, and red, humming with latent magic.

As Finn adjusted his mirror slightly, angling it toward the window found along the northern border of this closed in patio, he could view what was inside. Just beyond the pane of glass, lit by the low gleam of wall sconces and glowing orbs of magical light, a house-elf was hunched over a mortar and pestle, grinding herbs with practiced focus. Each movement was rhythmic, purposeful. This was no idle preparation, Finnegan would be certain that something potent was being brewed.

The veil between spectacle and sorcery at the Augury Cloister was thin. Finnegan had experienced the Athanatos family for that they truly were, a duality of natures. There was a face intended for the public, friend and enemy alike, and then there was a hidden expression that was no less remarkable, but often more concerning. The Augury Cloister was no different, Finnegan could feel it, even if he was unaware of the history of this place. Unaware of the significance of this cliff face. He did not need to know, he already knew. Every blossom, every rune, every elf bore the mark of ritual dressed as celebration.

And Finnegan had come here to watch, not to get tangled in a fresh disaster.

Finnegan moved to the Patio

The gravel crunched beneath dragonhide boots as August VanCleaf approached the grand front doors of the Augury Cloister. The midday sun glinted off the of the venue’s windows, setting the entire facade aglow in a silvery light. The entrance, once austere and foreboding, now bloomed in wild contradiction: through the grand windows he could see arches wrapped in rose garlands, petals cascading like bloodless confetti onto the marble floor. He had not even entered yet and the scent was dizzying, overripe and honey-thick. It smelled like a perfume too sweet to be innocent.

August paused at the front door, exhaling a breath through his nose as he took in the scene. “So this is what a funeral looks like when you call it a wedding,” he murmured. The Athanatos family was a strange family in a world where oddity was called 'eccentricity' when the subject of discussion

He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, a navy-blue number with subtle warding thread. His reflection shimmered briefly in the polished gold of the door handles before he reached forward and opened the door, the celebration already underway. He had taken the long way to the reception, having skipped the ceremony in spite of his invitation. One of the boys in the Athanatos family is suspected of murder, and his presence in a congested church with a massive floo would have caused not only chaos in the crowd, but would have afforded hum the opportunity to escape to an unknown place. No, he needed to be careful and to corner the wizard.

The doors creaked open into a foyer awash with golden light. Chandeliers glittered like captive constellations above, and rose petals littered the floor like sacred offerings. The Cloister’s bones were still there, the arches too narrow, the ceilings too tall, the statues too unnerving, but everything was dressed up in silk and celebration. A stage for illusion.

August smiled thinly, pulling off his sunglasses with a slow, almost theatrical flick and tucking them into his breast pocket. Without them, his blue eyes caught the light like blades. “Gaudy,” he said to no one in particular. “But I admire the commitment.”

A house elf emerged soundlessly from the shadows, clutching a silver tray and blinking up at him with wide, nervous eyes. “Let Thaddeus know,” August said, voice smooth as velvet over steel. “That the Ministry’s most loyal servant has arrived. And remind him—I’m very good at sniffing out trouble.”

He offered the elf a wink, but before he stepped inside he was impacted or nearly so, with Erin Ryan. His smile returned: white, bright, and utterly insincere.

August VanCleaf, the famed Auror collided with Erin Ryan just as she stepped through the door seeking a breath of air, their shoulders striking with enough force to stagger them both. Erin hissed, the less or other-than nature shone through in that moment. August apologized, or tried to out of routine or perhaps habit, but the sound was already drowned out by the sudden lurch of their mutual awareness. The awkward shuffle of people meeting in a doorway, co-workers in fact, was just as it should have been, awkward. Mundane. Something that would be forgotten in a breath.

But it wasn't. Because fate is never so sloppy as to allow true randomness. Not in places like this. Not at the Augury. No in a place that bought and sold malleable fates.

Here coincidence is often dressed in borrowed clothes, pretending to be harmless, but the threads beneath are deliberate, stitched into patterns no fully human eye can follow. The tapestry of fate is not woven by chance, but by will as any Athanatos would claim. Erin did not think of fate in that way, nor did she romanticize it, she simply accepted that events happen outside of her control and that her will was her only weapon. And, her will, as stubborn as it was, was inadequate.

But...

Winnie did not fall in love with Mathias by chance.

Vladimir did not get cursed by some unfortunate happenstance.

Victor did not die for nothing.

Mary should never have even met them.

