Durmstrang NPC
Elowin Prankhurst wrote: 3 Jun 2026, 19:46 Name: Melissa Edam
PC Name: Elowin Prankhurst
School: Durmstrang
Year: first
Link to your Character Page: Subject: Melissa Edam
Status: wizard born
Residence: Moscow, Russia
Nationality: Spanish
History:
ReducioMelissa, or as her family call her Mel, grew up in a household with a snotty,grotty thinking that bogies are a nice gift brother ( Or as most people call him Carlos), a papa who was the kindest person you could ever meet but he was a perfectionist. Her family were in possession of several fish ( Angelfishes, called Carrot, Melon and Mango if you really wanted to know) but they died after a year and a bit. Oh, yeah and a mother who died after she caught dragon pox. Yep, her mama was cruelly snatched away after only three years of knowing her. Mel knows it’s not true but sometimes she feels that it is her fault her dear mama died but that’s just unfair to her. Her mama was a dear and extremely beautiful, and that made Melissa proud. The reason her mama had died was because she had been deeply scarred by dragon pox and before her treatment was finished, hating the way she looked, she committed suicide. Melissa’s mama hadn’t gone to hospital because she had a phobia of hospitals. She was scared of doctors as well because when she was younger a fraud pretending to be a doctor bit her on the arm.
As a child she had always loved food. Jokingly sometimes her papa and brother call her the living dustbin, because she eats everything she can. Melissa’s life is full of chaos, fun and laughter but she wouldn’t change a thing. ( except maybe her mama dying…). Her life was so fun, but she missed her old friends, who’d grew apart from her as she moved to Russia. When Melissa was nine she moved to Russia because her papa had got a new job there and he had to take them.
First Magic:
ReducioWhen Melissa was 6 she was really hungry. Her Papa was talking to Carlos so he couldn’t hear her when she asked him to pass the pickles. She crossed her arms and huffed but got over it. Suddenly the pickles flew into her papas hand. This happened in Sweden when they were on holiday.
[/red
Is your character a Broom Racer? No
Is your character a Quidditch Player? no -
Is your character a Duelist? No
Stats:
Stamina: 5 - Evasion: 8- Strength: 9 - Wisdom: 3 - Arcane Power: 3 - Accuracy: 7
Special Race/Ability: None
Denied Lear June 3 *quoted from previous application
PENDING - Sako, 9 June
(i) History only reached 208 words currently. Please add to reach 220
(ii) If part-vella, character must be halfbreed, not wizardborn
(iii) vella mothers death unexplained ( she had access to magic, unlikely she would simply die. You can find inspiration for wizard sickness from here
(iv) missing vella application. Please add 500 words explaining their vella heritage and how they effect their live on this application
(v) FIOM looks intentional. Also please add the country that this happened
(vi) Stats are currently 35, but they should be 30 because of special ability vella. Please remove 5 stats.
(vii) State when (and what age) she moved from Spain to Russia please
(viii) Is she currently living in Spain, or Russia? Keep in mind if she currently resides in Spain, that means she should've been admitted to Beaux, not Drum. Her nationality can be Spanish.
[[ Reminder to change information on both application AND ency when making edits ]]
PENDING - Sako, 11 June
(i) FIOM still looks intentional, I suggest to write the chip flying towards someone elsess face instead
(ii) still has 35 stat instead of 30 for vella
(iii) missing vella application (we cannot accept they are part vella unless this 500 word application is done, you should edit this post and add it in here)
(iv) history says they moved to Russia at 8, but the residence at the top still says spain. Please fix this
( V.1) History: Still doesnt explain why vella mother didn't go to the hospital earlier. Why did she wait until the sickness got so bad? She should know if she got the early symptoms, she could easily go to the hospital to get is fixed before it got bad.
(V.2 ) History: If she is worried about beauty, why isn't she using any magical products? Makeup is very powerful in the magical world.
(vi) change wizardborn to halfbreed
PENDING - Sako, 12 June
owled to finish easier edits first
PENDING - Sako, 13 June
(i) Can you explain more about her mothers fear of hospitals? There is such a thing of doctors coming to the house, and the cure for dragon pox can generally be done alone in the house as long as they had the right ingredients. If she was afraid of hospitals, she would still have access to alternatives/different choices that would still heal her without her going to the hospital
(ii) Please add your FIOM to your Ency as well. It is currently missing in the Ency.
[[ Reminder to change information on both application AND ency when making edits ]]
APPROVED - 24 June , Sako
Hiiii
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Svetlana Ivanovna Kovalyova
PC Account Name: Denise Yarbrough
Year: 1
Link to your Character Page: Here!
Status: Half-breed
Residence: Zlatoust, Russia
Nationality: Russian
History: 574/220ReducioFirst Magic: 241/200Svetlana Ivanovna Kovalyova was born on January 12th, 2016, to Ivan Sergeyovich Kovalyov and Ekaterina Pyotrovna Kovalyova (née Petrovskaya) on a mildly cold and rainy day. It wasn't a glamorous birth, and Svetlana was born in the hands of a midwife, passed down to her mother's tender arms, holding her dearly. She also had an older brother, Mikhail Ivanov Kovalyov, whom she loved playing with as a child, but later did have to agree that he was a rather unusual child.
Well, everyone was unusual indeed, compared to other aristocratic families.
The Kovalyov family is a rather unique family. Once part of the peasantry in the harsh medieval serf system, bonded to their land akin to slaves, they later rose against their masters, the House Petrovskikh, who rose to nobility in the 15th century. Later, they formed their own house, House Kovalyov, and both went their separate ways in the modern era.
Despite a rise in supposed "equal" status, the Kovalyov family still suffered in inequality and prosecution, especially as House Petrovskikh possessed dhampir blood, a point of pride and power. Despite being richer than most, the Kovalyovs were still humble Blacksmiths, forging incredible weaponry, as techniques passed from generation to generation. They even have one of the largest forges of the wizarding world, located around Zlatoust in southern Russia. Svetlana grew up and thrived there, building her own weapons and blades with intricate safeguarded techniques using precious goblin gold and silver.
Her father, Ivan, as well as her family members before him, worked hard to be able to bring the Kovalyovs upwards into a supposedly more "equal" state, despite a mansion that still has cracks and bruises. He was compassionate and kind, even to his own niece and her first cousin, Viktoriya Mstislavovna Petrovskaya, daughter of her mother's brother. Her mother was born to House Petrovskikh to a heartless mother and a psychopathic brother, devoid of love and compassion. Due to her mother Ekaterina's possession of Dhampir blood and lineage, she and her brother were the first in House Kovalyov to possess Dhampir abilities. She showcased great love and compassion towards her children, although at times she was rather manipulative in terms of such love.
Her family held great importance to such a Dhampir lineage from her mother's side, a key towards a more equal dynamics between the House Petrovskikh and Kovalyov. She and Mikhail, or "Misha" as she would call him, held such lineage and power that it was important. However, the tension was still there and cracking.
She also had another cousin, related to Viktoriya or "Vika," Dmitry Mstislavovich Petrovskikh, whom she called "Mitya," her younger brother. Growing up, she wasn't particularly close to either of them, compared to Misha. However, on Vik's ninth birthday, which seemed relatively normal, not "normal" for most but for the harsh House Petrovskih, well she didn't really know much about the "other man" but she was shocked to discover that Mitya is actually not related to his father or in fact part of House Petrovskikh, being an affair child, and later died after Mitya's mother and Mitya fled and died later, but she personally wasn't sure of the exact details. Her parents refuse to disclose them.
House Petrovskikh was breaking, and she knew for sure that a conflict,ReducioIs your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes/No. Which sport if yes?Svetlana was an intelligent child indeed. While she lived in a mansion, more comfortable than most, it was filled with some cracks. One crack, she did not particularly like, in her bedroom.
The crack first emerged near her nightstand. She told her father that night, and he kindly suggested moving the nightstand and leaving it alone. The crack grew in size and tremor, making Svetlana loathe the imperfection in her room.
It grew.
And grew.
And grew again.
Eventually, over the course of a week, it grew to cover her entire bedroom wall. It was large, ugly, and awful, ruining the soft cream wallpaper and the beautiful paintings on the walls.
It wasn't suitable for a princess like herself.
One day, as she was brushing and grooming her long brown hair, she stared at the wall in anger. Throwing her brush, it did nothing.
She felt an overwhelming feeling of anger and rage, feeling pitiful that she was forced into a disgusting home.
Her lamp and vanity mirror broke, causing them to fly everywhere, almost stabbing her own eye. While her parents were upset at the mess they had to clean up after, Svetlana felt pride that she destroyed something for the first time in her life, even though at first, she was upset that some of her own possessions broke. After all, there is beauty in destruction as well.
The little devil has risen, as her brother would say.
Yes, Quid player, beater!
Stats: sta 5 | eva 9 | str 8 | wis 0 | arc 0 | acc 8
Special Race/Ability: Dhampir, 508/500ReducioBefore one can discuss the presence of dhampir blood in House Kovalyov, one must reflect on the prestigious House Petrovskikh. House Petrovskikh was theorized to have once been an original house full of vampires, for many generations, perhaps even longer than the feud between House Petrovskikh and House Kovalyov. While such abilities with long Dhampir lineages die out, House Petrovskikh also had a tradition of biting, turning one back through biting, continuing that legacy of power and pride. Her mother and her uncle were indeed bitten by one, continuing that legacy. Harboring pale skin and a gaunt appearance was well embraced, despite their darker hair contrasting with their extremely pale features.
Over time, as House Kovalyov formed and even back during their peasant ways, Dhampir blood also meant extra power, and that power was used as a silent way to keep House Kovalyov at bay, despite successful revolutions and building their own house in southern Russia.
A silent power, which soon both feuding houses valued deeply, a lineage, despite being based on nobility and exploitation, meant a chance for perhaps not being the lesser.
In fact, intermarriage between both Houses was considered ungodly and a sin until her mother, part of House Petrovskikh, married her father, head of House Kovalyov, and created two dhampir children, continuing the legacy, this time to a new house, a rival house at that. Disgraced, yes, but her mother is still an angel to a new House, and achieving its own victory in their silent war. Her family, particularly her father, held great importance to such a dhampir lineage from her mother's side, a key towards a more equal dynamic between the House Petrovskikh and Kovalyov, and perhaps, a unity in a long and silent century feud. However, that unity is unlikely, as unlikely as a dhampir surviving intense sunlight.
Dhampir blood only has rather minor cons, for Sveta, Misha, and her mother had to avoid the sun, which, despite its cracks and bruises, is well-kept to keep sunlight away. It helps that their home had an extensive basement, and the only rather sunny region, the patio connected to a bedroom upstairs, is used as her father's study room, who was the only non-dhampir. Their own forgery of weapons of golbin gold and silver is also rather guarded from sunlight, mainly being a deep basement building. They also had lots of blood, usually from hunting at nighttime in the dense forests around Zlatoust, where Sveta and Misha often go to hunt some game. In addition, they have good ties with local butcheries, who often sell them blood, while Muggles use it to make Eastern European blood sausage, Hematogen, and agricultural fertilizer, they mainly use it for survival.
But they were well-off, better than most houses, allowing for these to be rather minor inconveniences indeed. Because being a Dhampir is extremely valued, and of course, that power is what they needed to win the silent civil war, once that started after Vika's ninth birthday and a crack in House Petrovskikh's own reputation of purity.
Edits:
6/26: Note, Sveta is related to Viktoriya Petrovskaya, iNPC of Elena Clark. Therefore, both share the same family lore which is central to Sveta's plot.
6/27: Here is Vik's permission as her cousin here! I should have asked before registration.
STATUS: Pending, Arkady, 30th JUNE
- Please edit Residence to only mention the relevant city (Zlatoust, Russia)
- Werewolves are not considered half-breeds as they are changed from humans into werewolves, rather than being a genetic trait passed down from parents. Even though your character's mother is a dhampir, your blood status should reflect the mechanics of being a werewolf and therefore you will be considered human. Please amend your blood status accordingly (pureblood).
- It looks like there was a misunderstanding of what accidental magic means. Accidental magic is unintentional, which means that your character is not willing for magic to come out. Accidental magic is unintentional and can happen for one of three reasons: it just happens, it happens in response to danger as an act of self-preservation, or it happens in response to a strong emotion. Please adjust your FIOM so that Sveta is not "willing" the crack to grow and it so does.
- As per the rules on werewolf applications, please describe where your character's scar is located, describe your first transformation and pick either the Gaunt form or the Wolf form.
Edits:
7/6: I apologize for my late edits because I had a lot to consider and ponder over. After a lot of consideration, and discussing with staff, Meiyu Xiang, she told me that it's best if I register as a Dhampir first and then re-index myself into a werewolf since indexing is not meant for such complex situations where a Dhampir is turned into a werewolf. You can view this Discord message here! I am planning to reindex Sveta into a werewolf after initial registration due to this suggestion, however, I am unsure if that might be allowed if Sveta is around seven years old when she was first bitten. In addition, I have also changed my preferred sports position and statistics so I do apologize for that as well.
STATUS: Pending, Arkady, 12th JULY
Per my last owl, I still have some reservations about your application. If you are to reindex as a werewolf, she must have been turned into one in the present day (not when she was a child), and she must have been turned by a named player werewolf (which requires some communication between you and the writer of this werewolf). For these reasons, I cannot yet approve your application until it's made clear what you intend to do? You cannot reindex as a werewolf in the manner that you want to, I'm afraid. It's my understanding that you should apply as a werewolf halfblood, as your dhampir heritage has no gameplay effect on your character, unless you wish to change your lore and be bitten by a werewolf player.
STATUS: Approved, Arkady, 27/07
Last edited by Denise Yarbrough on 6 Jul 2026, 08:04, edited 2 times in total.
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Bryndís Sigurðardóttir
PC Name: Stelle Mims
Year: Second year.
Link to your Character Page: Here!
Status: Pureblood
Residence: Rasgorod, Russia
Nationality: Icelandic
History:
First Magic:
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? N/A
Stats: sta 5 | eva 7 | str 5 | wis 10 | arc 8 | acc 5
Special Race/Ability: N/A
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? N/A
PC Name: Stelle Mims
Year: Second year.
Link to your Character Page: Here!
Status: Pureblood
Residence: Rasgorod, Russia
Nationality: Icelandic
History:
Reducio
Bryndís doesn't remember her father's voice, but she does remember his face. To say it's from memory would be inaccurate; nobody remembers anything from memory, much less a four-year-old girl. If she remembers his name, it's the only thing he left her: Sigurðard. Her parents, Sigurðard and Igna, had met on a cruise, one of those nights when you wake up with no memory of what happened. After that, there wasn't much of a story. Bryndís was born on August 6th, one of the warmest months in their home and the little hope for something more. They tried to make it work, but it didn't, and for her own good, they separated. When they told her, her mother said everything would be alright, that they would still see each other, that they would send letters, that they would just live in different houses. Because parents don't abandon their little ones, right? At first, it was true; he would come to visit, and she would spend holidays with him in Murmansk Oblast, Russia. Although the journey took longer than to her "second home," she didn't really mind. She loved to travel; she met all sorts of people on trains and ferries, and this helped her learn to speak, or at least understand, different languages.
Her parents showered her with love, and outside of their two houses, nothing had changed. Then, two months later, with the end of winter and the end of the snowfall, the letters stopped arriving. Bryndís didn't lose hope; she continued writing to her father every week. Her mother tried to talk to her, to make her understand that perhaps he wouldn't return. But the little girl didn't want to listen, justifying it by saying that perhaps the postman had lost his letters or gotten the address wrong.
Months passed, perhaps years. Her letters became longer, her handwriting more refined with practice, her drawings more perfect. But she never heard from him again, and her mother didn't speak about it either. Faced with her father's disappearance, she took refuge in the only things she had left of him: the coasts and the insects. Her mother completely disliked them, but she supposed it was her way of coping, that it would pass eventually. Bryndís could spend hours on the balcony drawing the lake, entire afternoons searching under stones for new insects. She would collect them, draw them, look up their names in encyclopedias, and return them to the yard. When she wasn't with insects, she accompanied her mother to the medical center to help her translate. Clearly, she wasn't a perfect or incredible translator, but at least the basics had been helpful to more than one person. It was interesting to accompany her mother; watching her practice her healing magic was mesmerizing, and she always left having learned something new.
She still writes to her father, only when important things happen, but she doesn't know if she really has any hope of receiving a reply, nor does she care. After all, having a small family isn't so bad. She doesn't have to share or fight with anyone; it's just her and her mother. Perhaps she sometimes feels nostalgic about getting to know her family better during the holidays or on her birthday. But if they cared, wouldn't they be there with her?
Her parents showered her with love, and outside of their two houses, nothing had changed. Then, two months later, with the end of winter and the end of the snowfall, the letters stopped arriving. Bryndís didn't lose hope; she continued writing to her father every week. Her mother tried to talk to her, to make her understand that perhaps he wouldn't return. But the little girl didn't want to listen, justifying it by saying that perhaps the postman had lost his letters or gotten the address wrong.
Months passed, perhaps years. Her letters became longer, her handwriting more refined with practice, her drawings more perfect. But she never heard from him again, and her mother didn't speak about it either. Faced with her father's disappearance, she took refuge in the only things she had left of him: the coasts and the insects. Her mother completely disliked them, but she supposed it was her way of coping, that it would pass eventually. Bryndís could spend hours on the balcony drawing the lake, entire afternoons searching under stones for new insects. She would collect them, draw them, look up their names in encyclopedias, and return them to the yard. When she wasn't with insects, she accompanied her mother to the medical center to help her translate. Clearly, she wasn't a perfect or incredible translator, but at least the basics had been helpful to more than one person. It was interesting to accompany her mother; watching her practice her healing magic was mesmerizing, and she always left having learned something new.
She still writes to her father, only when important things happen, but she doesn't know if she really has any hope of receiving a reply, nor does she care. After all, having a small family isn't so bad. She doesn't have to share or fight with anyone; it's just her and her mother. Perhaps she sometimes feels nostalgic about getting to know her family better during the holidays or on her birthday. But if they cared, wouldn't they be there with her?
WDC: 553/200
First Magic:
Reducio
Socializing wasn't her thing, at least not naturally. Although she clearly didn't like playing with other children, her mother always took her to the park to force her to socialize. Which was a mistake, because it was one of the places with the most insects in the whole neighborhood. Spring was the best time, because the winters were so cold that almost all the bugs disappeared.
That's how they discovered she was an insect hunter. By the age of nine, visits to the park were routine. Her mother would sit and chat with other mothers, and she would stay on the ground with a small shovel, feeling like an explorer. And, generally, the environment wasn't a problem for her. Until one day, what everyone expected happened. While digging a hole, she smiled excitedly upon finding a family of pill bugs, but her excitement vanished when she saw a plump little leg on top of her discovery. She didn't even hesitate, didn't think twice. She was already standing there to confront the boy, even though she didn't know how to fight and it wasn't her way of solving things. Suddenly, her bucket rose up and hit the boy on the head, scattering some insects it had found on him. Before she could laugh or say anything, the boy ran away, and his mother immediately scolded her. On the way back, she tried to explain that she hadn't done anything, that the bucket had levitated on its own. Her mother said nothing, only that he apologize or she would forget about the insects for the next two weeks.
Eventually, to help Bryndis become more familiar with Russian, her mother decided to move to Russia at least until she finished her studies, always hoping that she would make friends and be close to them.
That's how they discovered she was an insect hunter. By the age of nine, visits to the park were routine. Her mother would sit and chat with other mothers, and she would stay on the ground with a small shovel, feeling like an explorer. And, generally, the environment wasn't a problem for her. Until one day, what everyone expected happened. While digging a hole, she smiled excitedly upon finding a family of pill bugs, but her excitement vanished when she saw a plump little leg on top of her discovery. She didn't even hesitate, didn't think twice. She was already standing there to confront the boy, even though she didn't know how to fight and it wasn't her way of solving things. Suddenly, her bucket rose up and hit the boy on the head, scattering some insects it had found on him. Before she could laugh or say anything, the boy ran away, and his mother immediately scolded her. On the way back, she tried to explain that she hadn't done anything, that the bucket had levitated on its own. Her mother said nothing, only that he apologize or she would forget about the insects for the next two weeks.
Eventually, to help Bryndis become more familiar with Russian, her mother decided to move to Russia at least until she finished her studies, always hoping that she would make friends and be close to them.
WDC: 305/200
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? N/A
Stats: sta 5 | eva 7 | str 5 | wis 10 | arc 8 | acc 5
Special Race/Ability: N/A
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? N/A
STATUS: Pending, EMERY, 30th JUNE
- Please edit Residence to either a true city in Russia, as Mourmansk Oblask is a region not a city, or please choose one of the wizarding settlements in our published lore [HERE]. Reminder: this would mean your information in your history section would change as well.
