Spring Royalty — The Pageant
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A fun little banner I made for this:
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Spring Royalty — The Pageant
tldr; because i understand this post is very long Liliya sings part of, and dances to (in the form of a sword performance), the song Druzhina by Skolot, a mix of traditional Russian music and rock. she speaks on the meaning behind her performance. That being said though, if you're interested in her character, this post definitely explores it a lot, and I would, by all means, recommend that you read it. thanks!
TRIGGER WARNING child abuse
ooc note & translations; please do not mod this, thank you!
Что? - What?
спасибо - thank you
mentions & credits; featuring none other than @Nikolai Volkov, thank you to Prat Pass for the banner, and to everyone else who had supported me in writing this, first time writing something of this scale for Liliya.
without further ado... VIOLENCE BUILDS PACIFISTS & MONSTERS
Her eldest sister Katerina had sent blessings through letters; her favourite brother Leo had promised a piano recital in her honour: therefore, life was good (almost) when young Liliya Ivanovna Starkova graced the stage of the Spring Royalty Pageant Show.
Her first steps lingered at the edge of the gold-trimmed curtains, tentative, before, smoothing out the folds of her dress, and walking with swift footfalls to the centre of the stage. A myriad of unknown faces awaited her, a motley collection of colours and costumes, of support and disdain, but it was a better fate than staring into the known. Until she saw a familiar figure, a name she placed far too fast, a body that tensed far too quickly, her only choice was to spill the words right out of her mouth.
“Liliya Starkova of Durmstrang Institute,” she introduced, tipping her toes higher as she stood, surveying the gathered crowd, her jury, her judge, her executioner. Accent heavy, conscious of her own pronunciations, she continued, “Today, I will be performing to the song Дружина.” Her native language was crisp on her tongue, practiced and familiar, the Russian rolling in velvet as her ‘R’s followed. Nerves ran through her veins, and the anxiety she had numbed was returning to her in waves. She took a deep breath, and reminded herself of her purpose: a display of strength and power — things she would have killed for when she was younger. But she was not much older, and beneath her masquerade or a dance, she still would have killed for them now.
Hands shaking slightly, a trembling that spread up her arms and to her body, she traced the routine in her mind, before starting in a position she had long practiced.
The ground met her arms in an embrace as she lowered herself onto the stage’s sweet grip. One laced leg stretched out, its tip bent down arched with tension, the neck of a swan’s gaze in the reflection of the moon; the other angled, bent at the knee, forming a soft, feminine hill at the curve of her calf, where her dress was shadowed and fallen — her lower body was the running of a stream beneath the cocked mountaintop. Her chest tilted towards the audience, deep wells of black forming below the ridges of her body, with one arm propped up against her knee, her wrist just touching the crook, limb resting against her thigh, fingers restrained and half-curled, a child reaching for sweets she knew were not for her; the other supported her weight behind her, turned at the shoulder, the working of her muscles straight and decisive, the sleeve of her dress pooling with her hands as their centre. She stared straight in front of her, gaze unwavering.
The air smelt of wood and possibility, the ground under her hand was tangible and real, the audience in the stands was awaiting with a tinge of anticipation and uncertainty. The atmosphere charged, and she the centre of rippling electricity, everything rested on her — her as she took to reigns of her performance, and prepared to ride the horse of her arts. The scent of flowers charged up her nose, a saccharine reminder, each petal a watching eye for everyone who was not there, for siblings and parents long lost, for passing family and playing fakes, for the friendships and she made and let dissipate far too many times. From aching to be different from the vicious wolves of her biological family to to trying to make a name for herself amongst the faceless sea of Russian dolls when had she not tried to be unlike the herd? For it was better to be a black sheep than it was to be white and never taste the world.
Suddenly she was seven years old again, and the world was so simple, except it wasn’t. She was in a white leotard with a pink tutu of ruffles, a crown sparkling on her head, tucked into a bun of golden hair. She could almost see her face, her younger self in the light, yet it was just shy of too bright for her to clearly make out the features. She was beautiful, from what she could see of her. And everything was so beautiful, the way the world is beautiful in a fever dream. The world was too hot, too bright, too passionate, sun burning cheap plastic stained glass windows. It was playing out in the lawn in a pair of shades and a swimsuit, standing in the rare Russian summers and the showers of the sprinkler as the grass melted between her feet; it was the pause of breath between his father’s hands, as he drew his strength for the next strike, his lips pressed against her skin, reeking of alcohol. How he would use her full name when he was so furious, how he spat out her patronymic as if he both detested how she was tied to him, and wanted to make her forever a part of him. How her throat stung more than where were purple and black from howling, and how her heart stung even more. So beautiful was this fever dream of a long ago childhood that she almost didn’t remember the bloodied feet and bruises on her back. The horrors of violence built pacifists, but only if you chose to be one.
Что? She blinked, tears rising to her eyes before she could recognise their appearance. Six years of suppression, six years of misremembering, six years of manipulating herself into a past that never happened, six years and she had almost gotten there — only for the pain to well up now, as the music was starting and the crowd was apprehensive. Her cheek glinted under the lights, just barely, but enough for the front row to have seen, a perfect droplet of crystal on tender skin. The same skin that once carried patches of red, the same skin, the same skin, the same skin — her breaths started to come heavy as her thoughts sank into sinkholes of repetition. Each inhale of air was laboured, and far too loud through the amplification of her microphone, each exhale was exhausted, and far too obvious a reminder of the brokenness she carried inside, finally pushing its way to the surface. Because no matter how she would push herself down, she wore the same skin that made her a Volkova, the same broken, battered, bruised skin, with the same scars in the fist-sized gap between her lungs.
Like a little girl on a ballet stage, like a lost lamb wandering towards the slaughter.