The pattern continued to tighten. Outside, just past the heavy double doors and down path to the street, stood a tall man with broad shoulders and a coat that looked like it had weathered wars both literal and metaphorical. He looked relatively young, a heavy brow that aged him some, but a jaw and throat that lacks the signs of weathering and age. Early to mid 20's probably. At either side, two young women flanked him, girls only in form. Their faces were wrong. Just slightly. The sort of wrongness that made the brain itch trying to explain it: too smooth, maybe waxy. Features too symmetrical, or perhaps not symmetrical enough. Mouths that didn’t rest quite right, but how they were wrong seemed to be outside of human definition. So this was the uncanny valley.

They stood still, just across the street from the Augury Cloister. Not talking. Not moving. Just watching. Oblivious or perhaps relishing in their wrongness.

The tall man turned his head ever so slightly, as if he too had just felt something shift. Like a thread had just been pulled taut in the weave of the world. His eyes landed on the doorway where August and Erin now stood. And he smiled. Not warmly. Not politely. But like someone who'd been waiting.

Erin barely had time to register the click of her heels on the front step before she collided with a wall of Ministry-grade muscle and cologne. August VanCleaf. It was like walking into an arrogant brick wall, middle-aged men were supposed to get soft around the middle.

The scent of smoke and herb hit her first. His love of potions lingered even outside of his apartment. Then, it was probably the sharp line of his jaw. And finally, that faint, smug tilt of his mouth. "What the—?" she muttered, stumbling back half a step.

His hand was already out, steadying her by the elbow in that too-effortless way, all supposed gentleman, no apology. Always prepared, never really meaning any of it.

She blinked and narrowed her pale eyes. “You weren’t at the wedding,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a question, but an accusation. Why would he show up at the part where there is most likely to be a fire or a murder? Well, at least there is free-food.

Erin's mind raced. Why was he here? August was never just somewhere. August VanCleaf did not drift. He arrived, with intent and purpose. The Ministry didn’t assign him to weddings. And he certainly wasn’t here for the canapés. She often wondered how and why he ended up as her mentor, be she already knew the answer, she just refused to address it. She sighed, "Uncle Thad is probably at the bar."

Before she could needle him further, a chill passed through her like a ripple in warm water, brief, jarring, wrong. Erin’s gaze drifted past the cloister’s arched doorway, toward the street beyond the wrought-iron gate. That’s when she saw them. Three figures. Near the curb. Still as stone. They were not human were they?

The man stood tall, she hated tall things. They unsettled her, too great a stride, too long a reach. Broad-shouldered, long coat clinging to him like it had soaked up blood and war and still wouldn’t let go. He wasn’t old. Early twenties, maybe. But he wore the air of someone who had seen things die and didn’t particularly mind. Well, either that or his heavy brow made him look angrier than he was.

And flanking him, two girls. Or at least, things shaped like girls. Their faces... off. Just enough to itch behind the eyes. Waxen. Wrong. Eyes too still. Smiles not resting right. Mouths formed like they knew how to speak but had never needed to. Erin’s stomach twisted. The girls were uncanny valley given breath.

She stepped closer to August, drawn by instinct rather than attraction, pulling her toward the one person here with a reputation for walking into danger and making it blink first. "Friends of yours?" she asked quietly, maybe a bit hopefully.

August VanCleaf didn’t look away from the three figures. So many things liked to travel in groups of three. The auror's grip on Erin’s elbow loosened, though the motion was not born from concern. It was the subtle, disinterested release of a man whose attention had simply moved on. VanCleaf's jaw tilted, his blue eyes sharpening behind lashes as he looked toward the street.

The tall man by the curb lifted his chin as if in recognition. The wax-faced girls tilted their heads in unison. All too mechanical, almost theatrical. And August… he grinned.

“Oh, I wouldn't say friends, exactly,” he murmured, his voice held this tone of confidence, laced with a dangerous kind of nostalgia. “But I’ve bought drinks for that one.” He nodded toward the tall figure that seemed to be chiseled from stone. “And nearly killed that one.” His gaze flicked toward one of the girls, she did not look particularly dangerous, just eerie. “Though, it looks like she got better,” he conceded.

August's blue eyes gleamed with the sort of recognition one might give a well-worn knife or a former lover who still owed him a hex. He adjusted the lapel of his coat with casual vanity, as if a camera flash might go off at any moment and he needed to make sure that they got his good-side, then he stepped down off the front step and onto the path.

“They’re SCAR,” he said plainly, over his shoulder. Stating what he felt was the obvious, “or what passes for their inner circle these days. Gussied up like ministry interns playing mannequins. Bit on the nose, but dramatic sells,” he shrugged. They would never pass as normal wizards, the farce was nothing less than insulting if that was their plan.