- It looks like there was a misunderstanding of what accidental magic means. Your first instance of magic should be a singular instance that terminates. Your description entails insects following you for a long period of time. My suggestion would be, in line with your anger, that the bucket moved on its own and slammed into the foot because of your strong emotion.
- Just to confirm, you do not want to join a sport. If you do, please answer yes, and I will put you on that team if there is space, or on the waiting list.
STATUS: Approved, Emery, 3rd July Thank you for your changes.
One last thing! You wrote that you received a letter about your first instance of magic! Durmstrang does not have an owling system like Hogwarts. I’m removing this and approving you!
You make me wanna make you fall in love───⊹ |
Stelle Mims - Huffelpuf |
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Harvey Dunn
PC Name: Maximilianus Kenneally Vidler
Year: Second
Link to your Character Page: Boop!
Status: Halfblood
Residence: Shlisselburg, Russia
Nationality: American
History: Word count: 1995
Short note regarding backstory:
First Magic:
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes, Duelist
Stats: Stamina 4 | Evasion 7 | Strength 1 | Wisdom 10 | Arcane power 4 | Accuracy 9
Special Race/Ability: Werewolf. Word count: 1083
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? Normally.
PC Name: Maximilianus Kenneally Vidler
Year: Second
Link to your Character Page: Boop!
Status: Halfblood
Residence: Shlisselburg, Russia
Nationality: American
History: Word count: 1995
Reducio
Harvey grew up on the outskirts of eastern Knoxville, Tennessee, as a result of a short and rather explosive relationship between a muggle woman and a pureblood Russian wizard. As an affair baby, Harvey brought little but conflict with him from the start. He was raised by his mother and stepfather, Jane and Henry Dunn, in a low income household that can only be described as rigid. Not really pristine, not exactly comfortable, but tightly held together. Money was never quite enough, and what they had was stretched thin. Still, things were kept orderly. Expectations were high, and discipline strict. There was a right way to do things, and there was everything else.
Despite everything, there was always a sense that things could be better, that they should. His mother spoke of stability like it was something just out of reach. Something that could be earned if only things were done right. School, behavior and presentation mattered. Harvey mattered, in the way something matters when it might become something more. It was never said outright, never in so many words, but it was understood well enough. He was not just expected to do well, he was expected to justify things. To prove the situation they found themselves in could still lead somewhere better.
The household was religious. Church on Sundays, quiet prayers before meals, and certain expectations that were not often explained, only enforced. Harvey had heard enough about right and wrong, about what people should and should not be, that most of it blurred together over time. He learned early how to tune it out. Still, some of it stayed. Not clearly, not in any way he could explain, but enough to leave a discomfort he could never quite shake.
Harvey maintained contact with his biological father through his early childhood. His father, Grigori Sokolovsky, uprooted and split his time between the US and Russia.. His office at The International Confederation Of Wizards was adjusted to fit the move. The man never intended to sire offspring, much less a half-blood, but he claimed responsibility in his own way. His involvement was always kept semi-private. Publicly, it was easier if certain things remained unspoken. The fact that he had another son back in Russia was never mentioned.
Long weekends with his father are probably some of Harvey’s favorite memories from childhood. Harvey adored the man, doing everything he could to earn his approval and praise. Traveling, camping, seeing what the wizarding world had to offer. Grigori was not warm, but he was present. He corrected, instructed, and expected. When Harvey did well there would be a small nod, sometimes a quiet “good.” It was more than enough.
Those visits followed a pattern. Questions that felt casual, but were not. Small tests woven into conversation. Expectations that shifted just as Harvey thought he understood them. There was always something just out of reach, something that kept him trying. It was on one of these trips, at the age of six, the attack happened. Harvey was bit by a werewolf. He survived, but at the cost of becoming a lycanthrope for life.
After the attack everything changed. His father did not disappear entirely. He still showed up, though almost always around the full moon. Protective charms were placed with precision, wards reinforced, contingencies prepared. Everything was accounted for. Everything except for Harvey. There were no more long weekends. No more wandering conversations or quiet moments by the fire. What remained was something else entirely: structured, efficient, focused solely on containment.
As time went on it became increasingly clear that the man no longer wished to be involved. He moved back to Russia full time, and began rebuilding his life. Harvey was never given an explanation. His mother blamed ideology from the wizarding world. Werewolves were unacceptable, and Harvey would never be seen as anything but a monster. Harvey did not believe her at first. His father still showed up, didn’t he? He still made sure things were handled. That had to mean something. It took him years to understand that it did not.
What Harvey does not know is that his father’s presence was never about bonding. It was about responsibility. The situation had to be managed. A child could turn out to be useful, no matter blood status. A werewolf was a different matter entirely. Grigori simply ensured the problem did not spread beyond what was already contained.
He showed up just often enough to keep things from becoming truly disastrous. Always composed and precise. Never staying longer than necessary. Harvey learned quickly that there was a version of himself that was tolerated, and one that was not. The difference lay in how well he could be managed. Harvey started slowly thinking of himself as the monster. But still, he strived to keep his humanity.
His homelife did not improve after the incident. His mother and stepfather were wildly unprepared to raise a werewolf, and much of it was left to Harvey to figure out on his own.
His stepfather set expectations, and Harvey failed to meet them more often than not. Not out of lack of ability, but lack of care. Or perhaps fear. The man worked long hours, the kind of work that followed him home in the way he carried himself. He provided, kept order, and corrected. But there was always something unspoken beneath it all. A quiet, recurring disapproval that had nothing to do with grades or effort.
Harvey had once called him “dad”, just once. The correction had been immediate, and never repeated. Harvey was a complication that had arrived uninvited, responsibility that could not be refused but was never truly accepted. Something added onto an already strained situation. Nothing Harvey did seemed to change that. Success was expected, and failure was confirmation. Even success never quite felt like it belonged to him.
As Harvey became more difficult to manage, his stepfather found ways of keeping him out of the way. Long stretches alone, confined to small spaces, left with little to do but wait it out. Harvey grew to despise it. The stillness, the lack of distraction, the way time seemed to stretch. It lingered in a way nothing else did. There were other corrections, too, brief and firm, but they passed quickly. This did not.
His mother was there, but not in any way that mattered. Tired, worn thin, always trying to keep the peace. She softened what she could, avoided what she couldn’t, and let the rest pass in silence. She was not unkind, just… difficult to count on in the ways that counted.
As he grew older, Harvey started to rebel. An addition to the household in the form of a half-sister only moved things along. Expectations did not lessen, if anything they grew. Whatever he was supposed to become felt less like a choice, and more like an obligation he could not refuse. He hated it, so he took the role that was left over.
He became the troublemaker and scapegoat. Not by any accident, but by his own choice. If he failed loudly and often enough, then at least it would be on his terms. He engaged in petty crimes, graffiti, and a bit of pickpocketing. Anything that gave him a rush, or a break from feeling watched and measured.
He picked on weaker kids like the bully he pretended to be, though he would fold the moment someone stronger came along. It was never really about strength or showing off, but control. If he could make someone else smaller, then he wasn’t the one that was found lacking.
Around the same time, he developed a deep love for reading, escaping into books and written words. He memorized stories and knowledge obsessively, and built something he could be proud of. Something that felt like it truly belonged to him.
When the acceptance to Ilvermorny arrived, his parents were against it. They wanted a more «normal» path for him. What use was a magical education when he was to climb the social-economic ladder. It was only after repeated assurances from the school that his condition could be handled, and possible job prospects, that he was allowed to attend. They set one condition though: Whatever he did, he would be the best.
Harvey left with no intention of meeting that expectation. Instead, he set out to be the exact opposite. If failure was inevitable, as it always was, at least it would be his to claim on his own terms. He was sorted as a Thunderbird and quickly gained a reputation as trouble. Running his mouth, pushing buttons, picking on others, about everything you can imagine. If they already thought of him as a monster, he saw little reason to invest energy to prove them wrong.
Things escalated as they often do. His behavior only grew worse as the year passed, culminating in an incident where he nearly proved that he was the monster he thinks himself to be. Staff intervened before anyone was seriously hurt, but the line had been more than crossed. At the start of June he was sent home. The news hit harder than he expected them to. Despite everything, he had liked the school. Especially the few friends he had made.
During the full moon of June, his father made a rare appearance. The conversation between the adults was held behind closed doors. The outcome was simple: Harvey would go to Russia and enroll at Durmstrang. It was presented like as much of a choice as breathing air.
Russia was cold, he could feel it down to his bones. Endless forests, and heavier silence. His father’s home stood isolated, more structure than comfort. Certainly not a place meant for growing up. Harvey was not introduced to anyone. House elves came and went, the constant eyes on him were uncomfortable. When visitors came, he was simply not there to be seen. He was given structure, expectations, and access to tutors and books far beyond what his mom and stepdad ever could offer. His education was refined, but nothing was given freely. Everything felt measured. Conditional and in need of being earned.
The Sokolovsky family had been upper class for generations, always seeking to rise to aristocracy. A few generations back they got lucky by being elected for a political position. Through long-standing arrangements tied to trade and legislation, they secured access to influence and a standing in high society. Grigori continued the legacy. As Senior Undersecretary for International Trade Legislation and Arcane Standards within the International Confederation of Wizards, he drafts and shapes proposals governing the movement of magical goods across borders. It is a quiet but powerful position, one that extends far beyond formal chambers.
The idea of Durmstrang loomed like something carved straight out of discipline. Harsh and unforgiving. A place his father deemed appropriate. Grigori did not dare sponsor Harvey himself. Public association with a werewolf, especially his own son, was not a risk he was willing to take.
So he made a deal with Astrid Blackwood. Not a new arrangement, but an extension of one already in place. She would sponsor Harvey, and provide leverage against Grigori’s political opponents. In return, Grigori would support her publicly, strengthening her reputation without drawing unwanted scrutiny.
He would also assist her with Magnus Blackwood. Harvey would serve a purpose there as well. An example, carefully positioned. Something to be observed. What happens without discipline. Without control. Harvey was not introduced as a solution. He was presented as a warning.
Harvey knows he needs to prove himself. Not just to the school, but to his father. Grigori does not demand affection, nor does he offer it. What he expects is simpler. Usefulness, control, results. How to bow to a man you secretly adore, but who refuses to call you his son? Harvey is as likely to give up as he is to tear himself apart trying. Only time will tell which comes first.
Despite everything, there was always a sense that things could be better, that they should. His mother spoke of stability like it was something just out of reach. Something that could be earned if only things were done right. School, behavior and presentation mattered. Harvey mattered, in the way something matters when it might become something more. It was never said outright, never in so many words, but it was understood well enough. He was not just expected to do well, he was expected to justify things. To prove the situation they found themselves in could still lead somewhere better.
The household was religious. Church on Sundays, quiet prayers before meals, and certain expectations that were not often explained, only enforced. Harvey had heard enough about right and wrong, about what people should and should not be, that most of it blurred together over time. He learned early how to tune it out. Still, some of it stayed. Not clearly, not in any way he could explain, but enough to leave a discomfort he could never quite shake.
Harvey maintained contact with his biological father through his early childhood. His father, Grigori Sokolovsky, uprooted and split his time between the US and Russia.. His office at The International Confederation Of Wizards was adjusted to fit the move. The man never intended to sire offspring, much less a half-blood, but he claimed responsibility in his own way. His involvement was always kept semi-private. Publicly, it was easier if certain things remained unspoken. The fact that he had another son back in Russia was never mentioned.
Long weekends with his father are probably some of Harvey’s favorite memories from childhood. Harvey adored the man, doing everything he could to earn his approval and praise. Traveling, camping, seeing what the wizarding world had to offer. Grigori was not warm, but he was present. He corrected, instructed, and expected. When Harvey did well there would be a small nod, sometimes a quiet “good.” It was more than enough.
Those visits followed a pattern. Questions that felt casual, but were not. Small tests woven into conversation. Expectations that shifted just as Harvey thought he understood them. There was always something just out of reach, something that kept him trying. It was on one of these trips, at the age of six, the attack happened. Harvey was bit by a werewolf. He survived, but at the cost of becoming a lycanthrope for life.
After the attack everything changed. His father did not disappear entirely. He still showed up, though almost always around the full moon. Protective charms were placed with precision, wards reinforced, contingencies prepared. Everything was accounted for. Everything except for Harvey. There were no more long weekends. No more wandering conversations or quiet moments by the fire. What remained was something else entirely: structured, efficient, focused solely on containment.
As time went on it became increasingly clear that the man no longer wished to be involved. He moved back to Russia full time, and began rebuilding his life. Harvey was never given an explanation. His mother blamed ideology from the wizarding world. Werewolves were unacceptable, and Harvey would never be seen as anything but a monster. Harvey did not believe her at first. His father still showed up, didn’t he? He still made sure things were handled. That had to mean something. It took him years to understand that it did not.
What Harvey does not know is that his father’s presence was never about bonding. It was about responsibility. The situation had to be managed. A child could turn out to be useful, no matter blood status. A werewolf was a different matter entirely. Grigori simply ensured the problem did not spread beyond what was already contained.
He showed up just often enough to keep things from becoming truly disastrous. Always composed and precise. Never staying longer than necessary. Harvey learned quickly that there was a version of himself that was tolerated, and one that was not. The difference lay in how well he could be managed. Harvey started slowly thinking of himself as the monster. But still, he strived to keep his humanity.
His homelife did not improve after the incident. His mother and stepfather were wildly unprepared to raise a werewolf, and much of it was left to Harvey to figure out on his own.
His stepfather set expectations, and Harvey failed to meet them more often than not. Not out of lack of ability, but lack of care. Or perhaps fear. The man worked long hours, the kind of work that followed him home in the way he carried himself. He provided, kept order, and corrected. But there was always something unspoken beneath it all. A quiet, recurring disapproval that had nothing to do with grades or effort.
Harvey had once called him “dad”, just once. The correction had been immediate, and never repeated. Harvey was a complication that had arrived uninvited, responsibility that could not be refused but was never truly accepted. Something added onto an already strained situation. Nothing Harvey did seemed to change that. Success was expected, and failure was confirmation. Even success never quite felt like it belonged to him.
As Harvey became more difficult to manage, his stepfather found ways of keeping him out of the way. Long stretches alone, confined to small spaces, left with little to do but wait it out. Harvey grew to despise it. The stillness, the lack of distraction, the way time seemed to stretch. It lingered in a way nothing else did. There were other corrections, too, brief and firm, but they passed quickly. This did not.
His mother was there, but not in any way that mattered. Tired, worn thin, always trying to keep the peace. She softened what she could, avoided what she couldn’t, and let the rest pass in silence. She was not unkind, just… difficult to count on in the ways that counted.
As he grew older, Harvey started to rebel. An addition to the household in the form of a half-sister only moved things along. Expectations did not lessen, if anything they grew. Whatever he was supposed to become felt less like a choice, and more like an obligation he could not refuse. He hated it, so he took the role that was left over.
He became the troublemaker and scapegoat. Not by any accident, but by his own choice. If he failed loudly and often enough, then at least it would be on his terms. He engaged in petty crimes, graffiti, and a bit of pickpocketing. Anything that gave him a rush, or a break from feeling watched and measured.
He picked on weaker kids like the bully he pretended to be, though he would fold the moment someone stronger came along. It was never really about strength or showing off, but control. If he could make someone else smaller, then he wasn’t the one that was found lacking.
Around the same time, he developed a deep love for reading, escaping into books and written words. He memorized stories and knowledge obsessively, and built something he could be proud of. Something that felt like it truly belonged to him.
When the acceptance to Ilvermorny arrived, his parents were against it. They wanted a more «normal» path for him. What use was a magical education when he was to climb the social-economic ladder. It was only after repeated assurances from the school that his condition could be handled, and possible job prospects, that he was allowed to attend. They set one condition though: Whatever he did, he would be the best.
Harvey left with no intention of meeting that expectation. Instead, he set out to be the exact opposite. If failure was inevitable, as it always was, at least it would be his to claim on his own terms. He was sorted as a Thunderbird and quickly gained a reputation as trouble. Running his mouth, pushing buttons, picking on others, about everything you can imagine. If they already thought of him as a monster, he saw little reason to invest energy to prove them wrong.
Things escalated as they often do. His behavior only grew worse as the year passed, culminating in an incident where he nearly proved that he was the monster he thinks himself to be. Staff intervened before anyone was seriously hurt, but the line had been more than crossed. At the start of June he was sent home. The news hit harder than he expected them to. Despite everything, he had liked the school. Especially the few friends he had made.
During the full moon of June, his father made a rare appearance. The conversation between the adults was held behind closed doors. The outcome was simple: Harvey would go to Russia and enroll at Durmstrang. It was presented like as much of a choice as breathing air.
Russia was cold, he could feel it down to his bones. Endless forests, and heavier silence. His father’s home stood isolated, more structure than comfort. Certainly not a place meant for growing up. Harvey was not introduced to anyone. House elves came and went, the constant eyes on him were uncomfortable. When visitors came, he was simply not there to be seen. He was given structure, expectations, and access to tutors and books far beyond what his mom and stepdad ever could offer. His education was refined, but nothing was given freely. Everything felt measured. Conditional and in need of being earned.
The Sokolovsky family had been upper class for generations, always seeking to rise to aristocracy. A few generations back they got lucky by being elected for a political position. Through long-standing arrangements tied to trade and legislation, they secured access to influence and a standing in high society. Grigori continued the legacy. As Senior Undersecretary for International Trade Legislation and Arcane Standards within the International Confederation of Wizards, he drafts and shapes proposals governing the movement of magical goods across borders. It is a quiet but powerful position, one that extends far beyond formal chambers.
The idea of Durmstrang loomed like something carved straight out of discipline. Harsh and unforgiving. A place his father deemed appropriate. Grigori did not dare sponsor Harvey himself. Public association with a werewolf, especially his own son, was not a risk he was willing to take.
So he made a deal with Astrid Blackwood. Not a new arrangement, but an extension of one already in place. She would sponsor Harvey, and provide leverage against Grigori’s political opponents. In return, Grigori would support her publicly, strengthening her reputation without drawing unwanted scrutiny.
He would also assist her with Magnus Blackwood. Harvey would serve a purpose there as well. An example, carefully positioned. Something to be observed. What happens without discipline. Without control. Harvey was not introduced as a solution. He was presented as a warning.
Harvey knows he needs to prove himself. Not just to the school, but to his father. Grigori does not demand affection, nor does he offer it. What he expects is simpler. Usefulness, control, results. How to bow to a man you secretly adore, but who refuses to call you his son? Harvey is as likely to give up as he is to tear himself apart trying. Only time will tell which comes first.
Short note regarding backstory:
Reducio
Due to Harvey having been expelled and switched schools, I would be more than willing to give up one of three inter-school switches, as well as render future switches to Ilvermorny impossible.
It is self explanatory that a kid who is kicked out of a magical academy won’t just get accepted to another without any questions. So I had a bit of fun with the process mugglebord has to go through in order to attend Durmstrang. Harvey has magical heritage, and has at least for now left his other life behind him. Further it struck me as suitable that someone of worth would need to vouch for him in the same manner someone of the community would have to vouch for a muggleborn. It may be just me playing with the words until they make sense, so please correct me if I should imagine a simpler process.
I have permission from the writer of Magnus Blackwood to mention his character, as stated in the screengrab below
It is self explanatory that a kid who is kicked out of a magical academy won’t just get accepted to another without any questions. So I had a bit of fun with the process mugglebord has to go through in order to attend Durmstrang. Harvey has magical heritage, and has at least for now left his other life behind him. Further it struck me as suitable that someone of worth would need to vouch for him in the same manner someone of the community would have to vouch for a muggleborn. It may be just me playing with the words until they make sense, so please correct me if I should imagine a simpler process.
I have permission from the writer of Magnus Blackwood to mention his character, as stated in the screengrab below
First Magic:
Reducio
Harvey’s first instance of magic happened at the age of five. He had been excited all week for that very weekend. His father was supposed to take him out for an adventure, and Harvey could barely wait. He got home that Friday, bursting into the kitchen, expecting to find him waiting. Instead, only his mother occupied the room, stirring in a pot just put on the burner. His father had a situation to handle at work and would not be coming. Harvey’s stomach dropped. Disappointment hit first, but beneath it curled something darker: fear. The kind he did not want to put into words. His mother, busy as she was, took the time to look over her shoulder and suggest they could do something together instead. Harvey doesn’t really know why the simple offer made him snap, it just did. He did not want a weekend with his mom. He wanted to spend it with his dad! Before he knew it, the contents of the pot exploded. The gravy sprayed everywhere. Across walls and countertops. It was hot, but thankfully not hot enough to burn. Harvey just stood there, stunned. The anger slipped away faster than it spiked. It was replaced by something else. He knew magic was a thing, but he did not know it was something he himself was capable of. A small but proud smile tugged at his lips. His mother, on the other hand, was close to panic. What had happened went against all laws of physics, it should have been impossible. She looked between Harvey and the walls covered in gravy in disbelief, turning into fear. But Harvey got his wish. Not even minutes later his father’s presence was requested. This time, he answered. Harvey was pleased down to his very core. He did something impressive, and got his wish. If only he could do it again…
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes, Duelist
Stats: Stamina 4 | Evasion 7 | Strength 1 | Wisdom 10 | Arcane power 4 | Accuracy 9
Special Race/Ability: Werewolf. Word count: 1083
Reducio
He was six. He can not quite remember it all that well, as it seemed so long ago. But to a twelve year old, six years is an eternity. Harvey has many times wished he could have done things differently. Number one on that list is the cursed camping trip between father and son.