Whether she had pulled herself together or not, the music had begun, and turning back now would have meant shame and humiliation. She could walk down stage with her head lowered, or she could raise it and finished the performance — to make her family proud, to make her friends happy, and, and — her breaths caught again — to make all the pain worth it. Because she had not just suffered for the sake of suffering, but that will become her fate if she allowed this moment to fade. Nothingness will return to nothing, and even though she had given everything, bled in her dance shoes and bled in her heart, all her efforts would be worth as much as a discarded toy come a child’s teenage years, used, beaten, forgotten. She had faced the pain like a champion, a goddess incarnate, but if she let go now, all of her sacrifices would be for nothing. But she was so close, a breath away from the girl she used to be. And it ached.
The girl she used to be? Well, she couldn’t let her down. She was not doing this — performing this catharsis, for anyone else but herself.
With a rise in the music and the first clap of thunder, Liliya bursted into a sudden gasp of movement, defiant, if a beat late. Her body contorted on command, a sudden, unexpected action as her head lulled back, seized by the greater force of the music. Her eyes closed against the lights, the insides of her lids seeking for respite in the the darkness, a brief escape from the keenly awaiting gazes in the audience. Her supporting arm bent down rigidly, a malfunctioning doll, her lower arm and elbow resting against the cool wood of the stage floor. The fingers on her outstretched arm shot forward, reaching, forever reaching, and never receiving. She let out a deep exhale, breath rattling the microphone.
The second clap of thunder. Her eyes flashed open. Her body shifted, convulsing. Her head turned first, a sharp movement facing directly towards the audience, eyes shining under the spotlight. Her gaze piercing, they locked with each stranger’s face, scanning their features with vindictive passion, a warrior, an angel. Her arm dropped to her side, resting at the hilt of a sword hidden in the folds of her dress, her other fingers spreading on the ground, preparing for her to stand up. The tension in her feet travelled to the muscles in her calf, her body ready for battle. For fourteen years she had been wounded and dormant, and now for years no more would she writhe on the ground. Thunder boomed, lightning struck, and with the first of the words, she rose, sword held high in her hand, triumphant. The sole tear had slid down to her chin, and it glistened, undeterred. Since birth, when she had let out her first cries, the crystal droplets from her eyes had always symbolised life — and she, under the lights, victorious before the battle had even begun, was here, and was everything.
“Ой, вы други, воины крепки!”
Oh, you friends are stout warriors!
Stood straight as an unwavering pine, weapon held between the cusp of her palms, tip resting on the floor with the sheen of metal reflecting in her eyes. She pounded her sword on the ground to the beat of the music — five times, one for each word, a drumbeat of war, a heartbeat of determination.
“Вы на смерть всегда идете,
И, залив землицу кровью,
Песни-вырии поете!”
You are always confronting death
And, after drenching the earth with blood,
Sing paradise-songs!
With each line of the song, she pointed her sword in a different direction, first left, then right, then forward. With each time she jutted out her weapon, fending off a phantom crowd of beasts, she swayed it around her to the slow progression of the music. At the final word she lurched forward violently, voice rising high on the final word, head tilted towards the lights, casting ghostly triangles of gold on her cheeks. A tremor, ever so slight, shot down her arm from the weight of the metal, yet as the crowd watched, breathes halted, eyes glazed, it was almost worth it. Now she had to make it.
“Вы не ведали прощенья
Ко врагам своей Отчизны,”
You have known no forgiveness
To the enemies of your fatherland
She swung her sword, and in a powerful stride, stepped forward, as if cutting down an enemy line. She continued, swing by swing, lost in the music, lost in her own actions of protection, of destruction, both an angelic salvation and a demonic annihilation.
She closed her eyes on the third swing, and before her, she could almost see them. Their faces were blurred in the flash of the lights, just too bright, just too out of reach. Liliya could make out the features, sharp and unforgiving, the pure blue eyes that were an edge too similar to her own, from the setting in their faces to the unsettling colour of pale ice. Just barely, their gaze shown through the light, pursuing, hateful, reminding her that she was no different from them. She was her family’s blood, for rotten blood did run thicker than water, and she was a Volkov. A Volkov, because here she stood, killing with a passion, killing her past and killing her future — killing her present. She was a killer.
She continued with exuberant hatred.
“И летите соколами
От рождения до тризны...”
And fly like falcons
From birth to funeral feast.
Her eyes flitted open again to greet the same crowd, and as both hands tightened around the hilt of the blade, raising it in slow motion high above her head. As if sending a bird into flight, she spun around once on the tips of her toes, before landing strongly on the heels of her dance shoes, and splitting the air in front of her with a sudden lowering of her arms; a commander making the decisive choice to charge.
“Честь – дружине, князю – слава,
Весть летит над всей землей!
Из тьмы веков пусть громом грянет
Да ратною сверкнет стезей
Перун, бог воинов удалой!”
Honour to the retinue, glory to the prince
Tidings fly over all the land
Out of the darkness of the ages
Let Perun, the brave god of soldiers
Burst as thunder and shine as the combat path!
These lyrics she was particularly familiar with, yet the chorus had not entered. She backed away from the edge of the stage and settled where she had more space to perform, before twirling around, foot lifting off the ground and landing on the other, a spin midair before a deep thud greeted her as her shoes clicked. In the span of time when she was airborne — glorious and knightly, her body revolved through the stage’s misty lights, one more time than she had intended. A wide smile split through her face, and her eyes glimmered as sudden joy overtook her body. Hunger rushed through her veins, tampered by excitement, held back by a dancer’s restraint. Ballerina or soldier, she could no longer tell the difference. Perhaps there was none.
She hit the ground running, leaping towards the other side of the stage, before slashing her sword through the air and jutting it out to the edge of the platform as the final remnants of the verse died down.
“Звон булата вам дороже
Блеска злата – самоцветов,
Ведь за тыном, во хоромах
Не узреть таких рассветов!”
The ringing of steel is dearer to you
Than the sparkle of gold or gems
Beyond the fence, in mansions
No such dawns can you behold!
