Dancing Dead
| C | date: September 13th, 2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Silas Norwood |
C |
| CV | The first two weeks of boarding school had been a living nightmare for Camille. Settling in felt farther away than the first night he arrived. The whole first day had been awful in it’s own right, but the reason that the boy had sent several angry letters home demanding to get personal escort back immediately could be boild down to the sleeping arrangements. The messages were clear: If his father cared for him at all he would send someone to come and save him at once. Which he provenly did not, seeing all the response he got this far was one short letter telling him to get over it. Camille, be happy I let you leave this estate at all, was the full extent of the concern his father could spare. There was nothing to get over, his life was terrible. Tears had been shed, threats made left and right, and most nights Camille fell asleep from sheer exhaustion rather than any sense of calm. He feared that if he didn’t keep constant surveillance over his belongings, they would be in complete disarray when he woke. He didn’t trust anyone in his dorm, or in this castle. Most of all, he couldn’t stand sharing, and especially not with people who didn’t take his wishes seriously. Not only was he dealing with Juliette and her new best friends irritating him at every turn, but his dormmate seemed determined to break him, testing him relentlessly as if he was actively trying to break him to the point of becoming an elementary school drop-out. Camille wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him think he won, no matter how much he hated his miserable life here. Every day had been nothing but a constant battle between him and his dorm mates, and honestly: every single male he’d met this far. It was seriously driving him to his wits end. He could deal with the girls, since they either knew him – and were obsessed with him – or had no idea who he was. Then at worst, they simply ignored him. Usually that was enough reason for him to dislike someone, but supposed he couldn’t help the uncultured. At this rate, he’d die inside these walls before his first year was over. Once again, he almost felt sick when he reminded himself that it was the first of seven. If things weren’t looking significantly brighter by the summer, Camille would make sure that he got transfered to another, less savage school, no matter how much screaming and crying he would have to do to get his wish through. To cope, he did the one thing these barbarians couldn’t take from him, no matter how much they tried. Dance. The first week he’d found an empty hall, some kind of rehearsal room on the fourth floor. The place had become somewhat of a sanctuary amidst all the chaos he had to endure every single day. Everytime he’d been there, he’d been the only one. It was exactly the thing he needed: some damn peace and quiet. Nothing was different this sunday when he arrived with his dance bag flung over his shoulder, and his tights already on beneath a pair of trashbag pants used for warm-up. Don’t let the name fool you, they were more expensive than robes for their quality. Rolling out one of his massage devices, he laid down on the floor, easing into a straddle split before he started warming up by the barre. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Dancing Dead
It was the second Saturday since Silas had arrived at Hogwarts, and he wasn’t really sure what to do. Last weekend, he had gone to Hogsmeade with Oonagh, which had been pretty fun, but he still wasn’t liking the whole idea of… staying here. Every day that passed was a struggle to get through when he just wanted to be far away from here. Everything, every damn thing seemed different here. The wizarding world truly was an entirely different world. He still couldn’t believe they just… didn’t have technology here. Like, at all. He missed his phone, the internet — most of all, his music. It was nearing two full weeks without being able to listen to his music on demand, and it was absolutely horrible. How was he meant to last here without music?
He wasn’t coping well. He never had to begin with, but — and he hadn’t really thought this was possible — it had somehow managed to get so much worse. The very few things that he had had that helped even a little bit with coping with the general horrors that were life had been taken away from him; they were things that he was deprived of here. No actual football with his mates, with a team, or on TV. No internet. No music (besides that time a few nights ago when a professor had found him and let him listen to stuff on her record player). No staying out late with his friends from home. He felt like he was slowly — maybe rapidly, actually — losing his mind, or at least what was left of it. It was ridiculous, and he hated everything about this fucking place that had taken him away from the few things he actually sort of cared about.
Now, here he was, wandering again, because this place was huge and he still had no clue how to easily find his way around. Who needed to know how to get to simple destinations like class or the hall where meals were, anyway? Apparently not the students, given that even the castle itself seemed hellbent on making things harder for them. Moving staircases? Really? And that wasn’t just like an escalator, no, the entire staircase swung to the side. What bloody nitwit had thought that would be a good idea? Clearly nobody in their right mind. Silas would’ve liked to have a word with them.