VanCleaf strode toward the gate, utterly relaxed. The floral arrangements fluttered in the summer wind behind him, oleander trembling under the weight of enchantment and too much ceremony. “While three-quarters of the wizarding world might have been invited, these three are not on the list," he explained. "They would not be here unless something’s about to happen,” he said, almost cheerfully. He was loving this, that much was apparent. So much so, he had forgotten why he had come all this way in the first place. “Which means I was right to show up late. Now I won’t miss the excitement.” He claimed this was all a part of his master plan when this story was not even on the read-list.

As he neared the iron bars, the man in the coat didn’t move, but the two girls stepped forward in unison, as if tugged by invisible strings. They stopped just short of the gate, staring through they did so with unsettling smiles.

August stopped too, just a few feet away, and flashed a lazy, dazzling smile in return. “Ladies,” he purred as if he was about to offer them both a nightcap at his place, “I see you’re still borrowing human skin. Very flattering. Very now.” He raised his brows..

The taller figure finally spoke. Voice low and rumbling like shifting gravel on a hill. “VanCleaf.” He did not sound pleased to see him.

August tapped his temple in greeting, both insulting and acting as if this should spark conversation. “Oh good, he remembers me. Wasn’t sure after Prague... or London for that matter.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. But one of the girls blinked. Once. Slowly. That was the first time either of them had blinked. Still, August stood like he owned the sidewalk.

“You can tell your handler I got the invitation,” he said. “And I’ll be delivering my response in person. After the bride cuts the cake. Or the groom’s throat. Whichever comes first.” Yes, even August had a wager on how short-lived, both literally and metaphorically, this marriage would be. "Showing up here is just going to cause needless commotion and nobody wants another reason to make me look spectacular. Leave, get 20 of your closest and most powerful friends, and then we would have a fair fight."

He turned then, strolling back toward Erin with all the pomp of a man leaving an adoring audience. “Not friends, darling,” he said softly, as if finishing a thought when in truth he just remembered he had an audience to impress. “But let’s just say they know my schedule.”

He winked. “And they came early.”

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

❶ ❷ ❸ ❹ ❺ ❻ ❼
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Panting a little, Finnegan pulled himself up onto the rooftop. Old moss covered the dark slate and here the wind no longer playfully tousled his hair, but firmed into a hand that pushed up against him like it meant to dash him into the breakers far below. Finnegan crouched low, hiding from prying eyes and the elements. Above him the sky had darkened to charcoal and pewter, promising more than natural fury alone. Turning cautiously on his heel he glanced back down over his shoulder toward the courtyard. The air shimmered as though in heat where he had cast the hiding spell, but being its maker he could see through it like peering through a window. Was Jurgen talking to himself again? It looked like it, though whatever the dark-haired teenager muttered was lost on the rising winds. Proper nutter that one, he thought dismissively. And concerned for my wellbeing? Fat chance. If Jurgen cared he might've been a bit more plain in his explanations or showed him the way to the Western Yard. Finnegan puffed his cheeks and looked around, trying to decide which way was west while he restlessly twirled his wand between his fingers. First things first... “Indesmulo” For the second time that day, he cast the Disillusionment Charm. It seemed unlikely that anyone present would ever bother to look up, if they were so odd to be outside in the first place. Nevertheless, Finnegan wasn't going to risk being seen tip-toeing on the ridge line of the roof, showing his face to anyone had been enough of a mistake already. The wind came in buffeting gusts now, cold and forceful, tasting of salt and biting at his ears. The too-thick and too-sweet smells of the flowers could not reach him here, but that was hardly a relief. Before long the sun would drown in the black waters and leave only pale moonlight to illuminate the funereal cloister. Where had all the seagulls gone? Some Augury this was. Finnegan was just about to brave the treacherous moss-covered slate when he heard voices drifting up through the air. A feminine voice sounded, answered by a male one that was too mature to be Jurgen. Curiosity pulled at him with its long, bony fingers. He'd come this way to look for the yard, to find the house-elf, learn what he could and then make a quiet exit. But he heard, or thought he heard, that dreaded name on the wind. Thaddeus. It was as good as a summons. Finnegan tried to listen in before he decided he needed to be closer to hear properly. Flat and low like a lizard he quietly crawled up one side of the slanted roof until he reached the ridge. The voices weren't coming from the other side as he had thought but from directly below him, near the entrance. Were these simply late arrivals? Being late was one thing, but being late and arriving by way of the pilgrim was quite another. Finnegan pushed up against the old masonry over the entrance. It was too low to hide him entirely, but who would bother to look up? And even if they did, they'd have to catch the faint distortion of light that cloaked him or perhaps smell the anxiety on him. It remained to be seen if August VanCleaf was any good at sniffing out trouble when it took the shape of a wiry teen who'd folded himself up into a small ball of limbs. Mundane action: crawling up to the ridge of the roof and attempting to eavesdrop on August VanCleaf Magical action: cast Disillusionment Charm

@August VanCleaf @Erin Ryan | Veni, vidi, vici Undated Augury Cloister

This adventure is no longer accepting new entries. Members have had weeks to choose to participate. The actual adventure is finally starting. This is moderated. There are risks involved, running is an option.