As the song promised, she dragged her blade around the ground in a circle, spinning as its unwavering centre, the ringing of steel clear and resolute. As she continued, a swirl of satin fabrics and flaxen hair, she raised her sword upwards, upwards, upwards, until it was held straight above her head, perpendicular to the harsh wood of the stage floor. Facing back to the audience, she tossed it into the air above, catching it by its faux blade, knelt down in one fluent motion, as if offering the weapon to a god above. Her head was upraised, defiant, before slowly lowering herself down, for Перун, for the burst of thunder that will shine the combat’s path.
Liliya had never seen herself as a warrior. A dreamer, a romantic, a sentimentalist, everything but a fighter. Chances at vengeance, choices to maliciousness, yet she was passive, her soul oppressed by fear. She had heard the strike coming through the protests of the stifling air, the convoluted shouts, yet her body had froze, in the bare seconds before she turned and pled — promised to be a better daughter, promised to be a worse person, made a thousand vows like the shards of shattered glass. Eventually, when tears and words failed to work in her favour, she had learnt to settle into the pain, each flinch becoming a systematic reckoning until the stinging brought clarity. The long nights when she sat in her bedroom, silks draped around her, darkness in her embrace, staring out a window of St. Petersburg’s unforgiving snow, she had slowly wept into her arms, staining her nightgown with tears until she could almost see the blacks and blues through the white. That was the only time she allowed herself the violence, the tearing away of her blankets and the banging on her pillows, searching anywhere in the nothingness for disparaging hopelessness, seeking a soul that would understand her, that would both cradle her in their arms and allow her to fight them. And as she cleaned her bruises, she reminded herself that she would rather have her hands bound than bloodied. The horrors of violence either built monsters or pacifists.
“Вы встречали день в дороге,
После ночи скоротечной,
Среди рек, лесов дремучих,
Средь степи да бесконечной”
You greeted the day on the road
After a shortlived night
Among rivers, wild woods
And among the endless steppe.
She jumped to a rise, grabbing her sword by its hilt again, and traversed from one edge of the stage towards the other, sword swinging as she did, as if cutting through lines of enemies for the final beast. Except this time she was no damsel in distress, no captor awaiting her saviour, but the charging warrior herself. She was the armoured creature her opponents were warned of, she was the raging animal at their— Her breaths came faster, faster, too fast, and as she tried to ease back into the rhythm of the music, she found that she was losing herself.
Liliya Starkova did not know many things, but what she did know was that she did not trek and climb for nothing — that she did not jump off cliffs for nothing. However meandering, her journey through the endless steps, among rivers and wild woods, was one that would end at a sunset, and however the end of light it may be, she trusted in the subliminal beauty’s prowess. As she made her final cut, breaths heavy, back hunched, not pretty, nor graceful, she was a victor. In this fight, in this life.
“Честь – дружине, князю – слава,
Весть летит над всей землей!
Из тьмы веков пусть громом грянет
Да ратною сверкнет стезей”
Honour to the retinue, glory to the prince
Tidings fly over all the land!
Out of the darkness of the ages
Let Perun, the brave god of soldiers
Her breaths heaved, but as she held her sword by white-knuckled hands, and stretched her back, she delivered a slow blow before twirling back into action. One small jump, each leg rising after the other, before she braced herself, leapt, and spun. Ballerina or soldier, she could no longer tell the difference. Perhaps she was both.
Перун, бог воинов удалой!
Burst as thunder and shine as the combat path!
Then the chorus took over, she relented to the music, and stopped singing. She stopped seeing, stopped feeling, almost stopped breathing, and left herself completely to the surges of sentiment that took over her body. Minutes passed, yet her flesh remained entranced, her world a blur of promises and possibilities. Leaps, twirls, an entire fish tot the music score — they all became nothing, and everything all at once.
Her soul bursted free, a bird out of its iron cage.
As the music ended, Liliya held her sword in the air for the seconds of deafening silence, knelt on the ground, a final image, whether victorious or defeated. Or, more often in life, both or either. Her breaths came heavy, laboured, her back soaked through on the satin of her dress. As tears threatened to well to her eyes — inexplicable, disgusting tears, she disallowed them to fall, and instead stood, hands finally loosening around the slick hilt, body sinking out of tension. Sheathing her sword back into her scabbard, metal screeching on wood against the fatal silence of the courtyard, perhaps applause would spring up and fill the hollow alcove of her beating heart. She held one hand over her chest, in desperate attempt to hide the sounds in its cavity, and bowed, deeply, before standing and surveying the audience, a curt nod her only “спасибо”.
She turned on her heels, and almost started walking offstage. Before something, an invisible hand, a secretive gaze, caught her, and forced her into a halt. Abashed at her own indecisiveness, shocked at her inconsiderate decisions, she found something more than her own will pulling her back towards the centre of the stage, dance shoes clicking far too loud on wood.
“I didn’t think I would give a speech — it is not really attractive when you’re sweaty, tired, and your English is heavily accented.” She laughed, just barely, the sound the crystal clear splashes of a waterfall falling as spring crept into the air. Her eyes met the expectant audience, sharing the brief moment of humour before her features schooled themselves back into sombre seriousness. In the seconds where her eyes crinkled and her chest bursted, the words that spilt out of her mouth were no longer hers, riding on a wave of confidence she would have never surfed if she were not blinded towards the consequences. What seized her was not certainty — far opposite; it was blatant uncertainty and the audacity to go forward nevertheless. Unlike her performance, she had no rehearsal, no backup, just pure, unfiltered rawness.
“‘Все счастливые семьи похожи друг на друга, каждая несчастливая семья несчастлива по-своему.’ ‘All happy families are alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in their own way.’ Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy. I can’t say much for the former; I’ve only ever been in one happy family, but for the latter, I can accumulate hours of speech.” She recited the familiar quote, yet it tasted an edge too bitter in her own voice.