It was to be an adventure! Full moon and a cloudless sky, it was truly the perfect conditions for star gazing. That was not what had convinced Harvey to go though. No, the campfire and the possibility of s’mores was a way bigger incentive. Getting to spend the night with his dad, listening to incredible stories, was not so bad either.
They had hiked for what felt like hours. Harvey was tired almost before they left the front porch. But on and on they walked. His dad said there would be no problem getting them out quickly if needed, but moving the body was good for the soul. Harvey tried to keep his complaints to himself.
They set up camp in a clearing, just beneath a small peak. It was truly the perfect spot. It did not take long before darkness fell and the Astronomy lesson could commence. It was interesting and all, but Harvey soon struggled to keep his eyes open. If he could just close them for a second…
When he woke, he found himself stuffed into his bedroll. His father snored softly beside him, and the fire had burned down to a few embers. Why had he woken up? Right. He needed a trip to the little boys room. He sat up slowly, stretching all limbs. Sleeping on the ground was nowhere near as comfortable as he had imagined. Climbing out of the makeshift bed, he shook his dad’s shoulder. He probably didn’t have to, but Grigori had been so adamant on knowing where he was at any given time. After a few seconds he gave up. The man was about as dead to the world as a bear in hibernation.
Yawning, he walked off. Not far, just a stone throw or two. Relief filled him as he finally let go. Had he not been so rudely interrupted, he would have enjoyed it a whole lot more. There was howling in the distance. He knew there were wild animals here, but his father had failed to mention wolves. He ransacked his memory for useful information. Wild animals rarely sought out humans, something about the smell being wrong? They had been camped there for several hours, so he knew their smell probably lingered in the whole area.
It was strange though, the howls seemed to be getting closer? He shook off the last drops before turning toward the camp. It was probably no reason to worry, the wolf would turn soon enough. Treading carefully in the darkness, he made his way back.
He was almost there too, when a branch snapped just off to the side. Looking in that direction and back, he was for a moment stumped on what to do. He wasn’t really all that sleepy anymore. It couldn’t hurt to take a look, right? Stepping off the path, he headed towards the sound of rustling leaves with curiosity. What he failed to notice was that the howls had stopped.
What happened next happened so fast that Harvey still has difficulty piecing it all together. He walked straight at a few bushes where the sounds seemed to be originating. He grabbed a branch and pulled it back to get a better view. He was met with a set of feline eyes and snarling teeth. He must have stumbled back. Surprise or horror, there was no way to be sure. A scream even tore from his throat as he tried to keep from falling when he turned to run. The sound had barely passed his lips before the wolf pounced on him.
Pain. Pure and utter agony. Of course he knew nothing of it then, but he was sure his life was ending as the beast clamped its jaw around his neck. Becoming a werewolf’s chew toy had not been on his agenda for the day, but yet that is what he became. Maybe he passed out? Maybe his father was just that reactive? Out of nowhere colored sparks lit up the area. A wave of air pushed the wolf off him, and it howled in pain. A few more sparks, and his vision was filled with his fathers face who was pale with worry. The Russian words came too fast for him to understand, or maybe he dazed again? He was picked up by strong arms, and what to him felt like a second later they were safely back in the apartment his father owned.
His wound was tended to with quick hands. He was told later the wound was stuffed with silver and essence of dittany. The only useful thing for slowing the bleeding. The only thing that could be done. The hands caring for him seemed to slow after a while, or maybe he drifted off again? Eventually everything drifted steadily out of focus.
Harvey survived that terrible night, even though he often wished he hadn’t. The first of which came only a mere month later. Locked in a shed in the garden, warded with countless wards and defenses thanks to his father. He could not help being scared. Whoever would claim to be otherwise was a liar, and a terrible one at that.
The transformation was agonizing, there was no better word for it. Feeling every bone in the body break and reform, he screamed until his voice gave out and then he screamed some more. His form was yet another thing to add to the list of things he didn’t like. It was tall and scrawny, straight up ugly. Couldn’t he have at least transformed into an actual wolf?! But no, his form was Gaunt. The space he was in was not as cramped as it could have been, but he still bore the memories and scars of him clawing at everything within reach to get out. When he came to the next morning, once again in the body of a boy, he wiped away tears at the thought of it happening again. As horrible as the thought was, thinking of his parents seeing him upset over it seemed somehow worse. Blame childish logic or perhaps the need to prove that he was way more than they thought him to be.
It was to be an adventure! Full moon and a cloudless sky, it was truly the perfect conditions for star gazing. That was not what had convinced Harvey to go though. No, the campfire and the possibility of s’mores was a way bigger incentive. Getting to spend the night with his dad, listening to incredible stories, was not so bad either.
They had hiked for what felt like hours. Harvey was tired almost before they left the front porch. But on and on they walked. His dad said there would be no problem getting them out quickly if needed, but moving the body was good for the soul. Harvey tried to keep his complaints to himself.
They set up camp in a clearing, just beneath a small peak. It was truly the perfect spot. It did not take long before darkness fell and the Astronomy lesson could commence. It was interesting and all, but Harvey soon struggled to keep his eyes open. If he could just close them for a second…
When he woke, he found himself stuffed into his bedroll. His father snored softly beside him, and the fire had burned down to a few embers. Why had he woken up? Right. He needed a trip to the little boys room. He sat up slowly, stretching all limbs. Sleeping on the ground was nowhere near as comfortable as he had imagined. Climbing out of the makeshift bed, he shook his dad’s shoulder. He probably didn’t have to, but Grigori had been so adamant on knowing where he was at any given time. After a few seconds he gave up. The man was about as dead to the world as a bear in hibernation.
Yawning, he walked off. Not far, just a stone throw or two. Relief filled him as he finally let go. Had he not been so rudely interrupted, he would have enjoyed it a whole lot more. There was howling in the distance. He knew there were wild animals here, but his father had failed to mention wolves. He ransacked his memory for useful information. Wild animals rarely sought out humans, something about the smell being wrong? They had been camped there for several hours, so he knew their smell probably lingered in the whole area.
It was strange though, the howls seemed to be getting closer? He shook off the last drops before turning toward the camp. It was probably no reason to worry, the wolf would turn soon enough. Treading carefully in the darkness, he made his way back.
He was almost there too, when a branch snapped just off to the side. Looking in that direction and back, he was for a moment stumped on what to do. He wasn’t really all that sleepy anymore. It couldn’t hurt to take a look, right? Stepping off the path, he headed towards the sound of rustling leaves with curiosity. What he failed to notice was that the howls had stopped.
What happened next happened so fast that Harvey still has difficulty piecing it all together. He walked straight at a few bushes where the sounds seemed to be originating. He grabbed a branch and pulled it back to get a better view. He was met with a set of feline eyes and snarling teeth. He must have stumbled back. Surprise or horror, there was no way to be sure. A scream even tore from his throat as he tried to keep from falling when he turned to run. The sound had barely passed his lips before the wolf pounced on him.
Pain. Pure and utter agony. Of course he knew nothing of it then, but he was sure his life was ending as the beast clamped its jaw around his neck. Becoming a werewolf’s chew toy had not been on his agenda for the day, but yet that is what he became. Maybe he passed out? Maybe his father was just that reactive? Out of nowhere colored sparks lit up the area. A wave of air pushed the wolf off him, and it howled in pain. A few more sparks, and his vision was filled with his fathers face who was pale with worry. The Russian words came too fast for him to understand, or maybe he dazed again? He was picked up by strong arms, and what to him felt like a second later they were safely back in the apartment his father owned.
His wound was tended to with quick hands. He was told later the wound was stuffed with silver and essence of dittany. The only useful thing for slowing the bleeding. The only thing that could be done. The hands caring for him seemed to slow after a while, or maybe he drifted off again? Eventually everything drifted steadily out of focus.
Harvey survived that terrible night, even though he often wished he hadn’t. The first of which came only a mere month later. Locked in a shed in the garden, warded with countless wards and defenses thanks to his father. He could not help being scared. Whoever would claim to be otherwise was a liar, and a terrible one at that.
The transformation was agonizing, there was no better word for it. Feeling every bone in the body break and reform, he screamed until his voice gave out and then he screamed some more. His form was yet another thing to add to the list of things he didn’t like. It was tall and scrawny, straight up ugly. Couldn’t he have at least transformed into an actual wolf?! But no, his form was Gaunt. The space he was in was not as cramped as it could have been, but he still bore the memories and scars of him clawing at everything within reach to get out. When he came to the next morning, once again in the body of a boy, he wiped away tears at the thought of it happening again. As horrible as the thought was, thinking of his parents seeing him upset over it seemed somehow worse. Blame childish logic or perhaps the need to prove that he was way more than they thought him to be.
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? Normally.
STATUS: Pending — Santiago, 09/07/2026
Reasons for pending:
- Clarify what potion he was given after the werewolf attack and how he was treated. Keep in mind silver and dittany are needed to heal the wounds.
Edit made
As I have understood the werewolf lore, the silver and dittany are applied to the wound itself, and not in the form of a potion. The drink mentioned was therefore not meant to be anything more than a drink of water. I have edited the paragraph, but if further edits are needed for whatever reason please tell me!
STATUS: Pending — Aulis, 22/07/2026
Apologies for the delay. Reasons for pending:
- Please remove coloured text from your trunk; black is still a colour.
- Almost all of what I can find on the internet about your city of residence has it spelled Shlisselburg instead of Sjlisselburg. Please confirm the spelling.
Edits made
- Color is removed from trunk, so sorry about that!
- I double-checked the spelling, and you were right. The spelling I found seems to be tied to my native language and not how the city is spelled. Residence now changed to Shlisselburg, Russia in both app and ency.
STATUS: Approved — Aulis, 22/07/2026
PC: Maximilianus Kenneally Vidler—————————"Life is short; make it weird and slightly chaotic."
iNPC: Harvey Dunn—————————————————————Roadhouse Radio
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Christopher Vyacheslavovna
PC Name: Danielle Kim Angeles
Year: Second
Link to your Character Page: Ency linkie
Status: Pureblood
Residence: Moscow, Russia
Nationality: Russian
History:ReducioChristopher Vyacheslavovna belonged to the House of Vyacheslavovna, an ancient pureblood lineage of wizards that dated back many years. Despite their reputation as a distinguished family in the traditional circles of magic, the Vyacheslavovnas have always lacked influence in politics and the display of excess money. They focused on magical studies, the law of magic, healing, and traditions of the old magic. Discipline and reputation mattered most to them, and any child born in such a family knew from birth that every step of theirs would mean something to each of their ancestors too.
Christopher was the youngest among his brothers and sisters. During the first eight years of his life, he led a rather unremarkable childhood for the child of a pureblood family. He learned manners and magical history along with afternoons spent playing in the forests near the family estate under the watchful eye of older children, tutors, or domestic servants. His parents were strict yet loving enough to know that discipline and kindness are not necessarily opposites.
This all came about in one autumn evening.
While exploring deeper within the confines of the estate's wooded area than he had ever been allowed before, Christopher was confronted with an attack from a werewolf who had somehow managed to get past the protective warding system of the property. Even though he was chased off before he could be killed, the wound that the creature inflicted on his left leg was going to change his entire life from that day forth. Everything his family could do to save him was done for Christopher. While silver dust and dittany helped keep him alive until the arrival of healers, it took too long and Nightroot Elixir had missed its opportunity at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.
Christopher lived.
His lycanthropy did as well.
.
First Magic:ReducioThe very first display of Christopher Vyacheslavovna's accidental magic happened when he was just five years old, at the peak of one of the most stormy storms ever recorded by his family. Due to his innate fear of loud noises, the boy had been hiding under the grand piano in his family drawing room while it was pouring rain outside. The sudden boom of lightning near one of the trees made the whole estate tremble and scared the boy to tears. While he was squeezing his eyes and putting his hands over his ears, all the candles in the room burst into small blue flames. Unlike the usual fire, the magic one was burning silently without damaging anything in the room – it was lighting up a small part of the room without touching any furniture, curtains, or wooden floors.
The commotion led to Christopher's parents, brothers, sisters, as well as some servants entering the drawing room and seeing him hiding under the piano surrounded by weird blue flames. As soon as his mother sat down next to him and embraced him, the magic fire disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
Though frightening at the time, the incident was celebrated within the family, confirming that Christopher had inherited the magical abilities expected of a pureblood child.
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Quidditch Player (Beater, First string)
Stats:Reducio[ sta ] 8 [ eva ] 2 [ str ] 8 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 3 [ acc ] 7
Special Race/Ability:ReducioChristopher Vyacheslavovna belonged to a noble bloodline family whose tradition was centered on discipline, education, and service, rather than prestige. Despite the respected name of Vyacheslavovna, which was known in magical community, no one from this family had ever tried to gain any kind of power or reputation. On the contrary, all members of this noble bloodline spent their lives on practicing medicine, magics laws, and protecting traditional magic. In addition, Christopher and his elder brothers were raised strictly, but not cold-heartedly, as his parents valued such things as responsibility and kindness rather than blood status only.
His childhood was quite idyllic till he was eight years old.
The estate of Vyacheslavovna was located close to the ancient woods that were protected by magical spells. One autumn day, Christopher went deeper into the woods than his parents would allow him, searching for a wounded snowy owl. Unaware of the situation, a werewolf managed to get inside the defense perimeter of the estate. Soon the creature attacked Christopher, biting his left leg.
Christopher’s parents took immediate action. Silver powder was stuffed in his wound while dittany stopped the bleeding until he reached the Healers. Unfortunately, the time to reach the hospital was much more than the time that allowed him to benefit from the Nightroot Elixir to prevent lycanthropy. Christopher survived, but not from the curse.
The first transformation of Christopher happened during the next full moon.
Unable to endure the pain of the curse, Christopher became a gigantic wolf with no idea about himself and others. His parents were ready with a strong chamber in the basement of their house where Healers and curse experts helped them to build. The transformation was horrifying; however, his family never considered him a monster.
As Christopher aged, however, it became possible for the family to obtain the very best possible care available. Once Healers deemed him ready, they put him on the Wolfsbane Potion. The potion did not stop the physical transformation from occurring, but it kept him humanly conscious during it, allowing him to think as opposed to act purely on instinct. It was far from being a cheap and easy process, but it was necessary, in the view of his parents, to cope with the situation.
Living in the estate adjusted itself according to the lunar calendar. Every month, when the time for transformation came, everything was planned out. Wards, medical supervision, and all kinds of preparations were done as a matter of course. The boy found out that coping with lycanthropy was all about preparation. Christopher knew the importance of all these measures; however, at the same time, he was constantly reminded of the impact of his problem on others.
In the magical world outside of the estate, things were different. Christopher soon found out that many witches and wizards held prejudice against werewolves, regardless of the measures they take. It is important for parents to be honest with people, but at the same time to explain to their child that keeping certain things private is not a lie. This condition was a part of his life, but it was never supposed to become his whole existence.
Growing up a werewolf helped Christopher become a patient person who was attentive and always thought about other people. The pale scar on his left leg is a constant reminder of the night when everything changed in his childhood, but at the same time, this scar is a symbol of constant help and support from his family. Instead of becoming a victim of the curse, Christopher was taught that he would always be evaluated by his actions instead of that bite that caused his condition.
If special race/ability, how did they join the school?ReducioChristopher’s admission was put off after the Healers said that he should not be admitted immediately after being infected with lycanthropy, due to his monthly transformations. It took a whole year of home schooling, periodic checkups, and adaptation to his transformation cycle before his parents allowed him to enroll at Durmstrang.
STATUS: Pending — Santiago, 09/07/2026
Reasons for pending:
- The first instance of magic is currently considered too powerful. The flames should only last a few seconds and should not occur on such a large scale that the entire room appears to be engulfed in flames.
- Given the family's resources, why didn't they provide him with wolfsbane potions to stop him from turning into an uncontrollable wolf every full moon?
- The stats currently add up to 30 points. As a second year, he would have 35 points.
STATUS: Approved — Arkady, 12/07/2026
Last edited by Danielle Kim Angeles on 12 Jul 2026, 12:03, edited 2 times in total.
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Vilhelm Hugo Djupandstierna
PC Name: Jun Mayumi Mochizuki
Year: Third
Link to your Character Page: Plop
Status: Pureblood
Residence: Norrfällsviken, Sweden
Nationality: Swedish
History:
ReducioThe Djupandstierna‘s are a noble Pureblood family, coming from old money and wealthy heritage. Hugo Erik Djupandstierna was born as the only son of Baltasar Alrik and Linnéa Djupandstierna, in Djursholme, Sweden. He grew up under the watchful eyes of his father and mother, carved into the perfect heir of estates, wealth and power. Across wizarding Sweden, parts of Europe and Asia, the Djupandstierna name has always held a certain significance. A certain weight. This originally stemmed from the long lineage of Men becoming Aurors in their family — there is barely any record of a different career path beneath the Djupandstierna men. However, the family itself is also known for holding yearly events such as balls and other activities. Whether that is hunting, sailing or a business dinner, none of the above are unusual to be held by them. Alas, that is how Hugo met his wife. The Adelborg family had always been connected to the Djupandstierna‘s in business and friendship, which only meant Hugo and Filipa were destined to be.
Hugo never paid much of an interest in the younger girl while attending Durmstrang Institute. He was far too ambitious to fulfill his fathers expectations to care for other interests. Upon graduation, he worked hard as an Auror in training to make a name for himself beneath the elite wizards and witches, gaining a reputation of not caring about anyone, nor stopping for anything. Until years later. He was attending one of his family’s balls, strutting through the crowd as though others were mere decorative pieces. Until his eyes laid upon Filipa Helene Adelborg. The girl he used to know had grown into a fine young woman, with long silky blonde hair and an air of elegance that made him stop in his tracks. While Hugo had only ever been interested in success, all of a sudden he found himself wishing to converse with Filipa. Strutting through crowds like he did not have time for anyone turned into walking slowly through the crowd beside Filipa, conversing and even smiling down at her when she laughed at the way children chased each other across the Dance floor.
It did not take long for his parents to see how smitten he was with the young woman, how gentle their usually stern son was with her. The wedding followed a year later and within their first year of marriage, their first son was born. Alrik Djupandstierna, the perfect heir with dark curls and bright blue eyes, a mix of both his parents. Linnéa Djupandstierna followed, before Vilhelm and Solveig were born just a couple years later. Ambrosius Djupandstierna and Baltasar Djupandstierna were the latest and last additions to the family. Both Hugo and Filipa take great pride in their children and expect them to succeed and grow to carry on the family name, along with their traditions, values and wealth. They make sure each of their children is supported in both, their interests and other intellectual areas deemed as important. From a young age on, each child relished in tutoring and etiquette lessons, whether that be in languages, manners, sports or the arts.
Vilhelm Hugo Djupandstierna therefore grew up in a loving, skilled, noble family where he learned that intelligence, charm and hard work is the way to success. In tutoring, his father not only insisted that he learned the proper way to speak his mother tongue, but to be fluent in Russian and German too, as he of course intended Vilhelm to attend Durmstrang Institute and deemed these languages as quite important. His mothers wish was that he’d learn English too, due to the vast international events of wizarding schools. Of course that was only a small part of his tutoring, perhaps his most liked though. In the arts, Vilhelm chose to learn the nyckelharpa (keyed harp), a traditional Swedish string instrument played with a short bow, rather than one of the instruments his siblings already played.
Growing up in nature and by the coast, his father and older brother taught him to sail when he was just old enough to walk. Sailing had been a tradition in the family for years, whether that was afternoons spent with the family by the coast, or a breath of fresh air to clear one’s head. Vilhelm learned quickly and when his brother was home from Durmstrang during the Summer, he’d often take him to the Sea. Other extracurriculars in Vilhelm’s education included horse riding, tennis, bandy, golf or fencing — all of which he regularly participated in. His days were often spent by the coast, with a watchful eye over his siblings.
Once he was ready to attend Durmstrang Institute, he began playing quidditch more regularly and working to exceed in his magical abilities. It was no trouble for Vilhelm to make connections and he learned quickly that Durmstrang had many likeminded students, that grew up in similar circumstances as he had. He grew further into the role of protective older brother to Solveig - even when they were the same age — and that also started showing at home. When his brother left for his training as an Auror, Vilhelm took over his role naturally and became the one his father proudly presented at events and balls. He revels within the attention and does as he believes pleases his father, for Vilhelm is destined to become another great man, carrying on the Djupandstierna name.
