Emancipation from Ephemera
The howling winds of the Scottish highlands her sole companion, Liliya Starkova mustered a very unladylike humph as she set two heavy trunks onto the ground before her cabin door, sending clouds of dust into cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. A few breaths later, she was stood, silhouetted in the fallen sun’s glaze as a pine of a figure, fumbling for her key in the partial shield of darkness. Her hand settling around the jagged edges of its teeth, she, triumphant, slid it into the lock, and heard a satisfying click as life was breathed into its cogs. She gathered herself, clutched her baggages’ handle into reluctant fingers, and pushed the door open with a puff-sleeved shoulder. She entered, and allowed the door to click to a definitive shut behind her.
Plunged into a wave of lethal silence, and a settling dusk’s darkness, she surveyed the ensuite — quaint, another word for weathered, dusty, and cramped. She stood just a step out of the doorway, and allowed for a few beats to pass, half-hoping Noel would burst through the door, and break the chill of wordlessness with his refined laughter. Instead, sole figure only illuminated by the lonely ray of dying light through the half-curtained windows, she remained in glorious, fearful solitude. A wistful sigh escaped her lips, rattling the space between herself and nothingness.
Soon Noel would come knocking, and the room would become a starburst of conversation and mischief, but for now, accompanied only by the scent of woodsmoke and settling spring, Liliya sat alone on the edge of her bed, inspecting the chipped edges of French nails.
Their bond, be it the fruit of forced proximity, had been an immediate, undeniable spark, the union of two souls starved of their mirroring counterparts. She smiled fondly in remembrance of their first meeting — her impish wink, his polished French. Yet as she folded her hands primly over the shadowed pleats of her skirt, listening to the distant sounds of laughter and gossip in a myriad of languages beyond her comprehension, the emptiness eating at her stomach could not have been helped. This inevitable dawning that she would be missing girls’ nights, nail polish challenges, truth or dares, concluded in her secluded cabin. Her girlhood at been a sacrificial lamb to the god of survival, and now that the choice was in her hands, it was almost a power too overwhelming for her control.
He was probably off playing with his little group of friends right now, anyway. They seemed to be inseparable, and Liliya was starkly aware she was the outsider amongst them.
A belly full of an ostentatious show of her host school’s hospitality, she shook the thoughts out of her head and pulled herself up to the wall, leaning back into the corner of where her mattress met wooden planks. With a bend of her back and a stretch of her finger the window opened, and the April breeze slithered into the room, sending the scent of the highland’s wildflowers and pinewood. Her skirt, a silky light blue over laced white stockings, pooled on the linens, a breeze creeping into the meticulously ribboned back of her garment. She found her eyes wondering, landing on the array of colours and shapes of the arriving students, half-hoping to find one, half-hoping she could drown in this isolation for moments longer.
In one swift movement of dexterous hands, she let down her hair, and shook her locks as they fell over her shoulder, tickling the back of her neck as they found freedom from the bun they had been tightened into. Despite the strands strayed from a day’s travel, tension was released, and so was her exhaustion. The evening was drawing to a close, and as she leaned her head back into the crook where the two sides of the walls met, she felt as if she could finally luxuriate in her free time.
An image of elegance in refinement, the masquerade seemed to collapse in on itself in repose, its master completely to the girl’s fickle whims. She lounged, one leg crossed over the other, mind a tangle of daydreaming messes, heart once pulsating to the beat of a thunderstorm falling into one of mere relaxation. Even her breaths slowed, and as boredom overtook thrill, Liliya found herself beginning to count the creases in the ceiling above.
