Cult of Drum Respect H

Joining the Olympic Games thing was practically one of the last things on Vasilius's priority list, but there he was, trying to locate his yurt, his mother, who in most cases barely replied to letters, had this time given a lecture, in an attempt to convince him to boost his social interactions.

He found himself sighing for the 10th time of the day as he slowly entered the Yurt, it was one of the Castelobruxo ones, where the pyramids could be seen from the window. Other than the casual sight of one of the wonders of the world, the living space was rather adequate, barely matching the hype painted by some random person he had taken help to locate the godforsaken yurt.

He noticed another boy in the yurt, with blonde hair, and a rather overall vibe that screamed 'TROUBLE'. He appeared to be one of Durmstrang's students, possibly a year younger, but it was not like Vasilius even cared; he'd always been part of the much quieter minority of the Durmstrang students, limiting his interactions to Racing team members during occasional practise and peers if they were even lucky enough to be graced by his occasional questions.

He carelessly threw his bag onto one of the beds, without even noticing the belongings kept in the bed next to it, and slowly cracked his neck, before slowly walking up to his so-called bed for the time-being in an attempt to unpack his belongings before finally looking up towards the guy, with a straight face.

“Vasilius's the name. If you shorten it. No, I won't respond. Also, if you touch my stuff, you’ll regret it.”

He paused for a brief second, finally observing the boy in front of him.

“And you might be?”

CULT OF DRUM

15th Feb 2026

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Many of Rafael Fietje Kraus’ motivations could be traced back to his Vater. There was very little to suggest he possessed any will of his own…though when asked, he may insist so. Autonomy had never been a question for Rafael. In fact, the boy had completely adapted to Vater's requests, begrudgingly finding enjoyment in whatever experiences those tasks afforded him.

This said, any effort spent toward his own amusement felt like burning coal for fleeting heat—costly, and never enough to last. And so, on the very first day the young Kraus had set foot on the lands beyond the Ural mountains, a cynical scowl dotted his pristine face.

Trudging through the snow towards the yurt he was assigned to, Rafael’s grip on his trunk was vice-like, fingers blood red from the cold, now pinched, pale and yellow. Puffs of cold breath were his sole companions on the vast stretch of plain, white land. Yet, he was not entirely solitary — despite the whistling wind brushing against his blushing ears, Rafael could still make out the cheers and commotion sparking up from the Opening Feast, one he had not intended to miss. Depp Idiot, having used the older port key to arrive, had caused him to miss out on words that might have been said, and it was too late to introduce himself to those he deemed worth his time. There was also a migraine that had begun to stir, brought on by the arschkalt (vulgar) bitterly cold weather… and the incessantly annoying transportation method.

Rafael glanced around mildly, then dipped his gaze towards the snow as a gust greeted him with flying snow. “Arschkalt,” Rafael murmured to himself, then immediately bit his tongue. While not as vulgar as the words he had caught his twin using, even the subtlest profanity sent shivers down the boy’s spine. Guilt stung harder than the crystals that clung to his eyelids, dulled only by the reassurance that the wind had carried the word far, far away, billowing it towards a clump of trees in the distance. He stood there for a moment, staring out towards the area, before sliding his eyes away. The yurts were in the distance.

Huddled close together and decorated like pastries overwhelmed with powdered sugar, it took Rafael longer than it should have to locate his own. By the time his fingers grazed the flap, he was seething. If only there were even the subtlest resemblance of structure in the organisation of living quarters, as there was within Durmstrang. He found himself wondering, with thinly veiled irritation, how the students of Koldovertz were able to navigate this system. With one last exhale of cold air, he pushed inside.

Within stood 3 other occupants, whom Rafael recognised. Whether it was fortunate news was another question entirely.

The first to catch his eye was Clavero, the only person currently facing his general direction. He was a sight for sore eyes compared to Magnus Elias Blackwood, whose boisterous, raucous energy was only going to deepen the megrim that had started to throb from the sudden stuffiness within the yurt. Only then did Kraus notice that the yurt was designed to resemble something that was very clearly not Koldovstoretz. What an irony. Rafael’s disappointment began to surface. Nonetheless, the sight of the pyramids in the distance and the warm colour of the flaps offered a sense of warmth, so he closed a blind eye and stalked towards the closest bed in his sight, next to Noel’s.

Dropping his baggage with a muffled thump, the boy massaged the tips of his frost-bitten fingers before offering his neighbour a friendly, albeit swift nod. It was, at the very least, tolerable to be rooming with someone exceptional. Magnus, on the other hand…Rafael cast a look towards the nervensäge pain in the neck/ nuisance, only to realise that the one addressing Blackwood was none other than Vasilius Nighthawk, who was a stranger beyond the known fact that he was a broom racer within Durmstrang. Besides that, Rafael had little clue about his persona.

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@Noel Clavero, @Magnus Blackwood, @Vasilius Nighthawk, @Jarden Ardelis, @Jasper Reyes

Magnus Blackwood!
DURMSTRANG | SECOND | OUTFIT | HEX
Russian/French | 02.15.2026 | WC 465