The air hung thick, charged with tension, as August Vancleaf stood before the gathering. He was not concerned, but his subordinate Erin certainly was. The auror was correct, these were members of SCAR, he got that much right, even if his accomplishments or implied dalliances were overstated. August's chest puffed, a self-satisfied smirk painted across his face. What were these three really going to accomplish against a building full of wizards?

The floor beneath them seemed to tremble, though it might have been the auror's own arrogance making the ground shake with each boastful word that slipped from his lips.

The part giant, towering, with a glint of dark amusement in his amber eyes, scoffed, his words like gravel dragged over stone. “You’re an idiot, August. Too busy taking credit for things you didn’t do to ever accomplish anything yourself. You’re no better than a parasite, feeding off the efforts of others.”

A cold laugh rumbled in his throat as his massive hand reached for the door. The tension in the yard was palpable. But August’s grin didn’t falter. His fingers twitched, and a smooth motion followed. From beneath his coat, he drew a slender wand, an elegant, wooden instrument gleaming under the dying sunlight. The auror's eyes gleamed with malevolent satisfaction.

“You want to see power, giant? You’re looking at it,” he taunted. “This wand... is my ticket to true victory. You should be envious.” Wands were the one thing that gave wizards a true advantage over other magical folk, and there was a wide world of sentient beings capable of powerful magic. Yet, wizards ruled the wizarding world, the top of the metaphorical food chain. The law prevented non-humans and non-wizards from possessing a wand.

The part giant’s face twisted into a sneer. “Humans, so dependent on us. Whose hair, tooth or heart makes your wand. You borrow power from us, you pathetic little man.” Wands are often made from the finest of wood, but the core was where the power was set. Cores made of powerful components, from powerful magical creatures were often more desirable. Many wands had an essence wizards anthropomorphized, given personalities, goals, even attachments. They never truly considered what that meant. That either wizards had an even more impressive ego than previously suggested, or they bound something, a part of a magical creatures that maintained a part of itself and trapped it within their chosen tool to wielded as they pleased. So that they could straighten their teeth, knock an opponent back a few feet, illuminate a dark space... such frivolity.

August didn’t flinch. “You're just spare parts and the help,” His voice was low, challenging. The words barely left his mouth when the air thickened further. The sky had darkened and started raining.

The two women, standing nearby, shared a glance. There was no more time for words.

“Light him up, ladies,” the part giant commanded. His eyes glinted with the promise of chaos. Without hesitation, the two women pulled wands from their belt. Illegal, neither of them should have been in possession of a weapon like that. It wasn't that they were incapable of casting spells in the absence of a wand, but the magic was untamed, wild and in many ways weaker or less-refined. A wand serves as a focal instrument for their power and this was a terrifying concept for most wizards because magical sentient beings were already capable, many were on par if not more powerful than their wizard masters with the right tools. Systematic oppression required a lack of means and opportunity. An even battleground was the last thing August wanted right now.

The women raised their wands. They appeared crude, not made with the same fine wood as a wizard's wand, but the concept was unmistakable. Magic crackled through the air, sparking from the tips of their wand, fierce and unrelenting.

The first spell was aimed at August, a crackling bolt of energy shooting through the air. The second, aimed not at August but past him, targeting the structure behind him, a swirling mass of destructive intent aimed at the heart of his inflated ego: witnesses.

Meanwhile, the part giant was already in motion. He barreled towards the door with a roar, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground as he made his move to breach the entrance.

Now came the rolls:the tension rising like a storm that has already broken. Rain was starting to fall, making the roof Finnegan was standing on was slick and dangerous. It wasn't as if the narrator had mentioned the impending storm and Finnegan insisted on testing the odds like he had a death wish.