@Noel Clavero | banner by Prat Pass
INPC of Archer Duncan
Emancipation from Ephemera
 | x | Noel Clavero ─────────── 1st Year Durmstrang |
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Speech: #4e677e «Bonjour» |
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NC 13.April.2026
| N | At the thought of the British school of magic, frustration settled itself within Noel’s throat. The wishes of early childhood still lingered too eagerly at the surface. From there, they had surged forward the moment the prospect of attending the Spring Ball had been raised. Of course, he would attend. Once, the Italian-born boy had believed he would study there, or at Beauxbatons, where the divisions between social classes and certain others would no longer hold their weight. Yet fate had fashioned from it a Commedia dell’arte, leaving him no more than to be a visitor at Hogwarts. He could do little but pass a hand through his blond hair, long fingers gliding through the strands before smoothing them back behind his ears. With a sceptical gaze, he surveyed the landscape. His articulated features refused to falter. Buds of Scottish bloom had begun to claim the meadows. Birds already nested within the firs, and even the clouds bore white. Spring seemed far more at ease in England than in the far north of Europe. Thus, at the very least, Noel shared something with the weather — if not with the students themselves. As though he were the very embodiment of composure, he drew his suitcase closer to himself, its weight pressing against thigh and knee. For a fleeting moment, he offered silent thanks. For distraction was something he could indeed make good use of. He had no intention of spending his time at Hogwarts steeped in the melancholy of some imagined, alternate universe. Though his thoughts might gladly have fled into it, Noel had better matters to attend to. He cast one more glance about his surroundings, already standing within sight of his appointed sleeping quarters — an old hut. Even before he set himself into motion, its mere presence loosened something of the knot in his throat. The air, warming toward spring, brushed gently against his nose. From somewhere behind him came the sound of a bird, engaged in some quarrel. The trees groaned softly. His feet resented the unforgiving hardness of his soles. The brown leather lay perfectly, tailored to his form. Yet it was wholly ill-suited, he thought, as a stone beneath his step found little to soften it. Noel exhaled quietly, the suitcase drawing closer for a moment as its weight bore down upon him. It hung too heavy. A faint trace of blossom lingered in the air. It would not do to lose himself in thought. Only two steps from the door, he came to a halt. Noel forced himself into a slower rhythm, if only to regard the wood for a moment. It was brown, worn with age, and even without looking beyond, he genuinely hoped and suspected it would not conceal any refined chamber. Who knows what or if magic might be in place. A small gust brushed against his side, granting his hair its freedom. It fell in quiet waves from behind his ears, settling softly along his cheeks. Let the world and its treacherous games be set aside. For at the very least, he found himself looking forward to his friends. Noel placed his free hand upon the curved fitting that served as the door’s handle and pressed it open. It yielded far more easily than he had expected. Rather than a heavy threshold of resistance, of creaking strain and effort, it gave way almost willingly. And beyond it lay precisely that which Noel had hoped for. The room had already been claimed by Liliya Starkova — a good friend. She sat upon one of the beds like a finely carved, articulated doll. Her posture was precisely as Noel preferred it: partly ruined. Her hair lay loose, and her skirt seemed inclined to join the dominion of the bed covers. Although the details of her pale blue attire appeared fit for a portrait, she herself seemed quietly undone. If only for a moment, Noel could not help but pause to take her in. A small smile, stirred by relief, began to find its way across his lips. «Bonjour», he intoned with affected aristocratic flourish, his voice softening into the hint of a chuckle. He right away corrected himself to a simple «Hi.», as he nudged the door closed with his foot. There lingered a faint trace of dust in the air. It already seemed to be dispersing. Noel turned his gaze from the girl, letting it wander. «I see you have aired the place. Or rather, I can smell it. ...A very good decision, truly.» The window beside her bed stood open, and he could not help but imagine that the latch must have taken some quiet pleasure in its use. Who knew how often it had guests over. The room was of modest size, neither large nor small. A door at one end promised a narrow bathroom, whilst the two beds were pressed against opposing walls. Without much thought, Noel shifted the suitcase back and let it slide forward with a measured swing. The heavy leather burden fell beside the still unclaimed bed. A thud escaped upon impact, and Noel fancied he could almost see the dust stir. Even though none revealed itself. His hands immediately found their way to his dark brown coat. «Do you like it here?», he further inquired, drawing the cloth from his shoulders. His grey-blue eyes returning once more to Liliya and to her hair. The stray strands, scattered as they were, struck him as weary. Or at the very least, less than entertained. The earlier frustration was as good as forgotten. |
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mentioned: @Liliya Starkova ; Note: - ; WC: 924
[url=https://hogwarts.io/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&u=72799]PC: Lorenzo Vincenti][/url]
conmarth_reim_spiritum_fadra. xest_paks_hyma_fshn_null.
conmarth_reim_spiritum_fadra. xest_paks_hyma_fshn_null.