“For too many years of my life I was raised in a household with no love, where violence was the only language we spoke outside alcohol-tinted Russian. I was the black sheep, and my father was a Shepard dog. My siblings granted me mockery and my mother indifference. I experienced many unhappy families after that in the chaos of the foster system—” She paused with sudden reckoning, her breath hitching, than falling, as if it had been caught then let go. Her story was a long and meandering one, and while she could describe each ring of hell she had resided in, she yearned not for the forlorn stares as she walked offstage, the half-hearted apologies and absent-mindedly pats on the backs. Her insides would burn up if anyone dared to look at her with that gaze of plaintive regret. Decisively, she continued, diverging her tale onto another lane completely, “No. I do not intend to make this a sob story, by no means. If you lend me your pity, I would rather you save it for a dying bird by the street side.
“I had learnt that brutality means you get fed, that a wolf gets its food only with its legs and its teeth. But I have renounced my name, I am no longer a wolf. Violence breeds many things, some of which hidden so deeply in my heart I do not even know. All I know is it has taught me to never repeat the actions of my begetter. That is why I had never called myself a fighter. I do not like to fight. I do not want blood on my hands.
“Yet why are they inevitably stained?” She asked, questioning more of the universe than she knew. On instinct, her eyes brushed downwards, only to grimace at her own anxiety, and return her gaze to the crowd, judgemental, scrutinising. She had gone so far, on this road, in this life, for this performance, and beyond the point of turning back. Her heart manipulated her lips into making sounds, noises her mind failed to even comprehend. Yet as she spoke, somehow, she was standing straighter already. “Sometimes I scare myself, but as I moved through the treacherous waters of my life, I realised I had no choice but to be one. I cannot both choose to do nothing but sit on my thumbs and survive. I do not know if the crimson is my own or from the people who had hurt me, I just know they are the testaments to the fact that I am here now, through all the difficulties. I cannot remain pure when the world had thrown me in the dirt, but I can remain kind. That doesn’t mean I did not fight for what I have now.
“Keep fighting, I think is all I would like to express. Don’t give up, there are better things waiting, but only if you make an effort. Don’t be scared to make an effort, and if you must kill one thing, kill the past that did you no good.” There was a freeing in her chest cavity as the words slipped out on her tongue; she tilted her chin upwards and her hand rested more comfortably on the hilt of her blade. To believe was not naivety, it was hope, but hope was useless without the blood, sweat, and tears of her actions. When each day had been a struggle, the bruises on her body and the wounds in her heart a reminder, even if she did not acknowledge it then she had been a silent warrior. Slowly, cautiously, she was beginning to accept that she had been an honourable knight, not a despicable beast.
“I lost hope, but here I am. I see some of you in the crowd that resonate with me, like you—” Her eyes searched, knowing who’s gaze they would land on. The same as her own, the colour of ice yet rays of sunshine amongst her dubiety, once the same unforgiving nature as the wolves that birthed her yet now merciful, beautiful blue moons, lighting her way through the darkness. She had not met him since the trial, yet just before she had stepped onto the stage she had seen him — the same unmistakable tufts of platinum blonde hair, now carrying a smile as he threw his arm around the shoulder of another boy.
It seemed as if he had turned the chapter on the Volkov’s treachery, yet Liliya still carried wisps of their darkness. It was subtle, hidden behind the kindness she willed her body to summon, a monster creeping up behind her, a beast to sweep her feet out from under her. It brought her no reassurance that she barely noticed it within herself — in fact only an abundance of fear seized her veins, a reminder that her own corruption was far out of her hands, just tantalisingly hanging above her grasp. To eat from its fruits was to relent to it, yet it was the only way to destroy it. She could not help being a Volkov, darkness fed darkness, and the only way to remove of a stain was to carve off the flesh itself. Even after all these years, she was her family’s blood, she was her family’s blood, she was her family’s blood….
Her breaths quickened, and she sought desperately for a source to ground herself, until her eyes finally met his, for a flash of a moment: “Kolya.” Her voice was tender, doubtful, almost lost to the hum of the audience. If she had to be tainted with any of the Volkov’s rotted blood, she would be blessed to share even a drop of Nikolai’s ichor.
Liliya drew in one tremulous breath, and found her hands scrunching the fabrics of her dress, leaving damp, darkened patches where her palms had sweated. She searched the audience for reassurance, Nikolai’s eyes for answers, and found an odd sort of comfort in the awaiting, urging gazes, the silent cheers empowering her as she stood straighter. She was drained — physically exhausted, mentally emptied, all she had left, in her vacant heart, was one emotion she could not yet name, but as it rushed up into her bloodstream, she finally found the words for her gratitude: “I didn’t quite envision myself saying all this, and I don’t quite know what else to say…. So, yeah, thank you for watching, thank you for listening.
“I won’t waste any more of your time. If you too sit here a survivor, vote for Liliya Starkova, fellow warriors.”
The horrors of violence built monsters, but only if you chose to be one.
INPC of Archer Duncan
Spring Royalty — The Pageant
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| ✦"You better start walking. Love takes miles."✦ STA 8 │ EVA 8 │ STR 6 │ WIS 6 │ ARC 6 │ ACC 7 |
Spring Royalty — The Pageant
you'll be the prince, and i'll be the princess -- give or take, the girls' thought process
skip the reminiscing and go straight to the action: here!
skip the reminiscing and go straight to the action: here!
| xxxxxx | Muggles had prom queens and homecoming kings, and wixkind had spring royalty. Who better to run with than none other than Aly's own best friend, sister sans the blood relation, and semi-royalty herself (at least by name), @Dealla Prince? |
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| xxxxxx | The two girls' squeal when they'd seen the flyer about the royalty sign-ups had just about shattered every window in the Martial Eagle dormitories, much to the chagrin of their other roommates. For Aly and Dee, it was a no-brainer that they would not only sign up, but also run together. After all, they had plenty of accolades under their shared belt; topping off what had honestly been a hell of a seventh and final year at Hogwarts with being able to call themselves the king and queen of the spring ball seemed like a natural conclusion to attempt. |
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| xxxxxx | Whilst they had been getting themselves ready, decked out in matching suits of blue (Aly) and bronze (Dee) and dripping with sapphire and topaz to most physically represent their Ravenclaw pride, the two best mates had gone through quite the reminiscence of exactly what all those accolades were. Aly's most prideful accomplishment was, of course, her captaincy of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team; as her House's first-string Seeker, she had led her team on and off the pitch for the last year, securing three victories (1, 2, 3) for Ravenclaw during that time. There was also her several years' worth of writing articles for the Hogwarts Headliner (including a special coverage of the Olympics at Koldovstoretz), her internship over in the Astronomy Tower, her summer camp scavenger hunt/Mistletoe Spin planning in 2024, her status as one of the few Animagi of the school, her participation in the Ravenclaw riots following the wrongful imprisonment of former Head of House Iwasaki... her time at Hogwarts had been chock-full of to-dos and friendly faces. (And some not-so-friendly faces, some of whom she was not very pleased to see... cough cough, Harlan.) |
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Dee Prince, of course, had her own share of laurels to carry, everything from being a former Prefect to being Hogwarts' resident potions prodigy (the only person Aly knew who could brew restricted potions, like Polyjuice). She had once been a star duellist and duelling captain, and was now trailblazing as one of Ravenclaw's best broom racers (and training duellists on the side). Dee had been one of the planners of the 2025 summer camp, too, and had also written for the Headliner once upon a time, so the two girls had that in common! | xxxxxx |
| xxxxxx | Plus, one could not forget the prize they'd won together - the golden cauldron trophy that had proclaimed them as the champions of the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship last year, along with the third of their musketeers, @Pericles Dralt. In fairness, that victory had mostly been thanks to Dee's excellent brewing, but Aly liked to think she had been a great distraction for the Swooping Evils! The time for reminiscing was over, though, just as their time at Hogwarts was too drawing to a close. Aly was really, really trying not to think about what she would do post-grad, when she wasn't waking up just a few feet from Dee every day, when she couldn't throw a pillow at her in the middle of the night if she was snoring, when she didn't see her best mate and soul sister basically almost every minute of every day. For now, the best distraction from these thoughts was this competition - and boy, oh, boy, had the eaglets planned out the most lovely little performance. Upon entering the courtyard, the first thing Aly noticed was the butterflies flitting about, and she threw Dee a smirk that bordered on secretive, with a good dash of confident. "It's almost like they knew we were coming," she whispered before twisting her head downwards towards her chest; the sparkling navy blue fabric of her suit (because queens could wear things other than dresses!) began to ripple and shift hues, a more brilliant azure blooming from somewhere within her, as she shrank and shrank and shrank. Arms fused into delicate, scaled wings that shimmered as if covered in a fine sheen of glitter, and fine dark legs sprouted from her torso, and in the blink of an eye, Aly Salinger had transformed into one of the very insects that had been fluttering round the courtyard. Perks of being an Animagus. x |
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| xxxxxx | Dee took the stage when her name was called, striking the agreed-upon pose to show off the shimmering bronze embellishments and dripping topaz gems of her suit; after a moment for applause, Aly fluttered in from the side, looping around Dee's outstretched arm in a pattern that caused wind to ruffle her dainty antennae before finally settling on the tip of Dee's finger. They waited there a moment, a veritable tableau, before Aly squeezed up her tiny little butterfly face and twisted in midair; in an instant, she was shifting and growing and transforming into human again, and a very witch-shaped Ravenclaw bedazzled in diamonds and blue fell into her best mate's waiting arms. x |
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| xxxxxx | Lift, catch, dip - their performance was rehearsed, sure, but no less impressive, and before Aly could so much as take a breath, they had reached the end of the choreographed string of movements, with her full weight on Dee's arm as her best friend supported her from the back. Only one of Aly's feet was touching the ground, the tip of her toe lightly brushing the stage floor as the other had pulled into a posse to her knee, and she had flung out her free arm - that is, the one that wasn't clinging to Dee for dear life. The two girls glanced at each other, heaved a breath, and in sync, they shouted to the cheering audience, "Vote for Dee and Aly - we're a package DeAl!" Hopefully, the audience would think their silly little slogan funny - De for Dee, of course, and Al for Aly, forming the word "deal". They truly were a package deal, the Prince and her princess - for the day, at least (Aly wasn't about to steal her bestie away from Madhup). With any luck, by the end of the day, Dealla Prince would be promoted to a King, and Aly the loyal queen by her side. Pity she was a blue morpho, and not a monarch, but synchronicity and symbolism could only go so far. |
xxxxxx |
mod action: being lifted and dipped / transforming in and out of animagus form! (wis dc 20)
Apr. 17, 2025 | fit in banner | #C47DDB | Dee godmods pre-approved
lovely & charmer affect everyone except dee | sta 10, eva 14, str 5, wis 19, arc 7, acc 18
vote for dealla prince & aly salinger: the package de-al!
Apr. 17, 2025 | fit in banner | #C47DDB | Dee godmods pre-approved
lovely & charmer affect everyone except dee | sta 10, eva 14, str 5, wis 19, arc 7, acc 18
vote for dealla prince & aly salinger: the package de-al!
Last edited by Aly Salinger on 14 Apr 2026, 15:23, edited 1 time in total.
| Aly Salinger's ency |
| | |
STA 10 | EVA 14 | STR 5 | WIS 19 | ARC 7 | ACC 18 Charmer • Keeper’s Catch • Paragon of Health • Lovely Creature • Foulplay • Keen Eye who's afraid of little old me? |
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Spring Royalty — The Pageant
Frozen Spring Crown
"Pretty things can be poisonous"
xx Difficulty: 15 xxx WC: 935 xxx Hex: Sissy Actions: Ice skating, "Glacius" casting xx Date: 12.04.2026
xStamina: 5 | Evasion: 4 | Strength: 2 | Wisdom: 7 | Arcane Power: 9 | Accuracy: 3
Abilities: Parselmouth
x
x Winning is not optional.