He had climbed a bunch of stairs — mostly not ones that moved — and ended up on a floor where he hadn’t had many reasons to linger before. He thought this general area might have been where that duelling place was, but he wasn’t entirely certain, given that he had only been there once. He peered into a nearby room that had its door open, mildly curious at most. It wasn’t exactly like other rooms he had been in thus far. It was another large one, so it was probably for some special purpose — he just wasn’t sure what, specifically, that was.
Looking at part of the room more properly, Silas noticed the section for some of the instruments. Now that was something worthy of being here. He might not have his music to listen to while he was at this awful school, but maybe he could at least play. The idea was a little bit relieving. It wasn’t the same as having his band with his mates, but both listening to and playing music were part of his core coping mechanisms. He began wandering over to some of the instruments, initially too entranced by them to pay much attention to anything else.
Unfortunately, though, he did soon realise that there was someone else here — another boy, alone. He was doing something next to a bar of some kind that Silas vaguely recognised as being related to dance. Was that what this boy was here for? Dance? His face wrinkled in disapproval. That was a girly hobby. What self-respecting, strong dude would parade around in tights and leotards with fancy, silly little shoes? “What’re ya doin’?” Silas questioned, looking at him with distaste.
He wasn’t coping well. He never had to begin with, but — and he hadn’t really thought this was possible — it had somehow managed to get so much worse. The very few things that he had had that helped even a little bit with coping with the general horrors that were life had been taken away from him; they were things that he was deprived of here. No actual football with his mates, with a team, or on TV. No internet. No music (besides that time a few nights ago when a professor had found him and let him listen to stuff on her record player). No staying out late with his friends from home. He felt like he was slowly — maybe rapidly, actually — losing his mind, or at least what was left of it. It was ridiculous, and he hated everything about this fucking place that had taken him away from the few things he actually sort of cared about.
Now, here he was, wandering again, because this place was huge and he still had no clue how to easily find his way around. Who needed to know how to get to simple destinations like class or the hall where meals were, anyway? Apparently not the students, given that even the castle itself seemed hellbent on making things harder for them. Moving staircases? Really? And that wasn’t just like an escalator, no, the entire staircase swung to the side. What bloody nitwit had thought that would be a good idea? Clearly nobody in their right mind. Silas would’ve liked to have a word with them.
He had climbed a bunch of stairs — mostly not ones that moved — and ended up on a floor where he hadn’t had many reasons to linger before. He thought this general area might have been where that duelling place was, but he wasn’t entirely certain, given that he had only been there once. He peered into a nearby room that had its door open, mildly curious at most. It wasn’t exactly like other rooms he had been in thus far. It was another large one, so it was probably for some special purpose — he just wasn’t sure what, specifically, that was.
Looking at part of the room more properly, Silas noticed the section for some of the instruments. Now that was something worthy of being here. He might not have his music to listen to while he was at this awful school, but maybe he could at least play. The idea was a little bit relieving. It wasn’t the same as having his band with his mates, but both listening to and playing music were part of his core coping mechanisms. He began wandering over to some of the instruments, initially too entranced by them to pay much attention to anything else.
Unfortunately, though, he did soon realise that there was someone else here — another boy, alone. He was doing something next to a bar of some kind that Silas vaguely recognised as being related to dance. Was that what this boy was here for? Dance? His face wrinkled in disapproval. That was a girly hobby. What self-respecting, strong dude would parade around in tights and leotards with fancy, silly little shoes? “What’re ya doin’?” Silas questioned, looking at him with distaste.
Reducio
Disclaimer: I think that dance is not gendered in any way, and even very traditionally “masculine” people can be ballet dancers. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a male who enjoys things that have unfortunately been erroneously gendered and labelled as feminine – Silas just was raised in an environment of toxic masculinity and doesn’t know to question that yet.