Emancipation from Ephemera
“Bonjour.” A voice cut through her thoughts, and Liliya must have ended her counting somewhere at thirty-one, sucked far deeper into her futile endeavour than she would have preferred. For a blink of a second, she almost thought of it as a stranger’s, aristocratic and perfectly poised, a greeting she would overhear in a business meeting rather than the reunion of two friends after brief separation. Her head turned sharply, yet as her eyes landed on the halo of blonde hair and the eyes of virtuous blue, accompanied by the sound of a faint chuckle in confirmation, she recognised the newcomer as none other than Noel Clavero — a friend, but beyond that, a birdling who had somehow found shelter under her wing. His presence had been long awaited; it was merely the sudden formality had startled her.
It must have sat unwell with Noel too, for he toned it down to a much more amiable “salut”. Liliya grinned — she should have expected nothing less; their removal from the common nature of this world hidden even in the nooks and crannies of their word choices.
« Привет », she returned in her native language, a flighty sound that lifted at the end. Every time they completed an exchange in her third language, she felt more drained than fulfilled, the grating sounds of French dragging in her eardrums, the drawl of liaison leading to only half-comprehension, the rest lost to the spring winds for all she cared. While it may have been a language of safety between the two of them, reserved for secrets anywhere from the most trivial of stray gossip to the deepest of philosophical thought, still, she really wished she would hear the scrape of the uvular ‘R’ less in a linguistic expression so supposedly beautiful.
Then Noel uttered a sentence too long for her liking, and frustration overtook as she found herself understanding only a beat late. Certainly, not everyone was blessed with Clavero’s linguistic talent, especially a girl who was still toiling over improving her English.
“You ought to stop talking to me in French, I have not the faintest clue what you are saying,” continuing in Russian, she said, feigning ignorance as she threw a microscopic speck of dust in his direction. She acted annoyed, but she could only act. Especially when Noel was staring at her with those sparkling eyes. “In addition… your Russian could be improved upon, Рожя.” The nickname had been coined during the Clavero boy’s first visit to the Starkov household, what began as a mockery for his first name’s connotations with Christmas dissolving into a more intimate gesture. Russian diminutives worked with beauteous simplicity — the easy addition of a sole letter signalling an affection that certainly went further than the length of a character.
Her eyes fell on Noel with undoubted fondness. The way his eyes met hers, and the way he smiled. Charming, she thought, for a twelve year old.
Thankfully, these next words came in the crisp, familiar sounds of Russian, and Liliya let out a soft hum just to tease his pronunciation, which was, in truth, only an admirable step away from native. His voice caught in odd places from time to time, yet she found his attempt at learning her language certainly more aspiring than hers to learn his.
Liliya offered the room another glance at the query. The cracks in the wood of the walls, the creaks in the planks of the floors, the modest size of their suffocating enclosure — it was far from ideal, but it was liveable. She had seen worse, but the Starkovs were unashamedly spoiling her. “Oh, well, I can’t complain. I’ve seen better though.”
She sat up, shifting her position, and put both hands on her hips in an action that bordered on judgemental. As if sudden impulse had taken over her mind, she jumped off her bed and clicked her suitcase open, knelt on the ground as she rummaging through the messily folded clothes — from stacks of disarray to rolls of disorder — to find a bag of toiletries, make up, and the unfortunate reminder that the week of her visit collided with her cycle in ghastly coincidence. She reached for a white packet, one of the many she had packed in hopes of a girls’ night. Instead, she was halfway caught between babysitting and a friendship blooming far too swiftly for what she had expected it to be. She did not know whether to be grateful that two unlikely souls had collided in pure chance, or fearful their story would end in another tale of her overly passionate sentiments.
“The ball is almost here, and the pageant even sooner,” she announced grandly, turning to Noel with the packet between her fingers and a hairband in her hand. She waved it at Noel as if reiterating its simple truth. “While I know we are both two lonely souls, self-care is of the utmost importance if I wish to woo a charming partner there.” She could almost see it, a face she did not know, twirling her away into a foreign world. A small smile escaped her at the thought, possibilities running astray through her mind, from dancing with their palms pressed to each other, face a breath away, so close they could kiss — she shook herself from her imagination. Hope was a dangerous, fickle thing, especially for a girl of her disposition.
Liliya blinked, then offering an impish smile at Noel, suggested, “You should do a face mask with me.”
@Noel Clavero | banner by Prat Pass
INPC of Archer Duncan