First Magic:
ReducioThe Sea swept at the shore as the cool wind bit at Vilhelms face. The 4 year old had begged his father to take him and Solveig sailing today, until he had given in. It was early May, a cool morning while the Sun peaked through the white clouds. Solveig stood beside him on the deck of the small wooden sailing boat. She was dressed in a thick coat, wool scarf and rainboots, her hair tied into two braids. Their father had just told them to sit down and hold on, even when the sea was calm today. They wouldn’t be gone for long, as Vilhelm knew the servants would be preparing a large meal for lunch, and a gathering was planned for tonight. He sat beside his twin as Hugo Erik Djupandstierna managed the boat. When mid morning came closer, the weather shifted. Silence fell over the sea and his father instantly tensed, turning the boat around with the wind that was left. They had been sailing out for about an hour, not too long, but now their father seemed to want to turn back. Vilhelm didn’t protest. They were slower than before and he watched the sky turn into an ominous, bruise colored steel gray. Low clouds were starting to form and at this point, Vilhelm knew exactly what was coming. The temperatures dropped, fog spread across the sea and a wall of white was moving toward them as his father frantically moved around the boat to get them to shore in time. „Get in the cabin, now!” Came his fathers strained voice. The weather was dangerous on days like this one, only that the broadcast these past days had most definitely not mentioned any incoming storms. Vilhelm stood up as the Sea suddenly turned pitch black, grabbing Solveigs arm to pull her along. Then the storm hit. The water turned into a violent, chaotic carpet of aggression as wind hit the sails and the boat shifted. Vilhelm started pulling Solveig toward the cabin, barely able to keep on his legs as his father struggled to steer the boat away from crashing into the cliffs. Then she fell. His twins small body tumbled toward the edge of the boat and — Vilhelm shot after her, just as her body was close to hitting the water. He caught her with one arm as suddenly a surprising strength overtook him and he pulled her in. Adrenaline? Fear? No, Magic. Only that there was no time to celebrate it, as their father pulled them into the cabin and struggled to get them to safety. That evening, Vilhelm told everyone that would listen about his first instance of accidental magic; saving his sister.
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes. Quidditch Player, Beater
Stats: Stamina: 9 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 10 | Wisdom: 8 | Arcane Power: 2 | Accuracy: 9
STATUS: Pending — Santiago, 09/07/2026
Reasons for pending:
- Please avoid making the character directly related to real historical/noble families. The Gyllenstierna name is associated with an existing Swedish noble family, so please create an original pureblood family name and history instead. Additionally, a pureblood family having direct ties to Muggle royalty would have required further clarification due to the separation between the Muggle and magical worlds.
- Skuleskogen is a national park and not an inhabited city/location. Please replace it with a suitable residential location, for example, Docksta or Näske, or another nearby village.
— Edits made
STATUS: Approved — Aulis, 22/07/2026
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Theodore Alexei Vorona-Russo
PC Name: Ophelia Vanderbilt
Year: First
Link to your Character Page: here
Status: Pure-Blood
Residence: Moscow, Russian Federation
Nationality: Italian He's Italian-Russian, but in profile please display Italian
History:
First Magic:
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes, Quidditch Player, Beater
Stats: Sta 7
Eva 9
Str 8
Wis 1
Arc 0
Acc 10
Special Race/Ability: none, human
PC Name: Ophelia Vanderbilt
Year: First
Link to your Character Page: here
Status: Pure-Blood
Residence: Moscow, Russian Federation
Nationality: Italian He's Italian-Russian, but in profile please display Italian
History:
Reducio
Theodore Alexei Vorona-Russo is the only son of the Vorona-Russo family. His father, Vincenzo Russo, is the eldest son and the current patriarch of the Russo family. His mother, Ekaterina Vorona, is the eldest daughter of the Vorona family. Both of these families were pure-bloods, the Russo family having always attended Beauxbatons, and the Vorona family always attending Durmstrang.
When Vincenzo and Ekaterina met, it was in their sixth year at their school in a ball hosted in Hogwarts. Their families welcomed each other due to both of them being pure-bloods and having similar traditions, and accepted their relationship. One year after their graduation, Vincenzo proposed to Ekaterina with a bouquet containing nine hundred and ninety-nine red roses. The proposal took place at night in the Russo manor’s garden. Vincenzo had knelt down after giving Ekaterina the bouquet and took out a red, elegant ring box, and opened it. Inside, there was a silver ring with a Burma Ruby gemstone.
Their wedding took place in the ballroom of the Vorona manor, the theme being dark red -Ekaterina’s favorite color- and black -Vincenzo’s favorite color. Three to four years later, after Vincenzo was succeeded as the Head of the Russo family and had inherited one of the manors, and Il Cerchio Rosso The Red Circle, and building the organization into a more dangerous and feared one, Ekaterina got pregnant with Theodore.
As the only child, Theodore was cherished by his parents, but not by his grandfathers. Theodore’s parents loved him, and how he always seemed to be a shy and polite kid. When Theodore was a child, Vincenzo took him with him to the headquarters of Il Cerchio Rosso, and even the blood thirsty members loved the kid and always brought him a small gift, be it a toy or a candy.
When Theodore wasn’t with his father, he’d spend time with Ekaterina, who was a soft-spoken but elegant woman. She’d take him shopping or to a cafe, and they talked about everything. Well, almost everything.
Theodore was always happy and smiling around his parents, but not very much so when he was being ‘babysat’ by his grandfathers. Ekaterina’s mother had died when she was in her fifth year at Durmstrang. Vincenzo’s grandmother was targeted by the enemy organization and died when he was sixteen years old. These occurrences resulted in Theodore only having his two grandfathers left, who didn’t treat him like the kid he was.
Ivanov Vorona and Alessandro Russo had teamed up in adultifying him. Whenever Theodore was at one of their places, they’d be training him. From the ages of one to three, Vincenzo and Ekaterina didn’t want to let him be out of their sight, not even with their fathers. But after he turned four, they started to be less cautious and agreed to their fathers babysitting him when they had to go to events or dates together.
Ivanov and Alessandro taught him manners and asking for permission from ages four to five. When Theodore turned six, boxing lessons started to keep him fit. Boxing was a Muggle sport that both bloodlines had taken a liking to and had been doing to stay in shape, strong, and fit. This was going to be passed down to the later generations.
Whenever Theodore spoke without the required manners or did something specific without asking for permission in front of the grandparents, he was glared at and slapped softly across the face, so as not to leave a red mark or hurt badly. He was also told not to tell anything about his training to his legal guardians until they understood themselves.
Vincenzo has a younger brother, Santino Russo. Santino was a respected and respectful guy, who was, unlike what may be said in books, not jealous of his older brother. Theodore usually saw him at family events and when he was invited as a guest to the Vorona-Russo manor. He taught Theodore how to throw a ball, and Vincenzo watched his son smiling while spending time with his twenty-year-old uncle. Santino was quite a good and well-liked student in Beauxbatons and was currently an Auror in Training.
Ekaterina had a younger brother and a younger sister who were twins. Sergei was a quiet and nerdy boy who proceeded in studying Herbology, now being a Novice Herbologist. He received support from his siblings in this path, not as much from his father. Svetlana was rather the opposite of her younger twin. She was loud, not nerdy but also not dumb. After she finished her studies in Durmstrang, she started her profession as a Quidditch player, now being a First-String Chaser. Theodore saw them, like Santino, only in family events and when they were invited to their manor as guests.
When Vincenzo and Ekaterina met, it was in their sixth year at their school in a ball hosted in Hogwarts. Their families welcomed each other due to both of them being pure-bloods and having similar traditions, and accepted their relationship. One year after their graduation, Vincenzo proposed to Ekaterina with a bouquet containing nine hundred and ninety-nine red roses. The proposal took place at night in the Russo manor’s garden. Vincenzo had knelt down after giving Ekaterina the bouquet and took out a red, elegant ring box, and opened it. Inside, there was a silver ring with a Burma Ruby gemstone.
Their wedding took place in the ballroom of the Vorona manor, the theme being dark red -Ekaterina’s favorite color- and black -Vincenzo’s favorite color. Three to four years later, after Vincenzo was succeeded as the Head of the Russo family and had inherited one of the manors, and Il Cerchio Rosso The Red Circle, and building the organization into a more dangerous and feared one, Ekaterina got pregnant with Theodore.
As the only child, Theodore was cherished by his parents, but not by his grandfathers. Theodore’s parents loved him, and how he always seemed to be a shy and polite kid. When Theodore was a child, Vincenzo took him with him to the headquarters of Il Cerchio Rosso, and even the blood thirsty members loved the kid and always brought him a small gift, be it a toy or a candy.
When Theodore wasn’t with his father, he’d spend time with Ekaterina, who was a soft-spoken but elegant woman. She’d take him shopping or to a cafe, and they talked about everything. Well, almost everything.
Theodore was always happy and smiling around his parents, but not very much so when he was being ‘babysat’ by his grandfathers. Ekaterina’s mother had died when she was in her fifth year at Durmstrang. Vincenzo’s grandmother was targeted by the enemy organization and died when he was sixteen years old. These occurrences resulted in Theodore only having his two grandfathers left, who didn’t treat him like the kid he was.
Ivanov Vorona and Alessandro Russo had teamed up in adultifying him. Whenever Theodore was at one of their places, they’d be training him. From the ages of one to three, Vincenzo and Ekaterina didn’t want to let him be out of their sight, not even with their fathers. But after he turned four, they started to be less cautious and agreed to their fathers babysitting him when they had to go to events or dates together.
Ivanov and Alessandro taught him manners and asking for permission from ages four to five. When Theodore turned six, boxing lessons started to keep him fit. Boxing was a Muggle sport that both bloodlines had taken a liking to and had been doing to stay in shape, strong, and fit. This was going to be passed down to the later generations.
Whenever Theodore spoke without the required manners or did something specific without asking for permission in front of the grandparents, he was glared at and slapped softly across the face, so as not to leave a red mark or hurt badly. He was also told not to tell anything about his training to his legal guardians until they understood themselves.
Vincenzo has a younger brother, Santino Russo. Santino was a respected and respectful guy, who was, unlike what may be said in books, not jealous of his older brother. Theodore usually saw him at family events and when he was invited as a guest to the Vorona-Russo manor. He taught Theodore how to throw a ball, and Vincenzo watched his son smiling while spending time with his twenty-year-old uncle. Santino was quite a good and well-liked student in Beauxbatons and was currently an Auror in Training.
Ekaterina had a younger brother and a younger sister who were twins. Sergei was a quiet and nerdy boy who proceeded in studying Herbology, now being a Novice Herbologist. He received support from his siblings in this path, not as much from his father. Svetlana was rather the opposite of her younger twin. She was loud, not nerdy but also not dumb. After she finished her studies in Durmstrang, she started her profession as a Quidditch player, now being a First-String Chaser. Theodore saw them, like Santino, only in family events and when they were invited to their manor as guests.
First Magic:
Reducio
One night, when Theodore was boxing in the Russo manor, his grandfather started getting the impression that Theodore was slacking. He was. He’d been training for an hour already, and his eight-year-old body was exhausted, even though he’d been doing this for three years now.
Alessandro frowned, not enjoying the way the young boy’s arms looked as if they were made out of jelly. He started to get frustrated with the young boy, spitting out toxic words as motivation, next to multiple Italian curse words under his breath.
Theodore started to hit harder with each word that was leaving Alessandro’s mouth. Each punch made a satisfying sound as it hit the boxing bag, one after another, and each of them got stronger and stronger. The boxing bag had survived three generations of boys: Alessandro, Vincenzo, Santino.
Another toxic motivation was spat out, and Theodore hit the bag at it. Immediately, the bag exploded. It didn’t tear. The foam didn’t spill out. The bag and the foam inside literally exploded, but did not burn Theodore. His shirt, which was on the floor, caught on fire, but Theodore wasn’t hurt.
Alessandro was shocked at first. Then he let out a laugh and walked toward Theodore. He cast a spell and put out the fire. Then he turned to Theodore and patted his back and praised the boy for this, not at all minding that the punching bag was ruined to… nothing.
Alessandro frowned, not enjoying the way the young boy’s arms looked as if they were made out of jelly. He started to get frustrated with the young boy, spitting out toxic words as motivation, next to multiple Italian curse words under his breath.
Theodore started to hit harder with each word that was leaving Alessandro’s mouth. Each punch made a satisfying sound as it hit the boxing bag, one after another, and each of them got stronger and stronger. The boxing bag had survived three generations of boys: Alessandro, Vincenzo, Santino.
Another toxic motivation was spat out, and Theodore hit the bag at it. Immediately, the bag exploded. It didn’t tear. The foam didn’t spill out. The bag and the foam inside literally exploded, but did not burn Theodore. His shirt, which was on the floor, caught on fire, but Theodore wasn’t hurt.
Alessandro was shocked at first. Then he let out a laugh and walked toward Theodore. He cast a spell and put out the fire. Then he turned to Theodore and patted his back and praised the boy for this, not at all minding that the punching bag was ruined to… nothing.
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes, Quidditch Player, Beater
Stats: Sta 7
Eva 9
Str 8
Wis 1
Arc 0
Acc 10
Special Race/Ability: none, human
STATUS: Approved — Anthonie, 26/07/2026
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Declan Blackwell
PC Account Name: Marshal Mozor
Year: 1st
Link to your Character Page: Behold
Status: Halfblood
Residence: Pančevo, Serbia
Nationality: Irish
History:
First Magic:
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? No
Stats:
Special Race/Ability:
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? 1st year in 2026
PC Account Name: Marshal Mozor
Year: 1st
Link to your Character Page: Behold
Status: Halfblood
Residence: Pančevo, Serbia
Nationality: Irish
History:
Reducio
Born of an estranged heir to the Blackwell house, Declan always knew of his magical heritage, and yet the crux of his story was never quite so simple, for his father would not have it so. A recalcitrant young man — or so was his label — who would rather spill his bloodline for the tastes of the dead than carry on the Blackwell name. Silas Blackwell II had taken the cold hand of a vampire in marriage, sealing the forbidden, and siring a boy whose very existence was a stain. A boy whose birthright had been stolen by the fiend who called herself his mother.
Perhaps the sin would have been forgiven had she acted like anything of the sort, but then, how could a dead heart hold any warmth? His father had insisted it did, that it beat blood and love the same as his, but the ice in her touch told a different tale.
He’d never known his mother’s family name, if she had one. Aveline Blackwell had taken her husband’s name and abandoned her past like a disease. Declan often wondered if she had a past at all, or if indeed she had risen from the grave to feast on his father’s pure blood, as the Blackwell family believed.
The boy had little chance at what might be considered a normal life, and what little there was faded with the pigment of his skin. Sallow and dead like his mother’s. It wasn’t so much the shade that did it, but the symbol. He was marked by a creature that could never be accepted, the result of folly, the spawn of something that even he — through her indifference — came to view as something of a monster. The boy was only half alive; the half given by his father, not because he was human, but because he was the only one that ever loved him.
The home Declan grew in was of wealth; Blackwell money. His father had already taken a piece of his inheritance by the time his heart was stolen by Aveline, including the family’s abandoned estate in Cushendun of Northern Ireland, and the family had never demanded it back, allowing the pair to take flight from Serbia to reside there. Perhaps they still cared for Silas, or perhaps the inheritance was viewed as tainted. The reason mattered little, for his son never knew the grip of poverty, nor of his family; yet luxury alone garners not security.
Knowing that his child was marked, Silas feared for his place in the outside world, and thus took it away. Declan was sheltered, his education private and interaction with others limited. Kept in the dark, where naturally he preferred.
It wasn’t only his father’s concern that hindered his social appearance, of course. The Blackwells and their estate on the edge of Cushendun became something of a local urban legend. Rumor spread that vampires inhabited the home, placing a stigma on them and their associates. Not all legends are lies.
At age seven, Declan’s isolation would come to an unexpected end when a desperate mother appeared on their doorstep with her dying child. Unbeknownst to him at the time, that mother was his aunt, Amelia Blackwell, or more recently of the taken name Lochridge.
Though the events that followed were kept from his knowledge, he would later piece together the puzzle of that somber night. The little girl, a cousin he’d never known by the name of Laoise Lochridge, had fallen incurably ill, even by magical standards. Apparently having escaped her family’s purview long enough to poke her nose too far into some ruins outside town, the young one had contracted a disease known as Ectoplasmic Lock. Curable in theory if caught early, but initial symptoms had been dismissed for too long. Once the family had finally recognized their severity, their concern was all but futile.
In a final act of desperation, Amelia had taken her to Declan’s mother, whom she knew to be a vampire.
In the following days, Declan found that he was no longer the only child in his home, nor the only dhampir. His mother had turned Laoise to purge the illness and prolong the girl’s life, and Amelia had left her daughter in the care of her brother, unable or unwilling to return home with a dhampir. A true Blackwell she was.
For the first time in his life, Declan found his loneliness challenged, though wasn’t certain he liked it at first. Why had this small child suddenly appeared, and for heaven’s sake, why did she cry so much? The tears only fell faster when she realized she now cried blood. Declan could not understand why she feared the things which had been his nature since birth, but he knew one thing — he could not stand the crying. So he gave her a handkerchief for the blood, and did what he could to teach her about this new life; the life he’d always lived. Over time, she wept less, and his annoyance toward her softened. She became someone to him — someone to watch over.
His life remained dull, and his seclusion from the world still pressed in, but at least he had little Laoise — whom he jokingly nicknamed Bitten, an informal name for a baby bat — and his father.
The winter morning was new and untouched by the sun when Silas Blackwell II was killed. By whom? His family said it was Aveline; that same monster who sullied their blood had finally been overcome by its taste. Others agreed, for denial seemed foolish when the man’s body had been found in their home, drained of the Blackwell birthright in his veins. Declan had more damning proof, though he never said a word. He’d seen his mother that morning, crouched over his father’s colorless form. For once, they had all looked like a family. She’d met his eye and then disappeared. He supposed he ought to believe she was responsible, yet the look on her face hadn’t been hunger, or even regret; it was devastation.
Left without a caregiver, Declan was passed to his next of kin, Silas Blackwell I and his wife, Rosemary — his grandparents by lineage, not by blood, according to them. Because his blood was not theirs. The reluctance in the arrangement was mutual, most especially when Declan learned that Lao would not be coming with him. Alas, he was moved from his home in Ireland to Serbia, the newly official home of the Blackwells, and torn from the last soul who had meant anything to him. Soon after he would discover the manifestation of his magical inheritance, his last connection to his father. Where a year prior he would have attended Hogwarts, his enrollment was now set for Durmstrang.
(Note: Laoise is intended to be @Owen Lochridge's new iNPC in a year or two. After the death of Declan's father, Laoise was sent away to live with other extended family while Declan moved to live with his grandparents)
Perhaps the sin would have been forgiven had she acted like anything of the sort, but then, how could a dead heart hold any warmth? His father had insisted it did, that it beat blood and love the same as his, but the ice in her touch told a different tale.
He’d never known his mother’s family name, if she had one. Aveline Blackwell had taken her husband’s name and abandoned her past like a disease. Declan often wondered if she had a past at all, or if indeed she had risen from the grave to feast on his father’s pure blood, as the Blackwell family believed.
The boy had little chance at what might be considered a normal life, and what little there was faded with the pigment of his skin. Sallow and dead like his mother’s. It wasn’t so much the shade that did it, but the symbol. He was marked by a creature that could never be accepted, the result of folly, the spawn of something that even he — through her indifference — came to view as something of a monster. The boy was only half alive; the half given by his father, not because he was human, but because he was the only one that ever loved him.
The home Declan grew in was of wealth; Blackwell money. His father had already taken a piece of his inheritance by the time his heart was stolen by Aveline, including the family’s abandoned estate in Cushendun of Northern Ireland, and the family had never demanded it back, allowing the pair to take flight from Serbia to reside there. Perhaps they still cared for Silas, or perhaps the inheritance was viewed as tainted. The reason mattered little, for his son never knew the grip of poverty, nor of his family; yet luxury alone garners not security.
Knowing that his child was marked, Silas feared for his place in the outside world, and thus took it away. Declan was sheltered, his education private and interaction with others limited. Kept in the dark, where naturally he preferred.
It wasn’t only his father’s concern that hindered his social appearance, of course. The Blackwells and their estate on the edge of Cushendun became something of a local urban legend. Rumor spread that vampires inhabited the home, placing a stigma on them and their associates. Not all legends are lies.
At age seven, Declan’s isolation would come to an unexpected end when a desperate mother appeared on their doorstep with her dying child. Unbeknownst to him at the time, that mother was his aunt, Amelia Blackwell, or more recently of the taken name Lochridge.
