Young, Dumb, and Rich
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═══════════════════════════ STA. 5 | EVA. 8 | STR. 0 | WIS. 7 | ARC. 1 | ACC. 9 ═══
x Speech |
#444e5f - Russian
#2a3c2d - Parseltongue
Also speaks: French, Romanian,
Latin, and English.xxx WC | 876
Date | January 3rd, 2027
Location | Moscow, Russia
Outfit | Formal black suit
+ black leather gloves (always)
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Things to note about Kaz: 1) He always wears gloves. 2) He has OCD. #3) He may have panic attacks if triggered.
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Things to note about Kaz: 1) He always wears gloves. 2) He has OCD. #3) He may have panic attacks if triggered.
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For the first time in forever, Kaz misses the emptiness of his house. The silent halls and lonely nights suddenly seem so much nicer than whatever... this is. Lights and classical music filled the air as guests and families began entering the Morozov Mansion. It never occurred to the boy that the Ballroom in his estate was actually able to hold parties, considering how little his family hosts formal events. But today was apparently for a special occasion — an occasion that Kaz absolutely despises.
His birthday. Since he was born on the thirteenth of January, his parents thought to hold a gala in his honor ten days before, that way he would still be present and not back at Durmstrang. However, the boy also knows that an early celebration is not the only reason. His parents never paid him much mind, let alone throw him a birthday party. They needed to host this gala in order to rebuild the Morozov reputation, especially after his near-death experience with Spattergroit. They had kept the whole incident under wraps, of course, as announcing the weakness of your family is basically a death sentence. But their sudden absence from events did not go unnoticed, and rumors began. Rumors about their business and investments declining, his parents' old age getting to them, everything.
So his parents did the only next logical thing they could think of: they announced his ability as a Parselmouth. Kaz was livid when he found it published in the newspapers one morning, confronting his parents about it. When he was discovered to be a Parselmouth at six, his parents agreed to keep a secret for a while. But not long enough, it seems, as they decided to tell the whole wide world when he was about to go to Durmstrang. His parents told him that they needed an explanation — a disguise — to hide the true reason. So now the world believes that the Morozov family had to isolate themselves for two years in order to protect their Parselmouth son and homeschooled him instead of sending him to his foundation year.
This makes it awful for the boy, as now the attention is all on him. Especially since no one never really got a good look at the Morozov heir until he went to the Institute. Kaz almost wishes he never came back for the winter holidays. Faces of people he never met before swarm his vision, flashing their fake smiles and wealth. Kaz fights an eye-roll as a particularly flirtatious lady attempts to charm someone. For their money, no doubt. One look at her dress and he can already tell that she does not belong here. The dress's fabric quality looks subpar and her strained smile told him she was desperate.
Exhaling slowly through his nose, Kaz attempts to keep his composure. Though the Ballroom was vast, he is unfortunately seated at the center table, meaning that every movement he makes can be seen. Reporters, journalists, and photographers are hiding in every corner, waiting for the perfect moment to happen in order to make it into a worthy headliner story.
Kaz hated it. He hated how he was being watched and judged, everyone wishing to see the so-called "perfect" son that Viktor and Irina Morozov had sired. He was used to attending events and galas like these by his father's side, but never hosting — and certainly not being the center of attention.
"Focus, Kazimir." His father rumbled beside him. Kaz clenches his gloved fists under the table to keep from saying another word. He could have spent the last of his winter break in peace, but then his father summoned him to his office one day, telling him they were going to host a gala... in two days. So here Kaz sits, trying to keep calm about the increasing number of guests that keep flooding in. Just how much people did his father invite? He was still sour about being kept in the dark about the gala, as he was quite literally the main event, but there is little he can do. At least he was spared from greeting guests at the door. However, his mother told him that he still had to greet them later after dinner, as he had to be polite.
"Keep you back straight, son. Your classmates from the Institute may be here, so stay vigilant. You have to do your own networking tonight as well." Kaz had personally thought his back was straight enough given how tense he is, but he still muttered a quite "yes, mother" and held his chin up higher. But it was his mother's other statement that continued to loop in his head. You classmates from the institute may be here. He fights the rising panic at that thought, as he can think of many from Durmstrang whom he would not like to meet. Networking my ass, he thought scornfully. The amount of fights he had gotten into probably burned a few bridges already. He is suddenly grateful of his parents' ignorance. What happens in Durmstrang stays in Durmstrang.
Speaking of the devils, Kaz noticed a few familiar faces out of the corner of his eye. This was going to be one long night.
Mentions | @Theodore Alexei Vorona-Russo, @Kullervo Ikonen, @Elisei Mikhailov, @Stelle Mims, @Julien Morte, @Vivienne Thorne, @Elijah Emberly, @Eugenia Smyrnidi
OOC Notes | Let the chaos begin! Kaz does not want to be there lmao
═══ [PARSELMOUTH] Parseltongue Adept. | Y2 | Y3 | Y4 | Y5 | Y6 | Y7 ═══════════════════
STA. 5 | EVA. 8 | STR. 0 | WIS. 7 | ARC. 1 | ACC. 9
PC - Skylar Blue
Young, Dumb, and Rich
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| ebfhe | OOC Notes: Banner by Chatt Auclair | Mentions: @Kazimir Viktorovich Morozov, @Elisei Mikhailov, @Theodore Alexei Vorona-Russo, @Elijah Emberly @Julien Morte, @Stelle Mims, @Vivienne Thorne, @Eugenia Smyrnidi | WC: 961 | hvhjvhvje |
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The prospect of attending a gala had never particularly appealed to Kullervo Ikonen despite being raised on such formal events. He knew how to behave, when to be polite, when to nod along even if he wasn't listening, when to bow to someone of importance. How to behave gentlemanly. The prospect of attending one with his mother, however, morphed the entire thing into an ordeal rather than event. Kullervo stood beside her as they prepared to depart, his expression already bearing the intense displeasure of someone who had been inconvenienced in every possible way there was to be inconvenienced. He had been ready for the better part of twenty minutes. His ensemble was immaculate, his coat pressed, shoes polished, pale hair severely neat. There was, in his objective opinion, very little reason to continue standing about. His mother, however, seemed determined to make a production of their departure. Kullervo exhaled through his nose, his gaze settling upon the Portkey as though it had offended his entire lineage. It might as well have. Since his father's death, possessed little tolerance for unnecessary social obligations, and recent developments in his family had only worsened his disposition towards them. His mother's remarriage had introduced quite enough unwelcome changes into his life without requiring him to endure an evening of forced pleasantries on top of them. And now, he was to attend with a woman who now had part of someone else's name. Kullervo was ashamed. Unfortunately, declining an invitation of this nature was not an option. Not when his mother had already accepted and certified their attendance long before informing him there was even a gala to attend. That's oftentimes how these things went. He'd be informed over breakfast on the day of the event. Not asked. He had no choice in the matter. He never had a choice. No matter the context, Kullervo's expression remained unchanged. He had perfected the art of looking unimpressed at a relatively young age, it was a skill that made him appear several years older than he actually was, even if his skin was clear and entirely free of blemishes. When the Portkey finally transported them to their destination, Kullervo emerged with all the enthusiasm of a man arriving at his own execution. Russia. As a Finn, he had the right to be entirely unenthusiastic, and disgusted that his mother accepted the invitation at all. The Morozov estate was, in layman's terms, impressive. So very reluctantly, he admitted that to himself. But he would have been blind to deny it. The architecture was grand, the grounds evidently well maintained, and the mansion itself had the sort of imposing grandeur that suggested considerable expenditure. Whoever constructed such an estate either had an incredibly refined taste or an incredible amount of wealth. Likely both. Kullervo allowed his gaze to travel over the facade, assessing it with the detached scrutiny of someone who had never encountered a building he could not find fault with. It was a respectable estate. He would have preferred not to admit it. It was insulting. His eyes flicked towards the entrance, then to the timepiece at his wrist. Precisely the appointed time. One should expect nothing less of an Ikonen. He then glanced towards his mother, though whether he expected her to offer a pre-event warning to behave or simply wished to ensure that she was keeping an eye on him was difficult to determine. He simply frowned. By the time they were ushered inside, Kullervo had accumulated a mental catalogue of grievances that far exceeded his own standards of things to be irritated about. The journey itself had been entirely unnecessary. The weather was dreadful. The estate was annoying pristine. The entrance hall was ostentatious in a manner that suggested the decorators had been paid by the ornament. He had also formed a particularly uncharitable opinion of a portrait hanging near the staircase, although he had no idea who the unfortunate subject was. He simply disliked the lighting. Kullervo's attention eventually settled upon the other guests beginning to arrive. There were familiar surnames among them, naturally. Families whose wealth and reputations preceded them, who seemed to regard every social gathering such as this as an opportunity to display either of those things. Kullervo knew the type intimately. He had been raised amongst them, educated like one, and subjected to their tedious conversations for as long as he could remember. He could hardly imagine a more effective method of ruining an evening. "How flavourful," he murmured the second his mother left his side to speak with the hosts. He observed the crowd with growing disdain. "Look at all of these fools who will undoubtedly have something fascinating to say about themselves." Kullervo smoothed the front of his robes and lifted his chin, his expression settling into its familiar arrangement of indifference. If he was to be subjected to the company of strangers, then at the very least he would not give them the satisfaction of believing he was pleased about it. Nor that he was beneath them in any manner. And if anyone had the misfortune of approaching him with an insipid question, an unsolicited compliment, or the expectation that he was to be grateful for their so very holy presence, Kullervo had every intention of making certain they regretted it. It was going to be a very long evening. Especially as he noticed a certain familiar face staring at him. "Kaz", he preferred to be called. The very Morozov at fault for his presence here. He scoffed. Not because Kaz had done anything in particular to him, but because he was in a foul mood. "Oh, it's you." Kullervo almost 'ugh'd, but he didn't need to. His tone conveyed more displeasure than words ever could. |
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