Roll Results:

The Women’s Attack:

Roll (d20) for each woman:

Woman 1 (direct attack on August): 15 (Success)

Woman 2 (attack on the building): 18 (Success)

Result: The first woman’s spell hits its mark, a searing streak of lightning slamming into August’s chest. He cries out in agony, but his body remains firm, the arrogance making him resist collapse, barely. The second woman’s spell, aimed at the building, rips through the massive window, sending shards of glass, debris and dust flying. The spell would ultimately strike the a pillar, crackling the marble, destabilizing the structure itself.

The Part Giant's Strength:

Roll (d20): 11

Result: The part giant barrels toward the door, moving with the speed and force of a boulder. Nothing stops him. Erin is knocked to the side before she has a chance to react. The already open door is knocked off the hinges, his shoulders rip through the door frame. He is inside before anyone has a chance to fully react.

Erin’s Strength:

Roll (d20): 6

Result: Erin, while physically imposing, is physically over-powered. Something about the chaos in front of her keeps her from moving, either too cautious or simply waiting for the right moment to act. 300 damage taken; concussed. 10% chance of failing her next action.

The issue was Finnegan, watching with those intrusive eyes. He would find his world shaken, and he would need to use his strength to hold on.

Finn’s Strength:

Roll (d20): 10

Damage: 200 damage taken; overcharged. Increased critical range, 10% chance to have their own spells backlash.

Finn would slip from the roof, disillusionment charm and all. He probably should have stayed in the bar with the dark wizard and hit wizard.

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

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For a short while he was a fly on the wall, unseen, quietly observing and soaking up the bits of conversation that drifted toward his ears. Flies were drawn to foul things, they feasted on all things rotting and decaying. Perhaps that was why he lingered too long, perhaps that was why he remained too closely pressed up against the masonry which he had thought would shield him. The possibility that he could fall and be crushed by the debris had never even crossed his mind. There would be something sickly poetic about mirroring Aamon's fate and breaking every bone he could and couldn't name, but Aamon had at least been visible beneath the debris. The very spell that was supposed to protect him would now hide him from whatever help could hope to reach him. But doom was not inevitable. His reflexes didn't fail. When one of the waxen-faced girls pointed a roughly-made wand up toward the cloister, he saw the danger and recognized it for what it was. He was quick, his wand was out in a flash and a counter-spell was on his lips, but his world changed before he could utter it. He was slight, he was nimble, he had three years of dodging bludgers under his belt, but none of that matter because the devastating spell that hit the Augury Cloister was so broad that it simply couldn't be dodged. It would be like trying to dodge rainfall. All he could do was duck and flatten himself against the slick, mossy slates before for a sense of weightlessness overtook him. He desparetely tried to hold on, to find purchase somewhere, but like an insect being hosed from brick, he couldn't find any. At least he got his wand out. What followed was pure instinct. Quidditch was a brutal game and not every bludger could be dodged, but neither did every hit have to warrant a trip to the hospital wing. There wouldn't be much point to practice if the act of practice hospitalised half the team every time. And so Arresto momentum was a well-known spell to sport players, and one he had cast many times before. It should come off without a hitch. The trouble was getting the words out fast enough while you plummeted toward the ground. “Arresto Momentum!” Note for moderator(s): Reducio I've been deliberately vague about what Finnegan managed to overhear as there was no indication of this in the narrator post. If Arresto Momentum succeeds: I am expecting to still take a little damage as the fall is slowed but not entirely prevented. Bruised, but not broken. I will of course defer to whatever the moderation ultimately decides, but wanted to flag that I am not expecting to take zero fall damage. I also expect the Disillusionment Charm to stop working if Arresto Momentum succeeds. If Arresto Momentum fails: In this case I would expect the Disillusionment Charm to remain active because there is no other spell to "override" it. Yes, this would make things potentially much worse for Finn. Additionally, I'd also like to hand you a second loaded shotgun which I've carefully aimed at my own foot by alerting you to the fact that Finn has a bottle of Drowsiness Draught in his pocket, which may well shatter on impact. If it shatters, the fumes could have an AoE effect. Not saying these things must happen. I will go with whatever is decided in the moderation, but if you want to make use of these possible effects, have at it. Mundane action: ducking Magical action: casting Arresto Momentum Stats & status: Reducio Stats: Stamina 10 ✶ Evasion 15 ✶ Strength 2 ✶ Wisdom 5 ✶ Arcane Power 5 ✶ Accuracy 19 Status: 1000HP - 200HP = 800HP Abilities: The Muggle Condition Inventory: A sampling of crushed herbs Gregory's Unctuous Unction Drowsiness Draught Babbling Beverage Bezoar Feathers of the Mockingbird Summer cloak Muggle compact

@August VanCleaf @Erin Ryan | Veni, vidi, vici 05/07/2025 Augury Cloister