Though the events that followed were kept from his knowledge, he would later piece together the puzzle of that somber night. The little girl, a cousin he’d never known by the name of Laoise Lochridge, had fallen incurably ill, even by magical standards. Apparently having escaped her family’s purview long enough to poke her nose too far into some ruins outside town, the young one had contracted a disease known as Ectoplasmic Lock. Curable in theory if caught early, but initial symptoms had been dismissed for too long. Once the family had finally recognized their severity, their concern was all but futile.
In a final act of desperation, Amelia had taken her to Declan’s mother, whom she knew to be a vampire.
In the following days, Declan found that he was no longer the only child in his home, nor the only dhampir. His mother had turned Laoise to purge the illness and prolong the girl’s life, and Amelia had left her daughter in the care of her brother, unable or unwilling to return home with a dhampir. A true Blackwell she was.
For the first time in his life, Declan found his loneliness challenged, though wasn’t certain he liked it at first. Why had this small child suddenly appeared, and for heaven’s sake, why did she cry so much? The tears only fell faster when she realized she now cried blood. Declan could not understand why she feared the things which had been his nature since birth, but he knew one thing — he could not stand the crying. So he gave her a handkerchief for the blood, and did what he could to teach her about this new life; the life he’d always lived. Over time, she wept less, and his annoyance toward her softened. She became someone to him — someone to watch over.
His life remained dull, and his seclusion from the world still pressed in, but at least he had little Laoise — whom he jokingly nicknamed Bitten, an informal name for a baby bat — and his father.
The winter morning was new and untouched by the sun when Silas Blackwell II was killed. By whom? His family said it was Aveline; that same monster who sullied their blood had finally been overcome by its taste. Others agreed, for denial seemed foolish when the man’s body had been found in their home, drained of the Blackwell birthright in his veins. Declan had more damning proof, though he never said a word. He’d seen his mother that morning, crouched over his father’s colorless form. For once, they had all looked like a family. She’d met his eye and then disappeared. He supposed he ought to believe she was responsible, yet the look on her face hadn’t been hunger, or even regret; it was devastation.
Left without a caregiver, Declan was passed to his next of kin, Silas Blackwell I and his wife, Rosemary — his grandparents by lineage, not by blood, according to them. Because his blood was not theirs. The reluctance in the arrangement was mutual, most especially when Declan learned that Lao would not be coming with him. Alas, he was moved from his home in Ireland to Serbia, the newly official home of the Blackwells, and torn from the last soul who had meant anything to him. Soon after he would discover the manifestation of his magical inheritance, his last connection to his father. Where a year prior he would have attended Hogwarts, his enrollment was now set for Durmstrang.
(Note: Laoise is intended to be @Owen Lochridge's new iNPC in a year or two. After the death of Declan's father, Laoise was sent away to live with other extended family while Declan moved to live with his grandparents)
First Magic:
Reducio
Courtesy of the vampire stain coursing through his veins, Declan was no magical prodigy, nor an early bloomer. Throughout his first ten years of life, it seemed safe to assume his wizarding abilities were yet another thing to add to the list of things his mother’s blood had stolen from him. Perhaps their emergence had been the buried emotions behind losing his father, Laoise and his home all at once, but then again he had scarcely felt… anything over that. More likely it was the rage at being trapped in his grandparents’ estate, kept like a beast behind lock and key, of which he’d felt plenty.
The first instance of magic came within his new room in Serbia — or more accurately within the bars of his cage. He’d been pacing across the fine rug that masked the reality of that prison, staring through his window which overlooked the courtyard. Growing restless and hot with anger, the boy had wished for freedom, from that accursed room and his equally cursed life.
The crash was heard throughout the estate when the large window exploded outward. There was no chance or even intent to clamber through the ragged opening and make a run for nowhere, as servants rushed to assess what had taken place, but it was clear in that moment that he might at least escape to his new place at Durmstrang.
The first instance of magic came within his new room in Serbia — or more accurately within the bars of his cage. He’d been pacing across the fine rug that masked the reality of that prison, staring through his window which overlooked the courtyard. Growing restless and hot with anger, the boy had wished for freedom, from that accursed room and his equally cursed life.
The crash was heard throughout the estate when the large window exploded outward. There was no chance or even intent to clamber through the ragged opening and make a run for nowhere, as servants rushed to assess what had taken place, but it was clear in that moment that he might at least escape to his new place at Durmstrang.
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? No
Stats:
Reducio
Stamina - 6
Evasion - 7
Strength - 3
Wisdom - 6
Arcane Power - 2
Accuracy - 6
Evasion - 7
Strength - 3
Wisdom - 6
Arcane Power - 2
Accuracy - 6
Special Race/Ability:
Reducio
A Blackwell by heritage, a beast by blood. By taking a hand that may well have risen from the grave, Silas Blackwell II robbed his child of the basic dues his existence should have afforded. His birthright, his noble bearing, his very humanity, stripped before the boy was even a thought. And all for a creature whose heart was incapable of love — at least for her so-called son.
The resemblance was uncanny from the time he left her womb, a new life whose skin bore the token of the dead. Mother and son, both pale as a corpse in the ground. Even the child’s eyes of muted gray had been robbed of the gleam in his father’s azure gaze.
As a young boy, Declan often wondered if he was truly alive. A bleak notion for such a young mind to ponder, perhaps, but he hadn’t been robbed of time with his thoughts. His father had never truly explained why, but he was keen enough to see the contrast between them. Beyond merely physical, he tended toward the ways of Aveline, his mother; in the way the sun burned, and his fangs longed for the blood pops that gave her sustenance. They were forbidden to him, as though his own father feared what he might become if the beast was fed.
Of what had that fear been born? Was his mother a monster? Declan didn’t doubt it, though she rarely left their home, even under the cover of her night domain. He’d learned what she was once, though not in any book provided by his revolving host of private tutors. No, this tome had been buried on a dusty shelf in the library, meant to be forgotten. It was a compilation of history and knowledge surrounding creatures known as Vampires, and it had answered questions the boy never knew he had. His mother was not human, and by extension, neither was he. But while some attributes referenced in the book described his way of living, there were others which failed to match. If his father was human, then what did that make him?
That answer was found not in the library, but hidden in his father’s nightstand. The pages of this book were creased, marked, and in some cases torn. Within them Declan discovered more about himself and his nature than life had deigned to reveal. He was a Dhampir, a half-breed, a dirty mark on the Blackwells’ perfect line of success, but at least now he understood.
Putting that knowledge to effective use has since been his pursuit, along with the reformed desire to prove that he is more than sullied blood. Even after his father’s early death, the boy still carries that battered book like a treasure. Silas loved it as he loved him; because he loved him. Each rumpled page brings to mind the steady hands that kept him safe, and every highlighted sentence bears a clue to discovering his destiny. His father may have smothered him in fear, but he was the one person who cared enough to do so. Now that title rests only with himself.
The resemblance was uncanny from the time he left her womb, a new life whose skin bore the token of the dead. Mother and son, both pale as a corpse in the ground. Even the child’s eyes of muted gray had been robbed of the gleam in his father’s azure gaze.
As a young boy, Declan often wondered if he was truly alive. A bleak notion for such a young mind to ponder, perhaps, but he hadn’t been robbed of time with his thoughts. His father had never truly explained why, but he was keen enough to see the contrast between them. Beyond merely physical, he tended toward the ways of Aveline, his mother; in the way the sun burned, and his fangs longed for the blood pops that gave her sustenance. They were forbidden to him, as though his own father feared what he might become if the beast was fed.
Of what had that fear been born? Was his mother a monster? Declan didn’t doubt it, though she rarely left their home, even under the cover of her night domain. He’d learned what she was once, though not in any book provided by his revolving host of private tutors. No, this tome had been buried on a dusty shelf in the library, meant to be forgotten. It was a compilation of history and knowledge surrounding creatures known as Vampires, and it had answered questions the boy never knew he had. His mother was not human, and by extension, neither was he. But while some attributes referenced in the book described his way of living, there were others which failed to match. If his father was human, then what did that make him?
That answer was found not in the library, but hidden in his father’s nightstand. The pages of this book were creased, marked, and in some cases torn. Within them Declan discovered more about himself and his nature than life had deigned to reveal. He was a Dhampir, a half-breed, a dirty mark on the Blackwells’ perfect line of success, but at least now he understood.
Putting that knowledge to effective use has since been his pursuit, along with the reformed desire to prove that he is more than sullied blood. Even after his father’s early death, the boy still carries that battered book like a treasure. Silas loved it as he loved him; because he loved him. Each rumpled page brings to mind the steady hands that kept him safe, and every highlighted sentence bears a clue to discovering his destiny. His father may have smothered him in fear, but he was the one person who cared enough to do so. Now that title rests only with himself.
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? 1st year in 2026
PENDING - 10/08 , Sako
(i) There was mention of a pureblood child (Declan's cousin, Laoise) being on the brink of death, and needing to be turned to extend her life. Could you extend what she was suffering from? Keep in mind that as a pureblood, she would be able to have access to magical medical treatment for most muggle conditions, unless it was through magic. Magical maladities can be found here. We are looking for a reason why medical magic cannot heal her easily, and why turning her dhampir was a last resort.
(ii) Intentional FIOM - Feeling a trapped rage is good, I would only suggest to remove the part where it states he wished the glass to break. Allow it to be an unintended outcome that was not at all his intentional , so it can be considered accidental.
PENDING - 12/08 , Sako
(i) Currently only Ency has explanation for Laoise, please copy and paste the same information to make sure both your ency and application have the same information.
APPROVED - 12/08, Sako
Last edited by Marshal Mozor on 11 Aug 2026, 22:39, edited 3 times in total.
~Sometimes you have to laugh at yourself. It helps if you give yourself plenty of reasons~
STA ✩ 10 | EVA ✩ 10 | STR ✩ 14 | WIS ✩ 7 | ARC ✩ 6 | ACC ✩ 15
STA ✩ 10 | EVA ✩ 10 | STR ✩ 14 | WIS ✩ 7 | ARC ✩ 6 | ACC ✩ 15
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Faraine Elvira Mikhailov
PC Name: Erendriel Ravaxidor
Year: 3rd year
Link to your Character Page: ㅤ ៸៸ ˚ farainelvi 𓇼 ۫ ִ
Status: Wizardborn
Residence: Vladivostok, Russian Federation
Nationality: Russian
History:
First Magic:
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broomracer/Duelist? No
Stats: Stamina: 6 | Evasion: 10 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 6 | Arcane Power: 6 | Accuracy: 10
Special Race/Ability: No special race but she has an ability. None for now, but I've already decided to pick Charmer, Perfectionist, and Sixth Sense. I'll create soon.
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? None.
PC Name: Erendriel Ravaxidor
Year: 3rd year
Link to your Character Page: ㅤ ៸៸ ˚ farainelvi 𓇼 ۫ ִ
Status: Wizardborn
Residence: Vladivostok, Russian Federation
Nationality: Russian
History:
Reducio
Faraine Elvira Mikhailov, is the only daughter and second child of Auriane Inès Mikhailov neé Pueyrredón and Radimir Yegor Mikhailov. Faraine have three brothers! Gavril Ilarion Mikhailov, The eldest child. He is her number one protector, and the person who always wants what is best for her. He's the heir of House of Mikhailov, The future magical law student. Razin Ludomir Mikhailov, the 2nd brother and a year younger than her, the musical prodigy. Dimitri Jaroslav Mikhailov, the rebellious youngest child, who will soon become Auror.
The Mikhailov's Estate is overwhelmingly massive. Standing at the middle is a Manor, carved out of Staffordshire Blue Bricks, the black coloured bricks fit perfectly in the cold hues that enclosed Russia's light. The mornings at the Manor were a delight, one could see the sunrise in the distance. The nights on the other hand were a little more extra. Magical lights are lit up beautifully, the moonlight illuminated the walls making them appear shiny. The have a grounds for stables further back of their property, because they are legally breeding and raising Abraxans. They also have a magical forest. Where an ecosystem that so diverse they could get ingredients for potion brewing, the Mikhailov's treated the forest like a treasure. They got lumber in the forest as a vital for building carriages, and other wooden products. A land of Luxury in the purest form.
For twelve consecutive generations, the Mikhailov's family had produced sons. Generations of russian heirs, obscene wealth passed down from father to son, and family portraits filled with stern-faced men and their wives. Basically, the family tree was practically a monument to tradition, but then she came. Faraine is the only woman born in her family for the past 12 generations, the unexpected daughter. Her birth was considered something between a miracle and an impossibility.
The Mikhailov's Birthmark. Faraine has a red colored birthmark on her left arm, almost near her shoulder. It was a symbol of her family, a birthmark passed down through generations. They use the birthmark as an indication that they are a part of the family, Though it's not magical, the family all has an identical but may vary of different size and location. Just like Faraine's father had an identical birthmark but slightly bigger, located on his chest.
And from the moment she opened her eyes, everyone seemed determined to make sure she'll never lift a finger. The Mikhailov's surrounded her by extravagance so excessive that she barely recognized it as extravagance. She was spoiled, but it's not because she demanded for it, but because everyone around her wants to give her anything she wants.
However, Faraine didn't just grew up as spoiled clueless daughter. She's a brilliant lady. She could be determined and a fearless protector to the ones she loves. She possessed impeccable manners, a bit difficult to impress, have a little to no patience for incompetence, but there's also a certain elegance to her meanness. She rarely insulted anyone directly because a polite and angelic smile could make someone feel far more foolish than an outright insult ever could. She has lots of contradicting attitudes! Consequently, she learned on a early age that she could have almost anything.
Faraine also found both fascination and a necessity in learning several different languages. At the moment, she's fluent in Russian, English, and French. Maybe someday she'll decides to learn another language again.
From an early age, Faraine was brought along to the family’s Abraxan grounds, where she learned while being surrounded by a winged horse isn't that easy. Her fascination eventually extended beyond Abraxans, when she got a beautiful male horse gifted by her grandfather Vissarion and grandmother Yuliana on her sixth birthday. She named him Maxim, a off-white blonde coat, with a black hair on its mane and tail. She treated Maxim as her dearest child, she's been her horse ever since its a foal. Faraine treated him with great care, to the point that the foal have his own stall, a stable full of expensive stuff. Faraine's mother bought a female majestic fluff on her eleventh birthday to bring along with her as her companion at Durmstrang, she named her Evgeni. She's a Norwegian forest cat, a pretty blonde coat and bit of white stripes on her fur, an emerald almond shaped eyes.
The Mikhailov's Estate is overwhelmingly massive. Standing at the middle is a Manor, carved out of Staffordshire Blue Bricks, the black coloured bricks fit perfectly in the cold hues that enclosed Russia's light. The mornings at the Manor were a delight, one could see the sunrise in the distance. The nights on the other hand were a little more extra. Magical lights are lit up beautifully, the moonlight illuminated the walls making them appear shiny. The have a grounds for stables further back of their property, because they are legally breeding and raising Abraxans. They also have a magical forest. Where an ecosystem that so diverse they could get ingredients for potion brewing, the Mikhailov's treated the forest like a treasure. They got lumber in the forest as a vital for building carriages, and other wooden products. A land of Luxury in the purest form.
For twelve consecutive generations, the Mikhailov's family had produced sons. Generations of russian heirs, obscene wealth passed down from father to son, and family portraits filled with stern-faced men and their wives. Basically, the family tree was practically a monument to tradition, but then she came. Faraine is the only woman born in her family for the past 12 generations, the unexpected daughter. Her birth was considered something between a miracle and an impossibility.
The Mikhailov's Birthmark. Faraine has a red colored birthmark on her left arm, almost near her shoulder. It was a symbol of her family, a birthmark passed down through generations. They use the birthmark as an indication that they are a part of the family, Though it's not magical, the family all has an identical but may vary of different size and location. Just like Faraine's father had an identical birthmark but slightly bigger, located on his chest.
And from the moment she opened her eyes, everyone seemed determined to make sure she'll never lift a finger. The Mikhailov's surrounded her by extravagance so excessive that she barely recognized it as extravagance. She was spoiled, but it's not because she demanded for it, but because everyone around her wants to give her anything she wants.
However, Faraine didn't just grew up as spoiled clueless daughter. She's a brilliant lady. She could be determined and a fearless protector to the ones she loves. She possessed impeccable manners, a bit difficult to impress, have a little to no patience for incompetence, but there's also a certain elegance to her meanness. She rarely insulted anyone directly because a polite and angelic smile could make someone feel far more foolish than an outright insult ever could. She has lots of contradicting attitudes! Consequently, she learned on a early age that she could have almost anything.
Faraine also found both fascination and a necessity in learning several different languages. At the moment, she's fluent in Russian, English, and French. Maybe someday she'll decides to learn another language again.
From an early age, Faraine was brought along to the family’s Abraxan grounds, where she learned while being surrounded by a winged horse isn't that easy. Her fascination eventually extended beyond Abraxans, when she got a beautiful male horse gifted by her grandfather Vissarion and grandmother Yuliana on her sixth birthday. She named him Maxim, a off-white blonde coat, with a black hair on its mane and tail. She treated Maxim as her dearest child, she's been her horse ever since its a foal. Faraine treated him with great care, to the point that the foal have his own stall, a stable full of expensive stuff. Faraine's mother bought a female majestic fluff on her eleventh birthday to bring along with her as her companion at Durmstrang, she named her Evgeni. She's a Norwegian forest cat, a pretty blonde coat and bit of white stripes on her fur, an emerald almond shaped eyes.
First Magic:
Reducio
Faraine's first instance of magic was forever marked by a tragedy, she was only five! It was a sunny day, and there was a quite few people on Khalyava Shopping Mall., and most of them are doing errands and their works. Her mother is busy browsing through the clothing racks. She's preparing winter clothes for the upcoming yule. Auriane always wants to be ready in any occasions for her beloved family. Auriane, though hesitant at first, has eventually agreed to let the siblings explore on their own.
The shopping district was considered a safe and familiar place for the family, and with Faraine's older brother with her, Auriane trusted him to look after his little sister. Before they left, Auriane knelt beside them with a smile and kisses their foreheads. She gave then a pouch of galleons to buy whatever they want, and then reminded them not to wander too far. To always stay together at all times, and to return within an hour. Faraine is clung to her brother's hand as they weaved through the crowd as her older brother, Gavril, insisted on taking her to Сладких снов, a candy shop! Of course, she agreed! She always loves candies.
However happy moments didn't last long, a unknown assailants dragged them away to the nearest alley, she screamed for her older brother, who fought desperately to reach her. Terrified and overwhelmed, Faraine's magic erupted instinctively. A powerful shockwave burst from her, sending the assailants to be thrown back, giving her brother a chance to get to her. People began crowding them, asking how they are, and what happened. A witch go near the crying boy whose holding her fainted sister, however she could do anything with the distress child. Within minutes their mother found them and get them to the nearest wizarding hospital.
The traumatic event left scars on both siblings. Her brother Gavril carried the guilt, and Faraine for a few years was haunted by flashes of her brother's voice calling after her on her and sometimes a fragmented memory of that day in her dreams. It became less and less as the years goes by.
The shopping district was considered a safe and familiar place for the family, and with Faraine's older brother with her, Auriane trusted him to look after his little sister. Before they left, Auriane knelt beside them with a smile and kisses their foreheads. She gave then a pouch of galleons to buy whatever they want, and then reminded them not to wander too far. To always stay together at all times, and to return within an hour. Faraine is clung to her brother's hand as they weaved through the crowd as her older brother, Gavril, insisted on taking her to Сладких снов, a candy shop! Of course, she agreed! She always loves candies.
However happy moments didn't last long, a unknown assailants dragged them away to the nearest alley, she screamed for her older brother, who fought desperately to reach her. Terrified and overwhelmed, Faraine's magic erupted instinctively. A powerful shockwave burst from her, sending the assailants to be thrown back, giving her brother a chance to get to her. People began crowding them, asking how they are, and what happened. A witch go near the crying boy whose holding her fainted sister, however she could do anything with the distress child. Within minutes their mother found them and get them to the nearest wizarding hospital.
The traumatic event left scars on both siblings. Her brother Gavril carried the guilt, and Faraine for a few years was haunted by flashes of her brother's voice calling after her on her and sometimes a fragmented memory of that day in her dreams. It became less and less as the years goes by.
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broomracer/Duelist? No
Stats: Stamina: 6 | Evasion: 10 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 6 | Arcane Power: 6 | Accuracy: 10
Special Race/Ability: No special race but she has an ability. None for now, but I've already decided to pick Charmer, Perfectionist, and Sixth Sense. I'll create soon.
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? None.
PENDING 17 August, Sako
(i) Fiom in ency is incomplete
(ii) History in application and ency is not the same
(iii) Owled regarding name and residence preference
Last edited by Erendriel Ravaxidor on 12 Aug 2026, 06:44, edited 2 times in total.
Virtuous and fair, ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤroyal and gracious. |
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ | The Heiress ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ |
Durmstrang NPC
Name: Kazimir Viktorovich Morozov
PC Name: Skylar Blue
Year: First
Link to your Character Page: Kazzle Dazzle
Status: Pureblood
Residence: Moscow, Russia
Nationality: Russian (For transparency, he is half Romanian but Russian will do just fine
)
History:
First Magic:
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes; Duelist.
Stats: sta • 05 | eva • 08 | str • 0 | wis • 7 | arc • 1 | acc • 09
Total: 30 (applying for special race)
Special Race/Ability: Parselmouth
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? Normally.
Another thing to note, Kaz has a medical condition: Mild Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
PC Name: Skylar Blue
Year: First
Link to your Character Page: Kazzle Dazzle
Status: Pureblood
Residence: Moscow, Russia
Nationality: Russian (For transparency, he is half Romanian but Russian will do just fine
)History:
Reducio
For clarification, Kaz is not neglected. He is fed and lives in a mansion. His parents just don't give him much affection or attention, but he still has house elves that tend to his needs.
Born during a cold snap on the thirteenth of January, 2015, the Morozov heir had already lived up to his family name: frost. The small babe did not cry as much as his parents had expected, but instead gazed up at them with his bright, blue eyes. They shone with so much life and wonder, but also vulnerability.
Kaz used to be a lively child. His voice was loud when he cried, the piercing sound projecting across the Morozov residence in Moscow. His wide eyes would constantly shift, almost as if attempting to absorb everything about the world he was born into. The toddler's hands would reach out and grab at anything, his small fingers never seeming to be at rest. Most of all, he was happy. The baby would coo or shriek with joy, a toothless smile gracing his face.
One that his parents despised.
As Kaz grew, his parents tolerated him less. He was often handed over to caretakers while his parents worked. The couple originally worked on opposite sides of the manor: Viktor Morozov on the right wing while Irina Valeanu-Morozova on the left. However, the two had to reach a compromise to work in the same wing while the other was given to their son. Yes, the whole left wing was Kaz and Kaz only. The young boy rarely saw his parents and would often walk the halls alone, his bare feet slapping against the smooth marble floor. The silence was deafening, with any movement or sound creating echoes that seemed to last forever. The house-elves could only speak to their young master in hushed whispers, never looking him in the eye. No matter how much the boy would cling to them or beg them to play, they had to refuse politely. They never applauded him for achievements, but they also never scolded him for any mistakes. By the age of four, Kaz finally stopped trying to interact with the elves. He kept to himself as he wandered through the empty estate, only speaking to the servants when he needed something. After all, orders are the only thing they respond to. There is no use in him talking much anymore, as he is alone anyway.
After his first instance of magic when he was five, Viktor and Irina finally decided to acknowledge their son. Now that they are sure their son possesses magical capabilities, they can educate Kaz in the skills he needed for the Wizarding World.
Private tutors from all around Europe were now hired to teach Kaz. Reading, writing, and mathematics were only the beginning of the long list of classes he now had to take. His days were filled with lesson upon lesson, the boy barely having any time to himself. He had to maintain strict discipline and was not allowed to indulge in childish comforts, such as sweets or displays of affection. Manners and etiquette were also a major core in his classes, the young boy needing to maintain his professionalism and formality no matter what.
In the beginning, Kaz rebelled. He disliked the order and rules, missing the freedom he had as a toddler. He would sneak snacks from the kitchen, ditch lessons with his private tutors, make a dreadful mess in rooms, and even more. He caused hell for the staff and his parents, being dubbed “Гремлин,” or “Gremlin,” by the servants. His parents originally ignored the little rebel, opting to let their house-elves take care of him instead. But things became serious as tutors and non-elf staff members began resigning. The house-elves had no choice but to stay, but their enthusiasm and usual effort also decreased. Enraged, the Morozovs finally decided to do something about their unruly son.
Taking inspiration from the old Durmstrang traditions, they sent him to the wild. Kaz needed to be disciplined, and the only way he would learn was the hard way. In the middle of the night, while the boy was asleep, his father had him transported to a secluded forest nearby. Viktor hid with an invisibility cloak, observing his son’s progress. Though he seemed like he could care less, the man had secretly hoped that the boy would last at least five days.
Kaz lasted for three. Three days, a near-death experience, and a lot of crying. But his little time in the forest was not all for nothing, as the six-year-old was also discovered to be a Parselmouth. Though his father was mildly displeased at how pathetic Kaz was on his own, he still saw potential in his son. So he pushed him harder. More classes, more training, and more reality checks. But this time, Kaz obeyed.
By the age of eight, Kaz already knew more than he should. He had a talent with numbers and accounting, often helping his father with business ledgers. His family also invested a lot in arts, so he was expected to be educated on the topic as well. His mother would bring him to gallery showings and exhibits, elevating the boy’s taste in classical culture. He had also expanded his knowledge of languages, the child now knowing at least five dialects: Russian, Romanian, French, English, and Latin. Six if he counted Parseltongue. He also developed a peculiar interest in difficult puzzles and mysteries.
To his parents’ pleasure, Kaz had become more reserved and composed, no longer as rebellious as he used to be. His manners were noticeably better, courtesy of the numerous etiquette lessons his parents put him in. Many of his tutors could not help but compliment him as well, claiming the young boy had truly matured and developed his bright mind.
But Kaz hardly knew himself anymore. It seemed like forever ago when he wandered the halls with childlike wonder, causing trouble and stealing snacks. Now he spends time going from tutor to tutor, lesson to lesson. He also began attending business meetings with his parents, joining in on formal events and important showings. It was during these meeting where Kaz met another boy like him, Theodore. The two hit it off quite well, and though it was unfamiliar to Kaz, he believed he had finally found a friend.
During his free time, Kaz would read in the library, his analytical mind never resting. As much as he tried to convince himself that learning and expanding his knowledge would be beneficial in the long run, Kaz could not help but feel empty. Hollow. Every day is the same routine and formalities. He wears only three-piece suits and polished leather shoes, even though he is in his own home. He has to address his parents formally and speak as if he is negotiating in a meeting, treating them like business partners.
Alas, there is nothing that the boy could do except follow the rules. His parents had high expectations for him as their heir, and he would be damned if he let them down. So he continued with his strict schedule, pushing aside his emotions in favor of an unreadable mask. For a while, all was well. For a while, he was the perfect son.
Until he got Spattergroit. The cause of it is still unclear, but Kaz’s parents suspected it may have been from one of the business meetings they took Kaz to. Perhaps the magical fungus was in their hotel room, the meeting room, or even just the surrounding area. Though the parents seem to have avoided the dreadful fate, Kaz was not so lucky due to his young and vulnerable age. The disease left the nine-year-old bedridden for several months, suffering from fatigue and purple pustules forming on the face. He often got high fevers, his chest feeling tight and uncomfortable. He was confined to his own room in the hospital, as Spattergroit is highly contagious. Kaz often spent his nights alone, scared of dying and crying from pain. He was struggling, yet he was helpless and at the mercy of the doctor’s care. His condition worsened to the point where it infected his uvula, rendering him to be unable to speak. Thankfully, the doctors were able to stop it from spreading to the brain and healed him slowly. After three months, Kaz was finally cured of Spattergroit. Thanks to the advanced medical care his family paid for, he was cured with little to no scarring, just a few white dots where the particularly awful pustules used to be. They were barely noticeable against his fair skin, though. He was also able to recover his ability to speak, though it came out a little raspy in the beginning. However, the suffering he endured from the disease still left him traumatized.
For weeks after, Kaz refused to leave his room or speak to anyone. He barely ate and could hardly sleep. He started becoming obsessed with cleanliness, washing his hands over thirty times a day and scrubbing himself until his skin turned pink. He cleaned his room three times a day, forbidding anyone to enter his sanctuary. As his condition worsened, his parents grew concerned. Viktor and Irina could pretend to be as unfeeling as they wanted, but deep down, they were desperate to fix their only son. Their future heir.
Finally, a therapist was called to help Kaz with his condition. After much convincing and struggle, his parents finally succeeded in making their son receive the treatment. Kaz went through multiple therapy sessions, mainly cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy. He is now able to recognize patterns and possible triggers that can launch him into panic attacks, allowing him to leave the situation if he feels a compulsion coming up. However, despite the doctor's attempts to help, Kaz still despises exposure therapy and is often left feeling worse. It did help to a certain degree, but his mental state afterwards is so terrible that his parents decided to focus him more on CBT instead. Though it was a slow process, Kaz eventually began feeling better. He may not be fully back to normal, as he still experiences minor claustrophobia and mild touch aversion, but it was progress. Kaz now wears black leather gloves daily to keep physical contact to a minimum and is usually clothed from head to toe.
Kaz has also become a lot more… snappier in his personality. He often makes sharp remarks and jabs, scorning life and everyone in it. He views the world in a much more pessimistic light, sometimes wishing he never survived. He is a lot more withdrawn than he used to be, keeping to himself because he does not like anyone else. The therapist said that Kaz's harsh personality is more of a coping mechanism, as his pessimistic view offers fewer chances of being let down. One can only hope he heals one day to the point where he no longer needs it.
Though most Durmstrang students go to school at the age of ten for their foundation year, the Morozovs decided to make the decision of homeschooling Kaz again. The boy was in too delicate a state to return to the public, so for another year, Kaz stayed in their residence. Though Kaz was not held back by any means, as he is still intelligent enough to enter Durmstrang for his first year, he still could not help but feel like he failed somehow. His OCD and anxiety have him feeling a burden to his family, and on many occasions, they agreed as well. His treatment cost a good chunk of the family funds, and Kaz could not help but feel indebted to his parents. He would often be found pushing himself harder and trying to prove to his family that he could be the perfect heir. Maybe one day he will heal. And maybe one day, he will know he is enough.
Born during a cold snap on the thirteenth of January, 2015, the Morozov heir had already lived up to his family name: frost. The small babe did not cry as much as his parents had expected, but instead gazed up at them with his bright, blue eyes. They shone with so much life and wonder, but also vulnerability.
Kaz used to be a lively child. His voice was loud when he cried, the piercing sound projecting across the Morozov residence in Moscow. His wide eyes would constantly shift, almost as if attempting to absorb everything about the world he was born into. The toddler's hands would reach out and grab at anything, his small fingers never seeming to be at rest. Most of all, he was happy. The baby would coo or shriek with joy, a toothless smile gracing his face.
One that his parents despised.
As Kaz grew, his parents tolerated him less. He was often handed over to caretakers while his parents worked. The couple originally worked on opposite sides of the manor: Viktor Morozov on the right wing while Irina Valeanu-Morozova on the left. However, the two had to reach a compromise to work in the same wing while the other was given to their son. Yes, the whole left wing was Kaz and Kaz only. The young boy rarely saw his parents and would often walk the halls alone, his bare feet slapping against the smooth marble floor. The silence was deafening, with any movement or sound creating echoes that seemed to last forever. The house-elves could only speak to their young master in hushed whispers, never looking him in the eye. No matter how much the boy would cling to them or beg them to play, they had to refuse politely. They never applauded him for achievements, but they also never scolded him for any mistakes. By the age of four, Kaz finally stopped trying to interact with the elves. He kept to himself as he wandered through the empty estate, only speaking to the servants when he needed something. After all, orders are the only thing they respond to. There is no use in him talking much anymore, as he is alone anyway.
-------------------
After his first instance of magic when he was five, Viktor and Irina finally decided to acknowledge their son. Now that they are sure their son possesses magical capabilities, they can educate Kaz in the skills he needed for the Wizarding World.
Private tutors from all around Europe were now hired to teach Kaz. Reading, writing, and mathematics were only the beginning of the long list of classes he now had to take. His days were filled with lesson upon lesson, the boy barely having any time to himself. He had to maintain strict discipline and was not allowed to indulge in childish comforts, such as sweets or displays of affection. Manners and etiquette were also a major core in his classes, the young boy needing to maintain his professionalism and formality no matter what.
In the beginning, Kaz rebelled. He disliked the order and rules, missing the freedom he had as a toddler. He would sneak snacks from the kitchen, ditch lessons with his private tutors, make a dreadful mess in rooms, and even more. He caused hell for the staff and his parents, being dubbed “Гремлин,” or “Gremlin,” by the servants. His parents originally ignored the little rebel, opting to let their house-elves take care of him instead. But things became serious as tutors and non-elf staff members began resigning. The house-elves had no choice but to stay, but their enthusiasm and usual effort also decreased. Enraged, the Morozovs finally decided to do something about their unruly son.
Taking inspiration from the old Durmstrang traditions, they sent him to the wild. Kaz needed to be disciplined, and the only way he would learn was the hard way. In the middle of the night, while the boy was asleep, his father had him transported to a secluded forest nearby. Viktor hid with an invisibility cloak, observing his son’s progress. Though he seemed like he could care less, the man had secretly hoped that the boy would last at least five days.
Kaz lasted for three. Three days, a near-death experience, and a lot of crying. But his little time in the forest was not all for nothing, as the six-year-old was also discovered to be a Parselmouth. Though his father was mildly displeased at how pathetic Kaz was on his own, he still saw potential in his son. So he pushed him harder. More classes, more training, and more reality checks. But this time, Kaz obeyed.
-------------------
By the age of eight, Kaz already knew more than he should. He had a talent with numbers and accounting, often helping his father with business ledgers. His family also invested a lot in arts, so he was expected to be educated on the topic as well. His mother would bring him to gallery showings and exhibits, elevating the boy’s taste in classical culture. He had also expanded his knowledge of languages, the child now knowing at least five dialects: Russian, Romanian, French, English, and Latin. Six if he counted Parseltongue. He also developed a peculiar interest in difficult puzzles and mysteries.
To his parents’ pleasure, Kaz had become more reserved and composed, no longer as rebellious as he used to be. His manners were noticeably better, courtesy of the numerous etiquette lessons his parents put him in. Many of his tutors could not help but compliment him as well, claiming the young boy had truly matured and developed his bright mind.
But Kaz hardly knew himself anymore. It seemed like forever ago when he wandered the halls with childlike wonder, causing trouble and stealing snacks. Now he spends time going from tutor to tutor, lesson to lesson. He also began attending business meetings with his parents, joining in on formal events and important showings. It was during these meeting where Kaz met another boy like him, Theodore. The two hit it off quite well, and though it was unfamiliar to Kaz, he believed he had finally found a friend.
During his free time, Kaz would read in the library, his analytical mind never resting. As much as he tried to convince himself that learning and expanding his knowledge would be beneficial in the long run, Kaz could not help but feel empty. Hollow. Every day is the same routine and formalities. He wears only three-piece suits and polished leather shoes, even though he is in his own home. He has to address his parents formally and speak as if he is negotiating in a meeting, treating them like business partners.
Alas, there is nothing that the boy could do except follow the rules. His parents had high expectations for him as their heir, and he would be damned if he let them down. So he continued with his strict schedule, pushing aside his emotions in favor of an unreadable mask. For a while, all was well. For a while, he was the perfect son.
-------------------
Until he got Spattergroit. The cause of it is still unclear, but Kaz’s parents suspected it may have been from one of the business meetings they took Kaz to. Perhaps the magical fungus was in their hotel room, the meeting room, or even just the surrounding area. Though the parents seem to have avoided the dreadful fate, Kaz was not so lucky due to his young and vulnerable age. The disease left the nine-year-old bedridden for several months, suffering from fatigue and purple pustules forming on the face. He often got high fevers, his chest feeling tight and uncomfortable. He was confined to his own room in the hospital, as Spattergroit is highly contagious. Kaz often spent his nights alone, scared of dying and crying from pain. He was struggling, yet he was helpless and at the mercy of the doctor’s care. His condition worsened to the point where it infected his uvula, rendering him to be unable to speak. Thankfully, the doctors were able to stop it from spreading to the brain and healed him slowly. After three months, Kaz was finally cured of Spattergroit. Thanks to the advanced medical care his family paid for, he was cured with little to no scarring, just a few white dots where the particularly awful pustules used to be. They were barely noticeable against his fair skin, though. He was also able to recover his ability to speak, though it came out a little raspy in the beginning. However, the suffering he endured from the disease still left him traumatized.
For weeks after, Kaz refused to leave his room or speak to anyone. He barely ate and could hardly sleep. He started becoming obsessed with cleanliness, washing his hands over thirty times a day and scrubbing himself until his skin turned pink. He cleaned his room three times a day, forbidding anyone to enter his sanctuary. As his condition worsened, his parents grew concerned. Viktor and Irina could pretend to be as unfeeling as they wanted, but deep down, they were desperate to fix their only son. Their future heir.
Finally, a therapist was called to help Kaz with his condition. After much convincing and struggle, his parents finally succeeded in making their son receive the treatment. Kaz went through multiple therapy sessions, mainly cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy. He is now able to recognize patterns and possible triggers that can launch him into panic attacks, allowing him to leave the situation if he feels a compulsion coming up. However, despite the doctor's attempts to help, Kaz still despises exposure therapy and is often left feeling worse. It did help to a certain degree, but his mental state afterwards is so terrible that his parents decided to focus him more on CBT instead. Though it was a slow process, Kaz eventually began feeling better. He may not be fully back to normal, as he still experiences minor claustrophobia and mild touch aversion, but it was progress. Kaz now wears black leather gloves daily to keep physical contact to a minimum and is usually clothed from head to toe.
Kaz has also become a lot more… snappier in his personality. He often makes sharp remarks and jabs, scorning life and everyone in it. He views the world in a much more pessimistic light, sometimes wishing he never survived. He is a lot more withdrawn than he used to be, keeping to himself because he does not like anyone else. The therapist said that Kaz's harsh personality is more of a coping mechanism, as his pessimistic view offers fewer chances of being let down. One can only hope he heals one day to the point where he no longer needs it.
Though most Durmstrang students go to school at the age of ten for their foundation year, the Morozovs decided to make the decision of homeschooling Kaz again. The boy was in too delicate a state to return to the public, so for another year, Kaz stayed in their residence. Though Kaz was not held back by any means, as he is still intelligent enough to enter Durmstrang for his first year, he still could not help but feel like he failed somehow. His OCD and anxiety have him feeling a burden to his family, and on many occasions, they agreed as well. His treatment cost a good chunk of the family funds, and Kaz could not help but feel indebted to his parents. He would often be found pushing himself harder and trying to prove to his family that he could be the perfect heir. Maybe one day he will heal. And maybe one day, he will know he is enough.
First Magic:
Reducio
With his parents basically nonexistent and the servants only there to do their jobs, Kaz had to find solace elsewhere. The little five-year-old would explore the vast mansion, bored at how uneventful everything was. So he did what the servants had explicitly told him not to: he ventured to the right wing. He was unafraid, because why should he? The servants cannot do anything to him, and the child has not yet experienced what consequences were.
The first few hours were great for Kaz. He stared in awe at the various statement pieces and artworks displayed along the walls, some of them even being family portraits. The young boy looked up to the supposed painting of his family; the only recognizable face was his own. Kaz would then find a room that would change his perspective forever — the library. The vast room filled with knowledge was everything the bored child needed. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with more books than he could count. Not that the boy could count anyway. Nor read.
Despite his limited knowledge, Kaz was not deterred one bit. He began reaching for any book he could grab, eager to flip through the pages. He did not know what they contained, only that they must be important. Words and numbers he could not recognize flooded his vision as he attempted to read, piles of books scattered around him. Eventually, the boy started getting frustrated, annoyed at his own lack of understanding. That was when something caught his eye.
A dark tome on one of the higher shelves seemed to call to him. The lined silver edges glimmered in the library’s dim glow, tempting him even more. Abandoning the mess of books he made, Kaz made his way to the tall shelf. Evidently, he was not tall enough to reach it, so he made the next logical move: he climbed.
Surprisingly, the young boy managed to hold his own quite well. He was a little shaky and unsteady, of course, but he managed to climb a good height of four shelves before reaching the desired book. His small fingers made a pathetic attempt at grabbing the tome, the thick spine much too large for him to even hold. However, Kaz was nothing if not stubborn. Slowly nudging the heavy book out, he managed to make it stick out a bit more. He grabbed the exposed book and prepared to tug at it, only to freeze as he heard a cold voice boom behind him.
“What do you think you are doing, Kazimir?”
The boy turned to see a man standing by the entrance. But not just any man. It was the man Kaz had seen earlier in the family portrait.
This man was his father. And he was terrifying.
Losing his balance, Kaz’s bare feet slipped on the small shelf edge. He panicked as he felt nothing underneath him, his desperate hands grabbing onto the tome he was trying to get earlier. But even the heaviest book cannot hold the weight of a five-year-old.
Kaz fell. The tome slid out of its slot rather abruptly, jostling the rest of the shelf. Several books tumbled down with the boy, whose little climb now seemed much higher than he had thought. He did not know what would happen to him. He did not know what death was yet. He only knew he was scared, and that very bad things were going to happen if he hit the ground.
Perhaps it was desperation, or maybe it was fate. Instead of feeling an impact, he felt… nothing. Opening his eyes slowly and uncovering his head, Kaz noticed everything had paused. It was almost as if time stopped moving, yet he could still hear the distant ticking of the library clock. His body levitated above the ground by a few inches, the other books still above him.
Before Kaz could process what had happened, he hit the ground with a light thud. The books fell around him as well, creating a mess. However, the young boy himself appeared to be uninjured and very, very confused.
“Reverte.”
Kaz jumps as a voice booms through the library. At once, all the scattered books flew back to their original positions on the shelves. Even the previous books he had neglected got up on their own, each zipping past him with incredible speed, only stopping once they were nestled nicely in their slots.
The boy blinked at his... normal surroundings. There was not a single trace of the chaos that happened moments ago, the only evidence of his little excursion being himself.
That is when he felt a pair of strong hands settle on his shoulders.
“Hm. You have much to learn, my son. Your first instance of magic is only the beginning.”
Kaz tilted his head back to see the stern face of the man again. A pair of cold, blue eyes, so much like his own, stared back at him. Yet, despite their similarities, the man held so much more weight in them than the young boy did.
“Are you my father?”
Those were the first words Kaz had said in a while. And those were the first words Viktor Morozov ever heard from his son.
The first few hours were great for Kaz. He stared in awe at the various statement pieces and artworks displayed along the walls, some of them even being family portraits. The young boy looked up to the supposed painting of his family; the only recognizable face was his own. Kaz would then find a room that would change his perspective forever — the library. The vast room filled with knowledge was everything the bored child needed. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with more books than he could count. Not that the boy could count anyway. Nor read.
Despite his limited knowledge, Kaz was not deterred one bit. He began reaching for any book he could grab, eager to flip through the pages. He did not know what they contained, only that they must be important. Words and numbers he could not recognize flooded his vision as he attempted to read, piles of books scattered around him. Eventually, the boy started getting frustrated, annoyed at his own lack of understanding. That was when something caught his eye.
A dark tome on one of the higher shelves seemed to call to him. The lined silver edges glimmered in the library’s dim glow, tempting him even more. Abandoning the mess of books he made, Kaz made his way to the tall shelf. Evidently, he was not tall enough to reach it, so he made the next logical move: he climbed.
Surprisingly, the young boy managed to hold his own quite well. He was a little shaky and unsteady, of course, but he managed to climb a good height of four shelves before reaching the desired book. His small fingers made a pathetic attempt at grabbing the tome, the thick spine much too large for him to even hold. However, Kaz was nothing if not stubborn. Slowly nudging the heavy book out, he managed to make it stick out a bit more. He grabbed the exposed book and prepared to tug at it, only to freeze as he heard a cold voice boom behind him.
“What do you think you are doing, Kazimir?”
The boy turned to see a man standing by the entrance. But not just any man. It was the man Kaz had seen earlier in the family portrait.
This man was his father. And he was terrifying.
Losing his balance, Kaz’s bare feet slipped on the small shelf edge. He panicked as he felt nothing underneath him, his desperate hands grabbing onto the tome he was trying to get earlier. But even the heaviest book cannot hold the weight of a five-year-old.
Kaz fell. The tome slid out of its slot rather abruptly, jostling the rest of the shelf. Several books tumbled down with the boy, whose little climb now seemed much higher than he had thought. He did not know what would happen to him. He did not know what death was yet. He only knew he was scared, and that very bad things were going to happen if he hit the ground.
Perhaps it was desperation, or maybe it was fate. Instead of feeling an impact, he felt… nothing. Opening his eyes slowly and uncovering his head, Kaz noticed everything had paused. It was almost as if time stopped moving, yet he could still hear the distant ticking of the library clock. His body levitated above the ground by a few inches, the other books still above him.
Before Kaz could process what had happened, he hit the ground with a light thud. The books fell around him as well, creating a mess. However, the young boy himself appeared to be uninjured and very, very confused.
“Reverte.”
Kaz jumps as a voice booms through the library. At once, all the scattered books flew back to their original positions on the shelves. Even the previous books he had neglected got up on their own, each zipping past him with incredible speed, only stopping once they were nestled nicely in their slots.
The boy blinked at his... normal surroundings. There was not a single trace of the chaos that happened moments ago, the only evidence of his little excursion being himself.
That is when he felt a pair of strong hands settle on his shoulders.
“Hm. You have much to learn, my son. Your first instance of magic is only the beginning.”
Kaz tilted his head back to see the stern face of the man again. A pair of cold, blue eyes, so much like his own, stared back at him. Yet, despite their similarities, the man held so much more weight in them than the young boy did.
“Are you my father?”
Those were the first words Kaz had said in a while. And those were the first words Viktor Morozov ever heard from his son.
Is your character a Quidditch player/Broom racer/Duelist? Yes; Duelist.
Stats: sta • 05 | eva • 08 | str • 0 | wis • 7 | arc • 1 | acc • 09
Total: 30 (applying for special race)
Special Race/Ability: Parselmouth
Reducio
For clarification: Kaz was not abandoned or neglected. Mentioned earlier in his backstory, Kaz's father hid in an invisibility cloak to watch his progress, so he was not left unsupervised. The event takes place in the forests of West Tver.
Kaz had woken up in the middle of nowhere. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, the boy blinked slowly at his surroundings. Trees, trees, and dirt. A heavy blanket of fog still weighed on the forest, little light filtering through. Kaz groaned and fell back onto the bed, planning to go back to sleep. His dreams were weird sometimes.
Only there was no bed. There were no walls, nor were there floors. The familiar ticking of his clock was strangely absent, and so was the daily wake-up call from his servants.
This was not a dream.
Bolting upright, Kaz looked around his surroundings this time with more focus. He was in nothing but his pajamas, his feet bare and body cold. His internal clock told him it was seven in the morning, but he had no way to check. Panic began to set in as the boy scrambled to his feet, searching his surroundings for anything familiar.
Then he heard a crinkle under his foot, different from the crunch of leaves. It was a paper note. The boy felt his hand shake as he read the letter.
It is about time you learned discipline, Kazimir. Your actions shall bear consequences.
Consequences? He needs to learn about consequences? The six-year-old had no other emotion than rage. How dare his parents leave him to the mercy of nature's cruelty? He is the sole heir to the Morozov dynasty, their only son. To risk his life for a lesson is so absurd that it borders on stupidity. So he screamed.
“You need me! I am your only son! I am the only one who can take over the dynasty!” Kaz yells into the forest, receiving nothing but the rustle of leaves in return. Tears were now filling up in his eyes. The petulant child could do nothing but scream his throat raw, repeating the same words over and over again like a chant.
You need me. You need me. You need me.
But they didn't, did they? They could always make another child. He was nothing. He was a disappointment. Who was he to think he could control his destiny at six years old? But no. Doubt is for the weak. He should not, he must not, dwell on the possibilities.
“Fine then! You'll see! You need me more than I need you!” Kaz cries out, his voice cracking from the strain. He could try, but his pathetic bravado was fooling no one. He was scared. He was terrified. He was a six-year-old little boy trapped in an unknown forest.
Weak. Pathetic. Usele —
“Shut up shut up shut up!” His breathing was becoming fast and shallow, the pounding in his head growing louder. Kaz fell back to the ground, his hands digging into the dirt below. He may have screamed. He may have cried. He may have begged.
He was a mess.
The sun had almost set when the boy finally looked up. He must have blacked out. Tears stained his face and dirt was stuck under his nails. His pajamas were no better, as leaves and soil clung to the fabric. He was in the same place he was this morning, just more dishevelled and tired.
He was numb as he slowly got up, his muscles sore from the awkward position he was in. He wandered deeper into the woods, his throat hurting every time he swallowed. However, after only a few more steps, he collapsed on the ground yet again. He stared up at the sky, the moon slowly coming up. The boy finally realized just how tired he was. And scared. He was truly, utterly alone.
"Are you going to wallow in self-pity or are you going to get up?”
Kaz jumped at the sudden voice. It sounded raspy, quiet, and whisper-like. The words spoken to him felt foreign, yet he understood them. His eyes darted from tree to tree, branch to branch, but nothing revealed itself.
“Who are you?” The boy croaked, his voice lacking the volume he had before. He was terrified of the odd voice that spoke to him… but also intrigued. A strange force seemed to draw him in, an undeniable curiosity urging him to investigate.
“Who are you and where are you hiding?” He repeated, his voice rising slightly. However, no one responded. Everything was silent except for the distant cawing of a crow.
Motivated and slightly unsettled from getting scolded by a mysterious voice, Kaz finally mustered up the energy to climb up a tree. He may not know how to survive in the wild, but he still has the common sense to check his surroundings. Besides, by being on higher ground, he could avoid the bigger threats. Or at least he thought so. He read it somewhere in a book, but he cannot remember it quite well.
Splinters buried themselves into his palm and bare feet as he climbed. The rough bark was by no means comfortable, but the pain was able to ground him to reality. Similar to how some people would pinch themselves to make sure they are not hallucinating, the pricking sensation of his ascent only solidified his perception of his situation. He either had to pull his weight or die alone.
Finally, he reached the fork of the tree. The small boy was able to wedge himself between two branches, grimacing as the bark bit into his back. Certain that he would not plummet straight to the ground when he fell asleep, Kaz closed his eyes and attempted to rest. Sleep did not come easy, nor was it peaceful, but he supposed it was necessary. So there he stayed, stiff and uncomfortable, the bark pricking his skin and the cold seeping into his bones.
Kaz woke up the next day feeling worse than he did before. Every single muscle in his body felt sore from the awkward position he slept in. He tried to rearrange his limbs slightly to alleviate the discomfort, but he barely moved an inch before hearing the voice again.
“Do not move.”
Kaz freezes as he hears the familiar hiss again, the voice sounding much closer and clearer than it did yesterday. He strains his ears in an attempt to locate the sound, hearing a little rustle coming from his right.
Turning his head slowly, the young boy was greeted by the sight of a large, black viper wrapped around the branch Vipera berus: Known as the common adder. Very common in the forests of West Tver and is easily confused with Nikolsky’s Adder, the one in Southwestern Russia. While it typically features a gray or brown body with a distinct dark zigzag pattern down its back, melanistic (completely black) individuals are incredibly common in these northern forests. The viper hisses at the boy, revealing its sharp fangs that glimmer in the morning sun.
Kaz feels his heartbeat pick up as he fights back a scream. The creature was so close to him that he could see its individual scales.
“Do not scream.”
The boy was about to cry. The viper slithered closer to Kaz, its smooth scales making contact with his skin. He stayed frozen as the snake wrapped around his shoulder, making itself at home.
“What do you want from me?” Kaz managed to squeak out, his voice barely a whisper. The snake tightened its hold around his shoulder, making Kaz shiver as its cool scales grazed his neck.
“I will not harm you, young one. But the one below might.”
Looking down, Kaz's breath caught in his throat. A large, brown bear circled the base of the tree Brown bears; very common in the forests of West Tver. The bear growled as it sniffed the air, its teeth looking not too nice at the moment.
“Stay calm. These bears have an acute sense of smell and hearing. However, if it notices you, it will climb. Listen to my instructions.”
Kaz swallows dryly, his eyes never leaving the predator below. Suddenly, the snake’s presence was a comfort that he was glad for. Listening to the odd, whispery voice, Kaz slowly relaxed his shoulders and breathing, careful not to rustle the tree leaves. The brown bear seemed to have grown bored and eventually left, seeking food elsewhere. Kaz let out a deep sigh of relief, nearly crying with relief.
“Thank you.” The boy said gratefully, his voice cracking a bit. The viper merely made itself comfortable on the boy’s thin shoulders, its forked tongue poking his face playfully.
“It is not often for me to see humans who can speak our language, much less one as young as you. Tell me, child, what are you doing all alone in this forest?”
“Well, my dad decided I was too undisciplined, so he sent me here as a punishment. At least that is what the note said… wait-” Kaz’s brows furrowed in confusion as he looked closely at the viper. “What do you mean I speak your language?”
“Do you not wonder how we are conversing naturally with no misunderstanding? I will tell you right now, boy, I am speaking as I always do. You, on the other hand, are speaking something other than the usual human nonsense.”
He possessed the ability to speak with… snakes? The young boy was too stimulated to think over the possibilities and reasons, so he answered as any other six-year-old would have.
“Cool. What is your name? I am Kaz.” After all, the first thing you do when you can talk to snakes is to make friends with them. The snake, however, looked at Kaz with what he would describe as confusion. If snakes could be confused.
“I do not possess what your species calls… a name. I suppose you may refer to me however you would like.”Unfortunately, Kaz had awful imagination and creativity. After thinking for a long moment, the boy still could not come up with anything. And so, the creature is now properly referred to as “Viper.”
For the remainder of the day, Viper helped little Kaz along the wilderness, directing him to find food and water. The boy felt happy with his new snake friend, the creature finding permanent residence around his shoulders. It was nice, in a way. Despite his aching muscles and the cold, forest atmosphere, Kaz does not feel as lonely as he did back home. Maybe this is not so bad after all.
Three days. Kaz has been in the forest with no one except for Viper for three days now. It was longer than the boy had ever been away from his parents, and he would be lying if he was not getting scared. The day was moving along as usual, or as usual as Kaz had been here. Viper still rested comfortably on his shoulders while Kaz attempted to search for food.
“Say, Viper, do you think my parents would ever come back to get me?” He asked, his voice quiet and unsure. Viper stayed silent for a moment, almost as if it did not hear the boy, before answering.
“I think they never left.” The snake then refused to elaborate further, leaving Kaz to ponder the meaning of its words. The two continued their trek in silence, listening to the gentle sounds of Mother Nature.
SNAP.
Chills ran down his spine as Kaz turned to find… a bear. He did not know whether it was the same one they encountered yesterday, but this one sure looked hungry. The bear growled as it stomped towards them, its jaw opened wide. The beast now seemed much larger than it used to be, and also much closer.
Kaz suddenly felt rooted to the ground, unable to move. Dread, fear, and other emotions he could not yet name swarmed his mind. Time seemed to slow as the bear approached him, a familiar sound hissing by his ear.
“Dodge.”
At the last second, Kaz jumped to his right, narrowly avoiding the bear. Small rocks cut into his arm, his mouth getting the wonderful taste of dirt. Scrambling to his knees, Kaz stared in horror at the bear right before him. He could feel the hot air from the beast as it breathed, thinking how easily it could crush him in its mouth. Kaz shut his eyes, tears running down his face as he raised his arms pathetically, almost as if it would stop the bear.
“Run, Kaz.”
The boy peeked through his hands in time to see Viper launch itself at the bear. Its sharp fangs dug into the beast’s face, making the bear rear back in a mighty roar. But even then, the snake had no match against the bear.
Crunch.
The awful sound ringed through the forest as the bear managed to catch Viper in its mouth. Incoherent screaming in that low, whispery voice that Kaz had found comfort in echoed in his ear. A scream full of grief and pain ripped through the boy’s throat, the death of his only companion hurting him so. But he had to run. It was the last instruction Viper gave him.
So, Kaz scrambled to his feet and ran with all his might. He stumbled through the woods, the harsh terrain cutting into his bare feet. He could not see clearly from the tears obstructing his vision, only following the shapes in the distance. He could hear the predator behind him, but he was helpless. All he could do was run. Climbing was not an option, and his feet were getting tired. His lungs were burning as he gasped for air, sounding more like a dying fish than an actual human.
And then it came. Kaz screamed as he tripped over a log, his ankle twisting in an ugly way. His knees buckled under him as he hit the ground, the world spinning in his vision.
“Please, please, I do not want to die. Take me back. Please. I promise I will be a good kid. I promise I will listen. I promise, I promise, I -”
“Sectumsempra!”
A voice, oh so familiar, boomed loudly. With one last echoing roar, the bear went silent except for the loud thud that followed. Kaz stayed in his curled fetal position, scared to even move an inch. Sobs racked his thin frame as he clutched his head, the forest feeling more alien to him than ever.
“Get up.”
A pair of strong arms lifted the boy, causing him to cry out in pain as he landed on his twisted ankle. Kaz went down again, but this time landed on his back. From his position, he could sort of make out the blurry figure before him.
“I have to say I am a little disappointed, Kazimir. I expected you to last for at least five days, yet you only survived for three. However, there is potential in you.”
“Dad?” Kaz croaks. He wiped the tears from his eyes, finally seeing the man before him clearly. His father’s stern, unapproving face graced him, and Kaz could not have been more thankful. He immediately launched himself at his father, sobbing as he clung to him.
“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I will be better, I promise. I will listen, I will read, I will stop being a pain. Take me back, please, take me back.” Viktor went stiff as his son cried, the small boy desperately hugging him.
“Hm. It seems you have learned your lesson then. You have inherited your grandfather's Parselmouth abilities as well. Come, Kazimir, you have much to learn if you wish to use them effectively.”
And for the first, and only time, in Kaz’s memory, his father picked him up. He could have sworn there was a small smile at the edge of his lips. His father began walking, carrying Kaz to wherever home was. The last thing Kaz saw was the bear bleeding out on the forest floor, almost as if it was cut by many blades. Sadness, or more accurately, grief, filled his heart as he thought of Viper. The companion he never gave a proper name to.
"Dad, did grandpa have snake? Since he could talk to them?"
Viktor was quiet for a moment as he thought. "I was never that close with my father, but he had a viper. Orcus, I believe."
Orcus. That could be a cool name, even if he did not know the meaning behind it. His father's low, rumbling voice continued on, something about going to a hotel nearby to use their fireplace. Floo powder, or something like that. "We are quite far from Moscow, after all. Not many forests that have proper wildlife roaming free, so we had to come out here..."
However, Kaz did not hear the rest of the sentence as he went out like a light, exhaustion finally taking a toll on him as his father brought him home.
Kaz had woken up in the middle of nowhere. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, the boy blinked slowly at his surroundings. Trees, trees, and dirt. A heavy blanket of fog still weighed on the forest, little light filtering through. Kaz groaned and fell back onto the bed, planning to go back to sleep. His dreams were weird sometimes.
Only there was no bed. There were no walls, nor were there floors. The familiar ticking of his clock was strangely absent, and so was the daily wake-up call from his servants.
This was not a dream.
Bolting upright, Kaz looked around his surroundings this time with more focus. He was in nothing but his pajamas, his feet bare and body cold. His internal clock told him it was seven in the morning, but he had no way to check. Panic began to set in as the boy scrambled to his feet, searching his surroundings for anything familiar.
Then he heard a crinkle under his foot, different from the crunch of leaves. It was a paper note. The boy felt his hand shake as he read the letter.
It is about time you learned discipline, Kazimir. Your actions shall bear consequences.
Consequences? He needs to learn about consequences? The six-year-old had no other emotion than rage. How dare his parents leave him to the mercy of nature's cruelty? He is the sole heir to the Morozov dynasty, their only son. To risk his life for a lesson is so absurd that it borders on stupidity. So he screamed.
“You need me! I am your only son! I am the only one who can take over the dynasty!” Kaz yells into the forest, receiving nothing but the rustle of leaves in return. Tears were now filling up in his eyes. The petulant child could do nothing but scream his throat raw, repeating the same words over and over again like a chant.
You need me. You need me. You need me.
But they didn't, did they? They could always make another child. He was nothing. He was a disappointment. Who was he to think he could control his destiny at six years old? But no. Doubt is for the weak. He should not, he must not, dwell on the possibilities.
“Fine then! You'll see! You need me more than I need you!” Kaz cries out, his voice cracking from the strain. He could try, but his pathetic bravado was fooling no one. He was scared. He was terrified. He was a six-year-old little boy trapped in an unknown forest.
Weak. Pathetic. Usele —
“Shut up shut up shut up!” His breathing was becoming fast and shallow, the pounding in his head growing louder. Kaz fell back to the ground, his hands digging into the dirt below. He may have screamed. He may have cried. He may have begged.
He was a mess.
--------------------
The sun had almost set when the boy finally looked up. He must have blacked out. Tears stained his face and dirt was stuck under his nails. His pajamas were no better, as leaves and soil clung to the fabric. He was in the same place he was this morning, just more dishevelled and tired.
He was numb as he slowly got up, his muscles sore from the awkward position he was in. He wandered deeper into the woods, his throat hurting every time he swallowed. However, after only a few more steps, he collapsed on the ground yet again. He stared up at the sky, the moon slowly coming up. The boy finally realized just how tired he was. And scared. He was truly, utterly alone.
"Are you going to wallow in self-pity or are you going to get up?”
Kaz jumped at the sudden voice. It sounded raspy, quiet, and whisper-like. The words spoken to him felt foreign, yet he understood them. His eyes darted from tree to tree, branch to branch, but nothing revealed itself.
“Who are you?” The boy croaked, his voice lacking the volume he had before. He was terrified of the odd voice that spoke to him… but also intrigued. A strange force seemed to draw him in, an undeniable curiosity urging him to investigate.
“Who are you and where are you hiding?” He repeated, his voice rising slightly. However, no one responded. Everything was silent except for the distant cawing of a crow.