@Camille De Varenne (Let me know if you want me to change anything.)
@Camille De Varenne (Let me know if you want me to change anything.)
Second student character of Ruby Cazares | Staff account: Taros Quintero | iNPC: Valeriy Viktorovna Reznikov
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Dancing Dead
| C | date: September 13th, 2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Silas Norwood |
C |
| CV | He was going through the adagio sequence again, his leg extended and lightly curved in an attitude, where he remained standing in brilliant pose, stopping all movement because someone had unabashedly decided to interrupt his flow. First, an instinctual reaction to the presence was alarm— only the poise and grace of Esme Hestridge, the gentleness of Rosaline, or Elena's honey’d sarcasm would have disarmed him. Even Maisie swinging in through the window in one of her wild displays would have been more welcome. This wasn’t the first time he’d been interrupted in this very room; last time had ended with threats and a physical altercation. With that memory fresh, he wasn’t expecting a more pleasant encounter now. The last idiot wasn’t even born yet, and he doubted he’d seen the last one at Hogwarts, either. In hopes that the intruder would realize how ill-placed he was and leave before he had to intervene himself, Camille kept his head and body still. Only the movement of his eyes betrayed that he’d registered the boy at all— scorching, unblinking— and yet the other didn’t notice. As if the boy was oblivious to his presence, he wandered toward the wall to examine the various instruments lined there. Feeling his muscles ache from holding the demanding pose for too long, he relaxed into an allongé; his raised leg stretched straight, along with his arms that had been raised in the balance, then he lowered both in controlled unison, though the tension in his shoulders and chest revealed his impatience. Just in time as he finished, the unwelcome guest turned around and locked his gaze onto him. Examining him in his warmup dancing clothes, he flashed a grimace in something akin to distaste. Already at first impression, the Ravenclaw was taken aback by the attitude. “What’re ya doin’?” The boy asked, revealing, perhaps not simply cruelty, but his unculturedness. The accent— something you’d likely hear on some cattle farms in the northern parts of the country, the first thing that popped into his mind— didn’t make the experience better. Noticing the, frankly, degrading look in his expression, Camille was on high, defensive guard. Hands on his hips, Camille met him with a flabbergasted glare in return. If anyone here was a disgrace, it was the commoner standing before him. “I’m doing what this room is intended for,” the Frenchman replied with condescending cool. And in case he was too dim to understand the purpose of the room yet, he added, sharply, “Rehearsing.” Chains and other…. questionable decorations covered the boy’s clothes, as if someone had hidden magnets in them and tossed him onto a pile of scrap metal. Camille stared in not-so-quiet disgust. In his world, only two kinds of people would dress like that; either someone whose ambition was to become a frontman for a punk band, or worse, a homeless man— and even the homeless he’d observed on the streets seemed to have better manners, knowing they couldn’t afford rudeness when they had nothing. The absurdity of this person looking down on him, when he had nothing better to wear than garbage, only reinforced Camille’s opinion. His long hair, too, appeared unkempt in Camille’s critical eye. Perhaps there was potential for polish when looking at facial features alone, though if there were, it was completely undermined by everything else and would require a complete makeover. With a scowl, he snapped his gaze up and down over the boy’s presentation, staring in bafflement at his attire. “The real question is: what are you wearing?” Camille turned back to the barre, hoping he did not decide to come closer, already imagining the stench of sewers reeking from him. The only thing worse than being attacked, was being attacked by something stinky. He couldn’t smell anything foul yet, nor did he need to, his imagination vivid enough to supply it. Suddenly, being a Ravenclaw did not sound like such a death sentence any longer. Everyone in his dorm groomed themselves adequately. “When was the last time you washed your hair? Or, say, got a haircut?” He followed up, sounding genuinely concerned. Conditioner was probably not in his vocabulary, or toiletries. Perhaps he came off a bit harsh, since the boy had only asked him what he was doing— even if rudely so— though he knew the type well enough to recognize a potential escalation when he saw it. Simply put, he was prepared. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny