Listening to old warnings
Not long after the events that had transpired in the woods and the ball, Caradoc had been looking for a conversation with the headmaster. The danger that had arrived at their doorstep had proved itself far more daring and capable than he had originally anticipated. The Head of Hufflepuff could not shake the warning Lear gave him months ago when he first arrived at the castle.
But even under Solomon’s vigilance it seemed more was at stake now. Hogwarts had been attacked and Caradoc intended to find answers. Perhaps even a scapegoat. In a few years his own daughter would be attending the very same school he walked in and he would not have it plunge into darkness on his watch.
With the events surrounding a mysterious mask two years ago, it seemed someone had made a target out of Hogwarts. Were they after students perhaps? Influence? Children had gotten hurt, professors aside, this was a grave wound to the school’s reputation.
In the wake of Dumbledore’s administration, many had hoped it to have become a much more boring and therefor safer place. But now it had seemed danger had it’s own way of finding shelter within these walls.
Under the cloak of night, whilst the students were sleeping, he decided to find his Headmaster in his personal office. Footsteps echoed through an empty hall as Caradoc’s figure ascended the many stairs that led to the office high up in the astronomy tower. Passing by the flickering of torchlight, his shadow would draw large figures across the walls when he took halt before the statue. Speaking the password, he took on the final staircase. A gentle knock by the door was enough to open it all together. Without much thought behind it, Caradoc sought to enter and look for his colleague. His boots stomping on the wooden floor and taking halt in the middle of a seemingly abandoned office.
If you're reading this... You're awesome.
Calming Presence/Healing Sage/Wandless/Non-Verbal
STA - 16 | EVA - 6 | STR - 15 | WIS - 16 | ARC - 8 | ACC - 4
Listening to old warnings
It would not take him long to realize that something was terribly wrong. The password to enter the office was fiddlesticks but he needn't utter the word to find passage. The spiral stairs that led to the Headmaster's office was already open. The Headmaster had a bad habit of keeping the stairs open, but there was something unsettling about this day. Then there was the door to the office. The door was intact, but as he pushed the hardwood door inward, he would note how the doorframe sagged. The entryway into the office had been badly damaged.
On the floor, small hunks of woods were scattered just inside of the entrance. There was another, more confounding difference to the office - the walls were bare. The great, circular office was adorned with the portraits of every headmaster that had ever graced this academic institution. These paintings were unique, something that the Head of House well knew. While portraits were but a shadow of the man or woman that they resembled, having no memories but often the personality and many of their better known traits, there was additional effort placed in these portraits. These portraits spent time with their likeness and they knew a great deal about the castle, their job was to guide the present and for posterity every new generation of headmaster as they entered this prestigious station. Now they were gone.
The desk in the center of the room to the right of the cold heart was split in twain. Broken in half cleanly. The broken halves lay on their sides where the desk once stood. The cold hearth was full of ash, some of the ash had spilled out into the room. There was something inside of the ash, little bits of what resembled seashells that peered from the dune-like mounds of ash. The floor had a number of footprints, all small and there were many. Some in ash, others simply brushed away a thin film of dust. There were tables and cabinets that displayed curiosities and baubles, none of great power but a few provided a sense of nostalgia or wonder. They appeared largely undisturbed as they whirred on or released little puffs of smoke.
Headmaster Solomon Lear was not here.
On the floor, small hunks of woods were scattered just inside of the entrance. There was another, more confounding difference to the office - the walls were bare. The great, circular office was adorned with the portraits of every headmaster that had ever graced this academic institution. These paintings were unique, something that the Head of House well knew. While portraits were but a shadow of the man or woman that they resembled, having no memories but often the personality and many of their better known traits, there was additional effort placed in these portraits. These portraits spent time with their likeness and they knew a great deal about the castle, their job was to guide the present and for posterity every new generation of headmaster as they entered this prestigious station. Now they were gone.
The desk in the center of the room to the right of the cold heart was split in twain. Broken in half cleanly. The broken halves lay on their sides where the desk once stood. The cold hearth was full of ash, some of the ash had spilled out into the room. There was something inside of the ash, little bits of what resembled seashells that peered from the dune-like mounds of ash. The floor had a number of footprints, all small and there were many. Some in ash, others simply brushed away a thin film of dust. There were tables and cabinets that displayed curiosities and baubles, none of great power but a few provided a sense of nostalgia or wonder. They appeared largely undisturbed as they whirred on or released little puffs of smoke.
Headmaster Solomon Lear was not here.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Listening to old warnings
One step and Caradoc’s eyes locked on the doorframe in which he still stood. He let his fingers run across the splintered wood. His head turned looking from the inside out, trying to find out if the door had been barged in or broken to open up. Hmm, damage. A break-in? But Solomon doesn’t lock his door to visitors...
His eyes scanned the room. Like a robbed museum, empty shapes decorated the walls where portraits used to stare back once you had entered, now there were blank spots with no one to answer his questions. A thief? A robber? Was this Solomon’s work?
A trail of cold breath lead the man forward, footprints marking themselves in the thin layer of dust that had settled on the room. The room seemed devoid of life. As if not a soul had seen its interior in the past month. Bending through one knee, the professor inspected the smaller footprints. His head tilted slightly as he tried to make out a path this creature had taken. So small and so many. They must lead somewhere.
The desk was the most obvious of disturbing factors inside. Clean cut in half, as if the gods themselves had struck down from the heavens. The Head of House inspected closely. Hmm, spell? Or sword? The old man did always carry one. A fight? Or was he looking to destroy something?
The wind his cloak scattered in movement blew away some ashes as he passed the fireplace. Walking past, his attention was caught by the shape of a seashell. Kneeling down and fumbling through the piles of ash, he picked one of these pieces up. Odd. How did these get here? Floo transportation? Or did the old man try to burn something in here? Surely there were easier ways than this. More sufficiently destructible than this as well. But what’s by the sea? Or who collects them?
Finally, the professor glanced over to the various sets of baubles and curious intricacies. The cabinets seemed untouched. His fingers swiped clean several small windows in order to take a proper gander inside them. Perhaps the old man left a message somewhere? Was this all his own doing? Or did someone come for him?
If you're reading this... You're awesome.
Calming Presence/Healing Sage/Wandless/Non-Verbal
STA - 16 | EVA - 6 | STR - 15 | WIS - 16 | ARC - 8 | ACC - 4
Listening to old warnings
As Caradoc's fingers ran over the broken doorframe, the meaty unstained wood would break away in his fingers. As he scanned the stone floor he would see that the splinters and hunks of wood were primarily on the inside of the room. A break-in? But Solomon doesn’t lock his door to visitors... True, the errant Headmaster was not known for locking his door. Students served as the main source of nutrition for his office swarm of pygmy-puffs and his first-line of defense.
Caradoc's eyes scanned the room. The empty walls, bereft of portraits of the former headmasters. Only darkened patches on the walls where the portraits once hung for decades if not generations. A thief? A robber? Was this Solomon’s work? Solomon already had unfettered access to these portraits. Either someone stole these portraits and the sorting hat or Solomon stole what was already his.
There was a chill to this room. The great fireplaces throughout the Scottish castle heated the otherwise chilly, drafty corridors. A thin layer of dust that had settled about the room. The Headmaster was most often seen sitting behind his desk, he lacked the shark he had as the Head of Hufflepuff this past year but that was before Head of House Browne's time. As if not a soul had seen its interior in the past month. Caradoc would look at the foortprints on the ground. They were all smaller than his and all of them were human as well as somewhat fresh. He would note both the ingress and egress of visitors. The size and the footprint from the underside of the shoes indicated that there were several recent intruders. The footprints were the most concentrated near the door. It would appear that more than one person had walked over to the fireplace as well as Solomon's desk. There were also some meandering steps around the perimeter of the room. There were no non-human footprints on the floor.
The desk was split in twain. Caradoc would inspect the desk. The desk was clean cut down the center. However, there was something unusual about the split. The stain on the desk covered the split on the desktop, there was a small cubbyhole on the underside of the desktop that was empty. If there was something inside, it had been removed. The base however was clean cut by either magic or an incredibly sharp sword. There were no other cuts or gashes in the wood. The desk was split in a single stroke.
A gust of wind would draw his attention to the fireplace. The cool winter air gave the room a stinging bite. The dust came from the fireplace, the ash had left a fine layer throughout the room. He saw an uneven ivory-colored surface inside the ash-burdened hearth. His fingers would comb through the fine ash, coloring his fingers black. Something would prick his finger. A tiny needle-like bit of ivory. He would recover the tiny, charred bit of shell. It resembled a tiny skull. There would be several. Odd. How did these get here? Floo transportation? Or did the old man try to burn something in here? Surely there were easier ways than this. More sufficiently destructible than this as well. But what’s by the sea? Or who collects them? Perhaps a badly damaged seashell. Perhaps something more ominous. He would find several there.
Caradoc would finally walk the perimeter of the room. The magical, whirling, sometimes smoking curiosities seemed intact. Curiously untouched.
Caradoc's eyes scanned the room. The empty walls, bereft of portraits of the former headmasters. Only darkened patches on the walls where the portraits once hung for decades if not generations. A thief? A robber? Was this Solomon’s work? Solomon already had unfettered access to these portraits. Either someone stole these portraits and the sorting hat or Solomon stole what was already his.
There was a chill to this room. The great fireplaces throughout the Scottish castle heated the otherwise chilly, drafty corridors. A thin layer of dust that had settled about the room. The Headmaster was most often seen sitting behind his desk, he lacked the shark he had as the Head of Hufflepuff this past year but that was before Head of House Browne's time. As if not a soul had seen its interior in the past month. Caradoc would look at the foortprints on the ground. They were all smaller than his and all of them were human as well as somewhat fresh. He would note both the ingress and egress of visitors. The size and the footprint from the underside of the shoes indicated that there were several recent intruders. The footprints were the most concentrated near the door. It would appear that more than one person had walked over to the fireplace as well as Solomon's desk. There were also some meandering steps around the perimeter of the room. There were no non-human footprints on the floor.
The desk was split in twain. Caradoc would inspect the desk. The desk was clean cut down the center. However, there was something unusual about the split. The stain on the desk covered the split on the desktop, there was a small cubbyhole on the underside of the desktop that was empty. If there was something inside, it had been removed. The base however was clean cut by either magic or an incredibly sharp sword. There were no other cuts or gashes in the wood. The desk was split in a single stroke.
A gust of wind would draw his attention to the fireplace. The cool winter air gave the room a stinging bite. The dust came from the fireplace, the ash had left a fine layer throughout the room. He saw an uneven ivory-colored surface inside the ash-burdened hearth. His fingers would comb through the fine ash, coloring his fingers black. Something would prick his finger. A tiny needle-like bit of ivory. He would recover the tiny, charred bit of shell. It resembled a tiny skull. There would be several. Odd. How did these get here? Floo transportation? Or did the old man try to burn something in here? Surely there were easier ways than this. More sufficiently destructible than this as well. But what’s by the sea? Or who collects them? Perhaps a badly damaged seashell. Perhaps something more ominous. He would find several there.
Caradoc would finally walk the perimeter of the room. The magical, whirling, sometimes smoking curiosities seemed intact. Curiously untouched.
- A strange amber-colored ring with a silver band.
- An array of paint bottles and brush.
- A quill that was made of silver.
- A spinning contraction that seemed to purr.
- A crystal parrot, when it sees you pass its wings flap.
- A pipe with some intricate carvings.
- A small mirror with a golden filigree.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
Listening to old warnings
"Students?" The Head of Hufflepuff would think to himself as he noted the multitude of smaller footprints in the room. Others had been here before him. A small smirk would play on his lips with this realisation. Clever kids. Always so quick to act. It looked like something should be missing from the small hole he found. Why else would one keep a hiding spot in their desk? The problem would be to determine what was kept in there with little information to it. It could be anything.
Looking at the "seashell" in his hands Caradoc studied it further. Noting it's subtle form and size, he was almost adamant that these were the remains of the Headmaster's old pets, the Pygmy puffs. "They must have tried to follow the old man. Poor things." Which caused his mind to focus on the portraits. "And the witnesses of course, removed to leave no answers?" I can imagine McGonagall's portrait flat out cursing the thief. Caradoc remembered the elder lady that had been his transfiguration professor while he studied in the castle and before she became Headmistress.
As he walked past the objects he had seen from afar earlier, he inspected them more closely this time around. One by one he gave them a look. The parrot was something he mildly disliked as it reminded him of those stupid gnome statues that used to whistle at his folks' house if you passed them. His siblings and him had "accidently" knocked over a few of them in the period of living there. He wondered if this one could talk though, something he would surely notice if the creature began to scream at him in their natural raspy voice. The old badger was already making a face in anticipation.
An amber-colored ring with a silver band was displaced with no hand to carry it. Browne did not recall whether or not the old headmaster used to wear one or not. Something he cursed himself for not remembering. He placed the ring back where he found it and would maybe ask another professor later. Maybe Nora, she had to be a fangirl he bet.
Paint bottles and a brush were not something he would have expected to see in here. Were these supplies taken from a student in punishment perhaps? Or did the old man really have a hidden artistic talent? He tried to look around for any regular paintings, or perhaps smaller magical ones. Caradoc didn't really know the Headmaster's heritage, nor did he care all that much given his own bloodline.
The silver quill he found was fancy, albeit a bit over the top perhaps. Maybe this was some sort of gift or award for one of the old man's books? He knew muggles did this so why not the wizfolk.
The spinning contraction that seemed to purr would almost be as unsettling as the parrot he had to admit to himself. What on earth was this? He would not step closer unless he knew what this was once he peered with his eyes or actually knew the function of this... device.
Runes? A drawing? the pipe with some intricate carvings was... intricate. But Caradoc wasn't exaclty an expert in runes or old markings. Perhaps Beatrice could prove usefull here if this seemed something magical at all.
A last his hand grabbed onto some small mirror with a golden filigree. Looking at it he simply saw himself. He looked a bit tired, the life of a professor had proven busy and stressful at times. Considering he just wanted to see his daughter, staying busy kept him worried as well. Soon she would come to study here as well though, just as he did. And he would have to make sure this school was still standing when she would arrive. He nodded to himself in the mirror and even gave himself a soft smile. "Lets see what we got here." He said to himself as he looked over all the different objects and tried to find perhaps a pattern he was missing, a story that had not been revealed.
Looking at the "seashell" in his hands Caradoc studied it further. Noting it's subtle form and size, he was almost adamant that these were the remains of the Headmaster's old pets, the Pygmy puffs. "They must have tried to follow the old man. Poor things." Which caused his mind to focus on the portraits. "And the witnesses of course, removed to leave no answers?" I can imagine McGonagall's portrait flat out cursing the thief. Caradoc remembered the elder lady that had been his transfiguration professor while he studied in the castle and before she became Headmistress.
As he walked past the objects he had seen from afar earlier, he inspected them more closely this time around. One by one he gave them a look. The parrot was something he mildly disliked as it reminded him of those stupid gnome statues that used to whistle at his folks' house if you passed them. His siblings and him had "accidently" knocked over a few of them in the period of living there. He wondered if this one could talk though, something he would surely notice if the creature began to scream at him in their natural raspy voice. The old badger was already making a face in anticipation.
An amber-colored ring with a silver band was displaced with no hand to carry it. Browne did not recall whether or not the old headmaster used to wear one or not. Something he cursed himself for not remembering. He placed the ring back where he found it and would maybe ask another professor later. Maybe Nora, she had to be a fangirl he bet.
Paint bottles and a brush were not something he would have expected to see in here. Were these supplies taken from a student in punishment perhaps? Or did the old man really have a hidden artistic talent? He tried to look around for any regular paintings, or perhaps smaller magical ones. Caradoc didn't really know the Headmaster's heritage, nor did he care all that much given his own bloodline.
The silver quill he found was fancy, albeit a bit over the top perhaps. Maybe this was some sort of gift or award for one of the old man's books? He knew muggles did this so why not the wizfolk.
The spinning contraction that seemed to purr would almost be as unsettling as the parrot he had to admit to himself. What on earth was this? He would not step closer unless he knew what this was once he peered with his eyes or actually knew the function of this... device.
Runes? A drawing? the pipe with some intricate carvings was... intricate. But Caradoc wasn't exaclty an expert in runes or old markings. Perhaps Beatrice could prove usefull here if this seemed something magical at all.
A last his hand grabbed onto some small mirror with a golden filigree. Looking at it he simply saw himself. He looked a bit tired, the life of a professor had proven busy and stressful at times. Considering he just wanted to see his daughter, staying busy kept him worried as well. Soon she would come to study here as well though, just as he did. And he would have to make sure this school was still standing when she would arrive. He nodded to himself in the mirror and even gave himself a soft smile. "Lets see what we got here." He said to himself as he looked over all the different objects and tried to find perhaps a pattern he was missing, a story that had not been revealed.
If you're reading this... You're awesome.
Calming Presence/Healing Sage/Wandless/Non-Verbal
STA - 16 | EVA - 6 | STR - 15 | WIS - 16 | ARC - 8 | ACC - 4
Listening to old warnings
Caradoc Browne made a few accurate assessments. Yes, there were people that were here before him, very small people. Several in fact. Children almost always made the same mistake time and time again -- they try to solve something themselves even when it is incredibly obvious that something has gone terribly wrong.
He would notice the split desk, in the center there was a small alcove, like a letterbox. It was not very large, enough to hold a stack of papers perhaps but not much more. Of course he had no way of knowing what was once there or if there was anything there at all. Of course the students found something but like most things, they were not apt to share.
The portraits were gone. All of the portraits in the Headmaster's office, however there were a few portraits throughout the castle that remained intact. In fact, McGonagall's portrait is in the Gryffindor Common Room, where it has remained for years. The Pygmypuffs were incinerated, perhaps they had followed Solomon into the flames. If that was the case, then why didn't Solomon burn as well? Caradoc would be unaware that there was one lone survivor, a singular witness. A terrified Pygmypuff that was now in the possession of the Gryffindor Quidditch team Captain Rafael.
The parrot -- it was a creepy little sculpture and as he feared it was in a way animate. The wings would raise and lower in a unified manner suddenly. Swear to drunk I am not Merlin! Swear to drunk I am not Merlin! ROK! Gimme a drink! Gimme a drink!
There was a delicate silver ring with an amber stone, too fragile likely for the old man's taste but rather simple. It looked like the sort of ring that a woman would wear. If Caradoc tried to put it on his finger, him being a reckless man that has never played D&D before, nothing terrible would happen because the ring would not even make it over the knuckle of his smallest finger. Well, either that or Solomon had incredibly dainty hands. Next time make sure you hold the Headmaster's hand a bit more often.
He would notice the paint bottles and brush, but he would find no canvas. He would also not recall a hidden talent, the Headmaster was no artist. The painter's tools were out of place in a room that housed various magical artifacts. Who knows what their use actually was.
There was a fancy silver quill. The sort of thing that you never use, you keep on display. Magical or decorative... hard to say.
The spinning contraption would dip and bob about, tracing an unseen pattern on the pedestal that supported it.
The runes were over his head. They could be inert. They could be a dirty joke. They could be a hidden message, one that only a Runes Professor could answer. Did Solomon feel so inclined to place the answer to a mystery in a single Professor's hands? Did he even know anything about runes? He was a Professor who allegedly specialized in the Care of Magical Creatures. Of course Caradoc might recall, there was something wrong with the Professor. He was a famed 'expert' but he was no expert. Solomon was hiding something, he was also trying to warn Caradoc of something during his earliest of days. Something that was relevant now. Sadly, it was also something that was missed.
Solomon was not a clever man, but he was experienced.
He would look finally at the hand mirror. He would see his reflection look back at him, his features pale from the winter months and his tired eyes looking back at him. The wood paneled walls had a warm color, the frames barely visible.
He would notice the split desk, in the center there was a small alcove, like a letterbox. It was not very large, enough to hold a stack of papers perhaps but not much more. Of course he had no way of knowing what was once there or if there was anything there at all. Of course the students found something but like most things, they were not apt to share.
The portraits were gone. All of the portraits in the Headmaster's office, however there were a few portraits throughout the castle that remained intact. In fact, McGonagall's portrait is in the Gryffindor Common Room, where it has remained for years. The Pygmypuffs were incinerated, perhaps they had followed Solomon into the flames. If that was the case, then why didn't Solomon burn as well? Caradoc would be unaware that there was one lone survivor, a singular witness. A terrified Pygmypuff that was now in the possession of the Gryffindor Quidditch team Captain Rafael.
The parrot -- it was a creepy little sculpture and as he feared it was in a way animate. The wings would raise and lower in a unified manner suddenly. Swear to drunk I am not Merlin! Swear to drunk I am not Merlin! ROK! Gimme a drink! Gimme a drink!
There was a delicate silver ring with an amber stone, too fragile likely for the old man's taste but rather simple. It looked like the sort of ring that a woman would wear. If Caradoc tried to put it on his finger, him being a reckless man that has never played D&D before, nothing terrible would happen because the ring would not even make it over the knuckle of his smallest finger. Well, either that or Solomon had incredibly dainty hands. Next time make sure you hold the Headmaster's hand a bit more often.
He would notice the paint bottles and brush, but he would find no canvas. He would also not recall a hidden talent, the Headmaster was no artist. The painter's tools were out of place in a room that housed various magical artifacts. Who knows what their use actually was.
There was a fancy silver quill. The sort of thing that you never use, you keep on display. Magical or decorative... hard to say.
The spinning contraption would dip and bob about, tracing an unseen pattern on the pedestal that supported it.
The runes were over his head. They could be inert. They could be a dirty joke. They could be a hidden message, one that only a Runes Professor could answer. Did Solomon feel so inclined to place the answer to a mystery in a single Professor's hands? Did he even know anything about runes? He was a Professor who allegedly specialized in the Care of Magical Creatures. Of course Caradoc might recall, there was something wrong with the Professor. He was a famed 'expert' but he was no expert. Solomon was hiding something, he was also trying to warn Caradoc of something during his earliest of days. Something that was relevant now. Sadly, it was also something that was missed.
Solomon was not a clever man, but he was experienced.
He would look finally at the hand mirror. He would see his reflection look back at him, his features pale from the winter months and his tired eyes looking back at him. The wood paneled walls had a warm color, the frames barely visible.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.