Motivated and slightly unsettled from getting scolded by a mysterious voice, Kaz finally mustered up the energy to climb up a tree. He may not know how to survive in the wild, but he still has the common sense to check his surroundings. Besides, by being on higher ground, he could avoid the bigger threats. Or at least he thought so. He read it somewhere in a book, but he cannot remember it quite well.
Splinters buried themselves into his palm and bare feet as he climbed. The rough bark was by no means comfortable, but the pain was able to ground him to reality. Similar to how some people would pinch themselves to make sure they are not hallucinating, the pricking sensation of his ascent only solidified his perception of his situation. He either had to pull his weight or die alone.
Finally, he reached the fork of the tree. The small boy was able to wedge himself between two branches, grimacing as the bark bit into his back. Certain that he would not plummet straight to the ground when he fell asleep, Kaz closed his eyes and attempted to rest. Sleep did not come easy, nor was it peaceful, but he supposed it was necessary. So there he stayed, stiff and uncomfortable, the bark pricking his skin and the cold seeping into his bones.
-------------------
Kaz woke up the next day feeling worse than he did before. Every single muscle in his body felt sore from the awkward position he slept in. He tried to rearrange his limbs slightly to alleviate the discomfort, but he barely moved an inch before hearing the voice again.
“Do not move.”
Kaz freezes as he hears the familiar hiss again, the voice sounding much closer and clearer than it did yesterday. He strains his ears in an attempt to locate the sound, hearing a little rustle coming from his right.
Turning his head slowly, the young boy was greeted by the sight of a large, black viper wrapped around the branch Vipera berus: Known as the common adder. Very common in the forests of West Tver and is easily confused with Nikolsky’s Adder, the one in Southwestern Russia. While it typically features a gray or brown body with a distinct dark zigzag pattern down its back, melanistic (completely black) individuals are incredibly common in these northern forests. The viper hisses at the boy, revealing its sharp fangs that glimmer in the morning sun.
Kaz feels his heartbeat pick up as he fights back a scream. The creature was so close to him that he could see its individual scales.
“Do not scream.”
The boy was about to cry. The viper slithered closer to Kaz, its smooth scales making contact with his skin. He stayed frozen as the snake wrapped around his shoulder, making itself at home.
“What do you want from me?” Kaz managed to squeak out, his voice barely a whisper. The snake tightened its hold around his shoulder, making Kaz shiver as its cool scales grazed his neck.
“I will not harm you, young one. But the one below might.”
Looking down, Kaz's breath caught in his throat. A large, brown bear circled the base of the tree Brown bears; very common in the forests of West Tver. The bear growled as it sniffed the air, its teeth looking not too nice at the moment.
“Stay calm. These bears have an acute sense of smell and hearing. However, if it notices you, it will climb. Listen to my instructions.”
Kaz swallows dryly, his eyes never leaving the predator below. Suddenly, the snake’s presence was a comfort that he was glad for. Listening to the odd, whispery voice, Kaz slowly relaxed his shoulders and breathing, careful not to rustle the tree leaves. The brown bear seemed to have grown bored and eventually left, seeking food elsewhere. Kaz let out a deep sigh of relief, nearly crying with relief.
“Thank you.” The boy said gratefully, his voice cracking a bit. The viper merely made itself comfortable on the boy’s thin shoulders, its forked tongue poking his face playfully.
“It is not often for me to see humans who can speak our language, much less one as young as you. Tell me, child, what are you doing all alone in this forest?”
“Well, my dad decided I was too undisciplined, so he sent me here as a punishment. At least that is what the note said… wait-” Kaz’s brows furrowed in confusion as he looked closely at the viper. “What do you mean I speak your language?”
“Do you not wonder how we are conversing naturally with no misunderstanding? I will tell you right now, boy, I am speaking as I always do. You, on the other hand, are speaking something other than the usual human nonsense.”
He possessed the ability to speak with… snakes? The young boy was too stimulated to think over the possibilities and reasons, so he answered as any other six-year-old would have.
“Cool. What is your name? I am Kaz.” After all, the first thing you do when you can talk to snakes is to make friends with them. The snake, however, looked at Kaz with what he would describe as confusion. If snakes could be confused.
“I do not possess what your species calls… a name. I suppose you may refer to me however you would like.”Unfortunately, Kaz had awful imagination and creativity. After thinking for a long moment, the boy still could not come up with anything. And so, the creature is now properly referred to as “Viper.”
For the remainder of the day, Viper helped little Kaz along the wilderness, directing him to find food and water. The boy felt happy with his new snake friend, the creature finding permanent residence around his shoulders. It was nice, in a way. Despite his aching muscles and the cold, forest atmosphere, Kaz does not feel as lonely as he did back home. Maybe this is not so bad after all.
-------------------
Three days. Kaz has been in the forest with no one except for Viper for three days now. It was longer than the boy had ever been away from his parents, and he would be lying if he was not getting scared. The day was moving along as usual, or as usual as Kaz had been here. Viper still rested comfortably on his shoulders while Kaz attempted to search for food.
“Say, Viper, do you think my parents would ever come back to get me?” He asked, his voice quiet and unsure. Viper stayed silent for a moment, almost as if it did not hear the boy, before answering.
“I think they never left.” The snake then refused to elaborate further, leaving Kaz to ponder the meaning of its words. The two continued their trek in silence, listening to the gentle sounds of Mother Nature.
SNAP.
Chills ran down his spine as Kaz turned to find… a bear. He did not know whether it was the same one they encountered yesterday, but this one sure looked hungry. The bear growled as it stomped towards them, its jaw opened wide. The beast now seemed much larger than it used to be, and also much closer.
Kaz suddenly felt rooted to the ground, unable to move. Dread, fear, and other emotions he could not yet name swarmed his mind. Time seemed to slow as the bear approached him, a familiar sound hissing by his ear.
“Dodge.”
At the last second, Kaz jumped to his right, narrowly avoiding the bear. Small rocks cut into his arm, his mouth getting the wonderful taste of dirt. Scrambling to his knees, Kaz stared in horror at the bear right before him. He could feel the hot air from the beast as it breathed, thinking how easily it could crush him in its mouth. Kaz shut his eyes, tears running down his face as he raised his arms pathetically, almost as if it would stop the bear.
“Run, Kaz.”
The boy peeked through his hands in time to see Viper launch itself at the bear. Its sharp fangs dug into the beast’s face, making the bear rear back in a mighty roar. But even then, the snake had no match against the bear.
Crunch.
The awful sound ringed through the forest as the bear managed to catch Viper in its mouth. Incoherent screaming in that low, whispery voice that Kaz had found comfort in echoed in his ear. A scream full of grief and pain ripped through the boy’s throat, the death of his only companion hurting him so. But he had to run. It was the last instruction Viper gave him.
So, Kaz scrambled to his feet and ran with all his might. He stumbled through the woods, the harsh terrain cutting into his bare feet. He could not see clearly from the tears obstructing his vision, only following the shapes in the distance. He could hear the predator behind him, but he was helpless. All he could do was run. Climbing was not an option, and his feet were getting tired. His lungs were burning as he gasped for air, sounding more like a dying fish than an actual human.
And then it came. Kaz screamed as he tripped over a log, his ankle twisting in an ugly way. His knees buckled under him as he hit the ground, the world spinning in his vision.
“Please, please, I do not want to die. Take me back. Please. I promise I will be a good kid. I promise I will listen. I promise, I promise, I -”
“Sectumsempra!”
A voice, oh so familiar, boomed loudly. With one last echoing roar, the bear went silent except for the loud thud that followed. Kaz stayed in his curled fetal position, scared to even move an inch. Sobs racked his thin frame as he clutched his head, the forest feeling more alien to him than ever.
“Get up.”
A pair of strong arms lifted the boy, causing him to cry out in pain as he landed on his twisted ankle. Kaz went down again, but this time landed on his back. From his position, he could sort of make out the blurry figure before him.
“I have to say I am a little disappointed, Kazimir. I expected you to last for at least five days, yet you only survived for three. However, there is potential in you.”
“Dad?” Kaz croaks. He wiped the tears from his eyes, finally seeing the man before him clearly. His father’s stern, unapproving face graced him, and Kaz could not have been more thankful. He immediately launched himself at his father, sobbing as he clung to him.
“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I will be better, I promise. I will listen, I will read, I will stop being a pain. Take me back, please, take me back.” Viktor went stiff as his son cried, the small boy desperately hugging him.
“Hm. It seems you have learned your lesson then. You have inherited your grandfather's Parselmouth abilities as well. Come, Kazimir, you have much to learn if you wish to use them effectively.”
And for the first, and only time, in Kaz’s memory, his father picked him up. He could have sworn there was a small smile at the edge of his lips. His father began walking, carrying Kaz to wherever home was. The last thing Kaz saw was the bear bleeding out on the forest floor, almost as if it was cut by many blades. Sadness, or more accurately, grief, filled his heart as he thought of Viper. The companion he never gave a proper name to.
"Dad, did grandpa have snake? Since he could talk to them?"
Viktor was quiet for a moment as he thought. "I was never that close with my father, but he had a viper. Orcus, I believe."
Orcus. That could be a cool name, even if he did not know the meaning behind it. His father's low, rumbling voice continued on, something about going to a hotel nearby to use their fireplace. Floo powder, or something like that. "We are quite far from Moscow, after all. Not many forests that have proper wildlife roaming free, so we had to come out here..."
However, Kaz did not hear the rest of the sentence as he went out like a light, exhaustion finally taking a toll on him as his father brought him home.
If special race/ability, how did they join the school? Normally.
Another thing to note, Kaz has a medical condition: Mild Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
Reducio
This was briefly stated in the backstory, but it is explained and clarified more in depth here.
Why does he have OCD?
When he was nine, Kaz got Spattergroit, a highly contagious airborne magical disease. The cause of it is still unclear, but Kaz’s parents suspected it may have been from one of the business meetings they took Kaz to. Perhaps the magical fungus was in their hotel room, the meeting room, or even just the surrounding area. Though the parents seem to have avoided the dreadful fate, Kaz was not so lucky due to his young and vulnerable age.
The disease left the nine-year-old bedridden for several months, suffering from fatigue and purple pustules forming on the face. He often got high fevers, his chest feeling tight and uncomfortable. He was confined to his own room in the hospital, as Spattergroit is highly contagious. Kaz often spent his nights alone, scared of dying and crying from pain. He was struggling, yet he was helpless and at the mercy of the doctor’s care. His condition worsened to the point where it infected his uvula, rendering him to be unable to speak. Thankfully, the doctors were able to stop it from spreading to the brain and healed him slowly.
After three months, Kaz was finally cured of Spattergroit. Thanks to the advanced medical care his family paid for, he was cured with little to no scarring, just a few white dots where the particularly awful pustules used to be. They were barely noticeable against his fair skin, though. He was also able to recover his ability to speak, though it came out a little raspy in the beginning. However, the suffering he endured from the disease still left him traumatized. He remembers the helplessness that came along with it, making it a dark memory for him.
It does not help that his parents became largely obsessed with keeping him clean and inside the house afterwards. All he remembers are the extensive cleaning routines he must go through, ones which he still repeats today. His condition only worsened as his parents continued to pester him about it, making him relive the memory over and over again. He eventually reached the stage where he did not want to leave his room and refused to touch anyone.
A doctor was finally called to help Kaz with his condition. He went through multiple therapy sessions, mainly cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy. He is now able to recognize patterns and possible triggers that can launch him into panic attacks, allowing him to leave the situation if he feels a compulsion coming up. However, despite the doctor's attempts to help, Kaz still despises exposure therapy and is often left feeling worse. It did help to a certain degree, but his mental state afterwards is so terrible that his parents decided to focus him more on CBT instead.
Though therapy has helped, Kaz still experiences minor claustrophobia and has a mild aversion to physical touch. He wears black leather gloves daily to keep physical contact to a minimum and is usually clothed from head to toe.
Kaz’s OCD:
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a mental health condition characterized by intrusive, unwanted thoughts (obsessions) and repetitive behaviors or mental rituals (compulsions) performed to reduce anxiety.
There are levels of severity to OCD:
Subclinical (0-7): Intrusive thoughts or rituals exist but cause minimal to no disruption.
Mild (8-15): Symptoms are present, occupy 1 to 3 hours daily, but are generally manageable with minor disruptions.
Moderate (16-23): Symptoms occupy 3 to 8 hours a day, causing distress and noticeably interfering with daily tasks or relationships.
Severe (24-31): Symptoms consume more than 8 hours a day, causing extreme distress and substantially impairing work, school, or self-care.
Extreme (32-40): Symptoms are nearly constant, highly debilitating, and can prevent the person from leaving their home or functioning independently.
Kaz had mild OCD, having small compulsions here and there to relieve his obsessions. However, if he is triggered, he can have panic attacks. His panic attacks are usually triggered by thoughts of sickness or threats of being sick. Anything that reminds him of the time he contracted Spattergroit can trigger him into a spiral.
Kaz’s Obsessions:
Contamination - Kaz has a mild fear of germs and dirt, but is terrified of contracting a disease. This is due to his past trauma with Spattergroit. His near-death experience with the disease causes him to be terrified of getting sick in any way. That is why he is now obsessed with keeping himself clean, insisting on wearing gloves during every hour of the day. He is very particular about his space and does not risk any chances of possible contamination.
Order - Kaz also has another obsession, and that is to make sure everything is in order and looks perfect. He is not so much affected by symmetry, but he is a freak for organization and believes that things must go in a certain way. This is milder than his obsession with contamination, but he will still give in to the urge to fix things that seem out of place. The primary reason for this would be his mother, Irina, who has drilled into his head that everything needs to be perfect. Kaz would make sure that his books are arranged in alphabetical order, that his clothes are ironed and folded, and that his writing tools go from most used to least used. They usually are not too big a deal.
However, it is not just physical objects. Kaz also believes that some actions should go in a specific order. These are the ones he has to keep in check, because he cannot really yell at someone who puts their socks on first, now can he? But you can tell since his eye twitches in irritation.
Kaz’s compulsions:
Cleaning and Washing - Kaz has a very specific routine that he goes through when he gets ready. I will not go into specifics, but just know that he is very particular in the order he washes himself in and is very strict on the fact that he cannot touch anything unclean, or else he will repeat it all over again. The good news is that he does this enough times that it does not eat away at his schedule too much, as long as no little “surprises” happen to interrupt his routine.
He will also clean his room and household objects frequently. Like every three days or if he feels the need to. Not exactly a bad thing, as most parents would love for their kids to clean their room, but Kaz’s parents view it as shameful since they have house-elves for the job already. Kaz cleaning his room makes them feel that he is… going beneath his status.
Ordering - This one is quite self-explanatory. Kaz will rearrange items until they feel right and fit the image in his mind. He also loves making lists and plans, as it gives him a sense of order and certainty that things must proceed in.
Why does he have OCD?
When he was nine, Kaz got Spattergroit, a highly contagious airborne magical disease. The cause of it is still unclear, but Kaz’s parents suspected it may have been from one of the business meetings they took Kaz to. Perhaps the magical fungus was in their hotel room, the meeting room, or even just the surrounding area. Though the parents seem to have avoided the dreadful fate, Kaz was not so lucky due to his young and vulnerable age.
The disease left the nine-year-old bedridden for several months, suffering from fatigue and purple pustules forming on the face. He often got high fevers, his chest feeling tight and uncomfortable. He was confined to his own room in the hospital, as Spattergroit is highly contagious. Kaz often spent his nights alone, scared of dying and crying from pain. He was struggling, yet he was helpless and at the mercy of the doctor’s care. His condition worsened to the point where it infected his uvula, rendering him to be unable to speak. Thankfully, the doctors were able to stop it from spreading to the brain and healed him slowly.
After three months, Kaz was finally cured of Spattergroit. Thanks to the advanced medical care his family paid for, he was cured with little to no scarring, just a few white dots where the particularly awful pustules used to be. They were barely noticeable against his fair skin, though. He was also able to recover his ability to speak, though it came out a little raspy in the beginning. However, the suffering he endured from the disease still left him traumatized. He remembers the helplessness that came along with it, making it a dark memory for him.
It does not help that his parents became largely obsessed with keeping him clean and inside the house afterwards. All he remembers are the extensive cleaning routines he must go through, ones which he still repeats today. His condition only worsened as his parents continued to pester him about it, making him relive the memory over and over again. He eventually reached the stage where he did not want to leave his room and refused to touch anyone.
A doctor was finally called to help Kaz with his condition. He went through multiple therapy sessions, mainly cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy. He is now able to recognize patterns and possible triggers that can launch him into panic attacks, allowing him to leave the situation if he feels a compulsion coming up. However, despite the doctor's attempts to help, Kaz still despises exposure therapy and is often left feeling worse. It did help to a certain degree, but his mental state afterwards is so terrible that his parents decided to focus him more on CBT instead.
Though therapy has helped, Kaz still experiences minor claustrophobia and has a mild aversion to physical touch. He wears black leather gloves daily to keep physical contact to a minimum and is usually clothed from head to toe.
Kaz’s OCD:
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a mental health condition characterized by intrusive, unwanted thoughts (obsessions) and repetitive behaviors or mental rituals (compulsions) performed to reduce anxiety.
There are levels of severity to OCD:
Subclinical (0-7): Intrusive thoughts or rituals exist but cause minimal to no disruption.
Mild (8-15): Symptoms are present, occupy 1 to 3 hours daily, but are generally manageable with minor disruptions.
Moderate (16-23): Symptoms occupy 3 to 8 hours a day, causing distress and noticeably interfering with daily tasks or relationships.
Severe (24-31): Symptoms consume more than 8 hours a day, causing extreme distress and substantially impairing work, school, or self-care.
Extreme (32-40): Symptoms are nearly constant, highly debilitating, and can prevent the person from leaving their home or functioning independently.
Kaz had mild OCD, having small compulsions here and there to relieve his obsessions. However, if he is triggered, he can have panic attacks. His panic attacks are usually triggered by thoughts of sickness or threats of being sick. Anything that reminds him of the time he contracted Spattergroit can trigger him into a spiral.
Kaz’s Obsessions:
Contamination - Kaz has a mild fear of germs and dirt, but is terrified of contracting a disease. This is due to his past trauma with Spattergroit. His near-death experience with the disease causes him to be terrified of getting sick in any way. That is why he is now obsessed with keeping himself clean, insisting on wearing gloves during every hour of the day. He is very particular about his space and does not risk any chances of possible contamination.
Order - Kaz also has another obsession, and that is to make sure everything is in order and looks perfect. He is not so much affected by symmetry, but he is a freak for organization and believes that things must go in a certain way. This is milder than his obsession with contamination, but he will still give in to the urge to fix things that seem out of place. The primary reason for this would be his mother, Irina, who has drilled into his head that everything needs to be perfect. Kaz would make sure that his books are arranged in alphabetical order, that his clothes are ironed and folded, and that his writing tools go from most used to least used. They usually are not too big a deal.
However, it is not just physical objects. Kaz also believes that some actions should go in a specific order. These are the ones he has to keep in check, because he cannot really yell at someone who puts their socks on first, now can he? But you can tell since his eye twitches in irritation.
Kaz’s compulsions:
Cleaning and Washing - Kaz has a very specific routine that he goes through when he gets ready. I will not go into specifics, but just know that he is very particular in the order he washes himself in and is very strict on the fact that he cannot touch anything unclean, or else he will repeat it all over again. The good news is that he does this enough times that it does not eat away at his schedule too much, as long as no little “surprises” happen to interrupt his routine.
He will also clean his room and household objects frequently. Like every three days or if he feels the need to. Not exactly a bad thing, as most parents would love for their kids to clean their room, but Kaz’s parents view it as shameful since they have house-elves for the job already. Kaz cleaning his room makes them feel that he is… going beneath his status.
Ordering - This one is quite self-explanatory. Kaz will rearrange items until they feel right and fit the image in his mind. He also loves making lists and plans, as it gives him a sense of order and certainty that things must proceed in.
Pending, Célestine, August 25th
- You have elements of history in Morozov family that are too similar to the real events of Russian Morozov family. You can't claim any position that would be just one of a kind. Please edit any similarities with how famous they are and Moscow theater.
- Your fiom reads as two events: levitating and getting everything back to normal. Please leave only one.
- The year of birth in your history is 2014, however in your ency page in information, it's 2015. Please edit it to be the same.
- You have a nice and long application describing how he realizes that he can talk to a snake, but there's no information on whether someone else in family is a Parselmouth. Please add it.
- It's evident that you have done research, however, the type of snake you chose is highly impossible to meet in Moscow. The bear is also highly unlikely to appear there. Please edit it.
- I can see that you are making both families as very famous, however please remember they can't be the longest-standing or the most famous/powerful. Please don't make them as one of the kind.
- The mention of Lockhart reads more as OOC comment, rather than still a part of narration. Please edit it or remove it.
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