I don’t step onto a stage to simply "participate". I step into it knowing I will leave with every mind still amazed after my performance.
I watch other performances from behind the curtain, my arms crossed. I nodded briefly when one of them was worth it.
After a while, I went to check the list of participants who were performing in order. I was 13th. Good number.
I exhaled. Plenty of time to get ready. I go to the dressing rooms and slip into my ice skating costume. Black, of course. It was simple but nice. Yes, Ice skating. For a spring event. The irony isn’t lost on me.
While everyone else leans more into light and vibrant clothes, I chose something colder and sharper. And that’s exactly why it works.
I put on my skates on, white skates. The blade was sharp and coudld cut anyone's hand.
It reminds me of her. Charlotte.
My aunt never believed in doing what was expected when little, you could say she was the troublemaker of the family when she was younger. Great contrast with my mother.
I was younger when she first took me to a rink, maybe a little too young. I hated it.
“Again,” she had said, standing next to me.
I had fallen. Of course I had. Over and over again, clumsy, frustrated, humiliated by how unnatural it all felt. Even at a young age, I was good at everything-but ice skating. It was too unfamiliar.
The ice was not empathetic. I fell, and again, and again,
“Again.”
So I stood up. Again. And again. And again, until I was better and the falls were fewer.
The ice stopped feeling like something beneath me that mocked me, and more like something I could control over time.
Charlotte had smiled then, she was the warmest person of the family. That would explain a lot about Laurent, my cousin, actually…
“Great Sissy!” she said. “Practice makes perfect.”
It does indeed.
The memory fades as the noise of the dressing room settles back in. I blink.
Then comes the waiting.
I take a seat, crossing my legs. Around me, the room was buzzing with energy, people were whispering, doing last-minute adjustments and re asking questions for the hundredth time.
One by one, names are called. One by one, they leave and come back. Some genuinely glowing. Others sit down too quickly, eyes lowered, pretending to be invisible after their performance.
That didn't change anything.
As I watched some performances from my seat, I notice the subtle things people don't tend to realise like a hand shaking, a forehead sweating, a voice trembling.x
I lean back slightly, exhaling.
Still waiting.
I sit for a moment, then decided to stretch before my go. I roll my shoulders back, then I lift my arms above my head, holding the stretch until the pull runs clean through my spine.
I tilt my head from side to side, once, then again, each movement had its importance.
A forward stretch follows. And breathing was important: Inhale. Exhale.
Only when my body feels fully steady again do I relax my arms back down, all done.
The moment my name is called, I rise slowly, with no readable expression on my face.
I walked on the stage with my skates to meet with the crowd.
"I'm Tes Cadell, running for Junior Court." I said sharply, letting my words sink in.
My wand is already in my hand. I flicked it without waiting, "Glacius."
And the stage answered instantly.
hhhhhhhhhhh 
Ice spreads outward in sharp, cracking lines, it was beautiful.
It crawls across the floor like something alive, freezing everything it touches until the entire stage becomes a perfect, thick layer of deep blue. The light reflected on it, making it shimmer.
I heard some reaction from the crowd. That’s when I stepped onto the ice.
I glide forward. My blade cuts across the ice sharply, carving patterns that vanish seconds later. I let my arms extend, then pull in tightly as I spin a few times in the air.
And then I stop. Dead still. That was a warm up. Now I know they’re paying attention.
xAnd then, I stop. Perfectly centred and still. The ice beneath me breaks slightly into a crack
xx I move into my starting position, the ice was thick- perfect.I don’t move at all, waiting for the perfect moment. My posture was perfect right before I started, silence created anticipation. Then the music starts.
My movements sharpen, growing more aggressive and sharp. I start my performance. The ice stays perfectly thick, just enough for the blade to glide smoothly, allowing my spins to bepicture perfect. By the time I reach the final sequence of my routine, the entire room is silent.
Exactly how I want it. Then I finish it properly. One last glide. One final spin, faster than before.
I don’t bow immediately. I let the silence sit a second before tilting my head. I step back as the ice begins to melt away behind me.
"Thank you. That was my Junior Court performance” I say before leaving the stage.
OOC SUMMARY:
Hey! I know it's a lengthy post so here is a summary: Tes is waiting behind the stage for her performance (which ice skating). She remembers her first time ice skating with her aunt Charlotte.
As her name is called, she goes onto the stage and casts "Glacius", a 3rd year spell, to freeze the stage in order to skate. The link of the performance is at the top!
Last edited by Tes Cadell on 14 Apr 2026, 21:03, edited 1 time in total.
"That's crap-puccino" Sta 5 | Eva 6 | Str 2 | Wis 7 | Arc 9 | Acc 6 |
ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴅ ʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ’ꜱ
Spring Royalty — The Pageant
| ===seer; sta ◦ 5 | eva ◦ 6 | str ◦ 0 | wis ◦ 6 | arc ◦ 7 | acc ◦ 6 | =================="English"/"French" |
| == | 𝓒harm, spotlight and glamour. Three things Violette longs for in her life. No wonder she signed up for the Spring Royalty pageant at the Hogwarts Spring Ball. She didn't know yet what to make of the place. The castle is mesmerizing, and the ball was set up beautifully. She felt like stepping into a fairytale, surrounded by people wearing glorious whimsical dresses. None were comparable to hers, not even close, but she could still appreciate the efforts other put into their appearances. Yet, the castle shrouded in mystery couldn't compare to the beauty and grace of Beauxbatons. The young Seer had been preparing for this moment ever since the invitations to the ball rolled out. She was a talented witch, as well as a natural pianist, but nothing could be left up to chance. After countlessly practicing the right spells and pressing the right keys over and over, she felt absolutely confident in her performance. Now, it was finally time to show her talents off to her peers and be crowned the Spring Queen. Violette knew beforehand that she would be the one to win the competition. Nobody ever outshined her, especially not when she was wearing a gorgeous gown decorated with pearls, embroidered with the most whimsical flowers, topped off with the most royal short sleeves. Her hair looked perfectly curled as it always did, and she wore her most Spring-scented perfume. Even her make-up was done, her eyes and lips shimmering beautifully in the gentle light emitted by the sunrays. As time went by and more and more of her competition showed off their acts, slight nerves began to set in. She wasn't the first person to come onstage, not by a long shot. Additionally, she realized her idea of playing music wasn't the most original one, since most acts had to do with music. Either people sang, danced, or played an instrument, save for some outliers. Thankfully, she was still the prettiest girl who signed up, as well as the most talented, and the best dressed. Her competition would be tough - but she is tougher. Behind the curtain, she held her wand in her right hand, a slight tremble in her fingers. If all went as planned, she was up next. A piano should be stood in the middle of the of the stage, waiting for her to start playing. She took deep breaths. Upon hearing her name, she tensed up, before quietly whispering "Fumos". If her competency didn't suddenly fail her, the stage would be shrouded by a heavy mist-like smokescreen. "Here we go", she whispered in her familiar, native tongue, before taking her first steps onto the stage. She walked out with confidence - though the audience wouldn't be able to see anything yet - before sitting down at the piano which was indeed provided for her and putting her wand down on her lap. With the misty smokescreen still up, she started to play. The song started out with a hint of mystery. As the smoke started to fade in the wind, she would slowly but surely become visible to all onlookers. The fading seemed to line up perfectly with the music, her speed slightly picking up. However, the magic of the piece never faded. It would always be a song that inspires both calm and emotion. This time was no different. As the song picked up even more, she put all of her emotion into her playing, refusing to glance over at the audience, no matter how badly she wanted to see their reactions. The delivery was much more powerful if she stayed focused on the piano. Thankfully, her being a talented pianist meant that keeping her focus was no big deal. She had to deliver a piece she could be proud of. When the song started slowing down, signaling that the performance was nearing its end, she had one last trick up her sleeve to make the moment even more magical. In between notes, she quickly retreated her right hand towards her lap, grabbed her wand and attempted to cast "Pluvia Velo" followed by "Nix Facitur", again in a hushed whisper, making sure the audience couldn't hear it. If everything aligned with how she practiced it, a light snowfall would start to occur around the stage, yet she would be covered with a semi-transparent umbrella-like shield. With the April sunrays hitting the snowflakes reflecting the light, the stage would be covered in a million little sparkles. The perfect way to accompany a dramatic ending. After playing the final note, she stayed seated for a few seconds, giving the audience the time to take it all in. This was not a song to passively listen to. It was a piece of art which is meant to be felt and understood. Finally, she stood up and took some graceful steps towards the front of the stage. Her face held a peaceful expression as she directed her attention to the audience. "Thank you, everyone, for listening to my take on the French classic, 'La Vie en Rose'". She paused briefly before continuing. "This is a powerful piece which brings up a lot of emotion in me. I wish everyone a magical Spring Ball. If any of you would be so kind to vote for me, Violette Corbeau, I will be forever grateful.", she said with a silky voice, French accent apparent. She hoped the made-up speech would convince the audience to vote for her. There was some truth to her words: it is an emotional piece. Yet, she would never be 'grateful' to any of these lowly minions, nor would she care if they enjoyed the rest of the ball. It didn't hurt to make them think she did, though. When she felt the moment was right, she gave a bow before turning around and taking off, back to the curtain she came from. If the snow and her umbrella worked out for her, she would cancel the spells as she reached the backstage. When she was sure she was alone, she said her last words. "These idiots better vote for me, if they know what's good for them." | == |
tldr; Violette performs her own version of La Vie en Rose on piano during an emotional and enchanting act
mod action; casting Fumos, Pluvia Velo and Nix Facitur (diff. 15)
PC: Milica Vranekova
Spring Royalty — The Pageant
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✽When it came her turn to prove she was worthy of spring royalty, well, Avery knew exactly what she would do. There was an old song her grandfather used to sing to her as a little girl whenever she had trouble falling asleep. It had become her anthem in those dark moments in life. Something she held onto even after her world fell to pieces. She could still remember the soft baritone of her grandfather's voice as he sang the lullaby. It was enchanting. That was why Avery had chosen the song.
When her name was called, Avery stepped out onto the stage. Her midnight blue dress she had chosen swirled beneath her like a starless sky. A fitting garment for the song she was about to sing. Avery herself had never sung in public before. She had always sung in the quietest parts of her house where no straining ears could listen. It wasn't that she was embarrassed about her voice. No. She wasn't. It was that she didn't think anyone ever wanted to hear it.
"Hello all. Tonight I will be singing an old Welsh lullaby my grandfather used to sing to me when I was little. It's called "Ar Hyd y Nos". Though I understand that many of you don't speak Welsh, so the translation is "All Through the Night". Don't worry. I will be singing the lyrics completely in English so you can understand what I'm saying." Avery smiled gracefully as she nodded to the piano player she had asked to accompany her.
The song began softly. Slowly. Avery fell into time with the music. The words were slipping past her lips with ease. Every note hit just right as she remembered how her grandfather used to sing the song. It brought tears that never fell to her eyes just thinking of the beautiful moment. Without thinking, Avery cast Lepidterio. Her soft pronunciation of the word lost in the music. She didn't pay attention to whether or not the spell was successful. She just kept herself focused on the soft lullaby she had chosen to sing.
When the song finally ended, Avery opened her eyes. With a nod and a small curtsy, she excited the stage and made room for the next performer to show off their skills.
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Credit: Mylo Atkins
Action: Avery is singing Ar Hyd y Nos (All Through the Night)
Modded Action: Avery is casting Lepidterio
Be the change you wish to see |
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in the world. |
Spring Royalty — The Pageant
Thoughts: #7a7a7a Speech: #454545This was her time to shine. This was time for Chaewon Lee to shine. It was her moment, and she wouldn't let anyone ruin her performance. She trained for many days, spent much time picking a perfect dress and practised a speech. It was time to say no to fear and be brave. Chaewon knew it wasn't a right decision to perform a dance in front of everyone. There were also many students from other schools. The girl had met a few of them, but it still brought much fear for her. It is okay to be nervous...
"Breathe, breathe." Chaewon thought to herself as the fear only grew. She was lucky she didn't have to sing because her voice would now sound like an elephant. Maybe she should not show up on stage? But that would be a shame, and Chaewon wanted to show how brave she is." Maybe next time?" A little voice in her head keeps convincing her.
Chaewon was dancing from a very young age. She had a private teacher who was a muggle-born and taught her many things. There were many times when Chaewon wanted to give up, but her teacher never stopped believing in her. "Practice, practice and even more practice. Then you will be a real star. " The dance teacher always said.
"Hello." Chaewon said to the audience. She finally showed up, and I hoped she would not throw up. Everyone could hear the nervousness in her voice. " My name is... Chaewon Lee." The girl looked really bad. But then she took a deep breath and thought about positive moments." Don't stop breathing." [/color] Lee tried to calm herself.
"I'm a first-year student from Hogwarts and..." Everything was fine until Chaewon forgot the words. Her face looked like a potato, and the fear was so big she couldn't even move at that moment." I will dance." [/color] The young girl quietly said those short words. Maybe she really didn't need to show up? Everyone will laugh at her, and no one will ever forget this mess.
The song started, and Chaewon started moving her arms like a wave you could see in the ocean. The girl only saw the ocean one time in her life, but that was enough to make her be impressed by it. Slowly, her legs moved with her arms. Then she lifted her left leg and showed how flexible she is. Her hands hold the leg and then she started spinning on her other foot. It looked amazing, and a few people could see a proud little smile on her face.
Dancing always felt like the right activity for Chaewon. Listening to music, moving and giving facial expressions was Chaewon's hobby. But showing it to other people felt strange. She was afraid of being judged, but people really need to understand that sometimes life gives us challenges to make people stronger." Life is unfair." [/color] Chaewon thought when she did a quick front walkover. That was more a gymnastics move, but the girl loved to combine these two. Maybe practising for so many years was worth performing in a magical school. Or maybe not.
However, Chaewon started to enjoy her performing on the stage. She never thought it would feel like that. When people cheer and clap for you when you do something amazing. That truly felt good, and Chaewon now forgot that at the beginning she was so nervous. It didn't matter. She just kept dancing to the music and sometimes showing a pretty smile on her face. Was she really meant to be on the stage? Or was it her first and last time performing?
"Shine to be a star." Chaewon remembered the words she used to hear most of the time. Was it a really motivating quote? Yes, it was. But Chaewon really needed to focus on her performance, which wasn't really good compared to others. She was only dancing, and for others it seemed to be very easy. But it wasn't. Many years of training; giving up and then starting again was the reality.
Then Chaewon makes her last and incredible move. She does a split in the air, if you can call it that. It wasn't that perfect. Her left leg wasn't straight, and that ruined her move. But she didn't fall like many other times, and that was her goal. She made it! Maybe Chaewon won't be the spring queen, but she wanted to prove she is brave, and she really did it. A big proud smile showed on her face when she finally ended her performance.
"Never give up." She only said and then left the stage. Chaewon happily jumped into the air.
Chaewon Lee | Metamorphmagus
Spring Royalty — The Pageant
Sta: 8 / Eva: 7 / Str: 3 / Wis: 7 / ArcP: 6 / Acc: 4
It was a wonderful afternoon. The air was warm and a light breeze was flowing through it. Flowers were beginning to bloom and spring was beginning to show it's full colours.
Jada was sat, waiting patiently for her name to be called. This was her chance to present herself to the world. Well not really the world but it was close enough. All the performances she'd seen were amazing ranging from classical ballet and violin performaces to spell casting.
She was going to perform a piece on her flute. She remembered picking it out when she was little, just over four years old, because of the way it's high, clear notes had enchanted her. So, she'd hinted to her parents, as unsubtly as a four year old can, how much she wanted to play it. Now, eight years later, she still enjoyed listening to it and playing.
Next up we have, Jada Blake from Slytherin!
She stood up nervously and made her way to the stage. She hadn't really thought of what she would say yet. Just wing it, she thought to herself, it's not like you have much choice anyway.
"Hello everyone," she said, adjusting the mic to her level, "in case you don't know me, I'm Jada and today I'll be playing you one of my favourite flute pieces. This piece is called Carmen Fantasy by François Borne and features variations of pieces played in the opera 'Carmen', hence its name. Thank you all for being here and I hope you enjoy!"
Wow she thought to herself, she really could ramble when she had to.
She held her flute to her lips and took a deep breath before playing the opening notes. The entire piece was usually played with an orchestra but she'd decided that she would play the flute part solo. It was also, normally, a ten minute piece but she'd cut it down to seven. She closed her eyes and letting herself move with the music as it wrapped around her. It was comforting because it was something she had always been doing, no matter what else happened.
She let the final few notes ring out before lowering her flute back to her side. "Thank you." she said briefly before hurrying back towards her seat. Phew at least that was over now!
Difficulty Level: 10
Jada Blake - Hogwarts Beauxbâtons - Kira Orlova
Sta 8│Eva 7│Str 3│ Sta 5│Eva 2│Str 8│
Wis 7│ArcP 6│Acc 4 Wis 7│ArcP 2│Acc 6