19 Aug 2021, 02:33
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
@Elliot Price
This is a story about a man named Elliot Price and his pocket-watch. Indeed, his pocket watch, this ornate, silvery thing on a long byzantine chain that he always wore in his breast pocket of his tweed suit. A clamshell style, the face would open with the press of a well-worn nub that would cause the lid to pop off and display a deep blue, almost navy with a bit of shimmer, like a pearl luster face and large, white roman numerals that tracked the time with a gentle tick.
The watch was a miraculous thing, never needed to be winded, never lost track of the time. And it was by the dictate of the watch. It was the same, rise precisely at 5:50 or as some might call it o'dark-hundred. The watch would give a gentle nudge, more like a vibration on his nightstand. This sharp noise of metal against wood would summon him from his nocturnal rest seven days a week. Yes, even on a Saturday he would rise before the others in his building and brew a pot of coffee.
Elliot Price was ultimately a man of chaos, of infinite possibilities, endless calculations and remarkably few words. With all the possibilities, all the tangents and all the text defying potentials, Elliot was able to make it look like a routine because it was in fact just that, an illusion. The chaos persisted in the form of franticed and frenzied people 'saving lives' and being hailed as heroes or blamed for the failings of one's body caused by years of negligence and poor choices.
Each day for the past year Elliot would brush all 32 of his teeth for no more and no less than 90 seconds. Back and forth, up and down. Floss. Rinse. Gargle and spit.
Every weekday for the past year Elliot would wear one of his many tweed suits, a spectrum of earthen tones and greys. Pleated slacks that he would iron on his table, a plain white tucked buttoned, collared shirt and a black and solid colored tie a shade darker than his jacket. Simple buttered toast and coffee for a man on the run, he would rush from his one bedroom first floor flat six blocks. He would barely catch the 7:47 bus.
Time mattered and he was always on time. And every weekday for the last year Elliot would review 12.347 medical files as an auditor for St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It was tedious, mundane but honest work. A thrill in discovering the fraudulent case of consumption or the falsified death would speckle his otherwise humdrum existence.
One might even call him a workaholic, his job was all he thought about during work hours. He rarely left his desk, only taking a 35.5 minute lunch break and a 5.5 minute coffee break, timed precisely by his pocket watch that watched the activity of the day from the honored vantage point of his breast pocket.
Beyond that, Elliot lived a life of solitude. He would see the passage of nurses and varied medical staff but they would rarely enter his office. His office more aptly described as a slightly larger than normal cubicle with solid walls and a door rather than a movable carpet-like screen. There were no pictures on his walls, no portrait of a girlfriend or a wife on his desk, no mementos from a family that he missed. Just a mug that he could not recall the origins of that housed an assortment of writing implements - varied quills and a pair of capped ink wells. There were the common implements of his trade - paperclips and thumbtacks, notebooks and little more. As if there was no life, no existence outside of the workspace.
He would leave the office at exactly five, punctuality was an important principle for the seasoned auditor. A role he had been entwined in for seemingly forever, uncertain when it was that he had first taken the job. Likely a few weeks ago, not as long as a few months or even a year. But time passess differently when you pay attention only to the little things. He couldn't see the forest for the trees. Time ran past him, the world moved on in lack of him, until he was forgotten, a distant echo in the memory of those left behind.
Elliot would walk home alone.
A jaunt several city blocks to a bus that would take him a few blocks from home. He always carried an umbrella, it rained rather often in London but when it was not raining a characteristic click of the tip of the umbrella on the pavement would herald his presence not that it greatly mattered.
Elliot would eat alone.
A burgeoning gourmand despite his wiry frame, his evenings were often spent reading and cooking elaborate meals for one. His walls were bare, his loveseat was only occupied by one and his dining room table was rarely used in lieu of a rather large, overstuffed recliner chair that he ultimately favored.
In the evening hours, just before the night takes one away, where other minds would fanaticize about their upcoming day, Elliot just recalled the names. Names, there were so many of them. Not names he had read in the files, not the names of his coworkers, the people he sat with on the bus or even people he once knew. Names of people he could not recall, there was no face... just names -- Caradoc Browne, Vladimir Athanatos, Maya Galim, and hundreds more. Not that he knew why he insisted on repeating the names over and over again with a fervor that seemed illogical, neurotic, even obsessive but it did so each and every night as if the names were important, as if the names were relevant.
He did not remember his time as a Professor at Hogwarts. A Potions Master of great regard, a celebrated intelectual who had more friends than family, but he had a rather active social life. There were people that he cared about, hen he unceremoniously disappeared, his reasoning vague but accepted by in large.
And at precisely 11:00 every night, Elliot would go to bed alone, placing his wristwatch to rest on the nightstand beside him.
And thus, this was his routine. the rather unexciting life of one Elliot Price.
This is a story about a man named Elliot Price and his pocket-watch. Indeed, his pocket watch, this ornate, silvery thing on a long byzantine chain that he always wore in his breast pocket of his tweed suit. A clamshell style, the face would open with the press of a well-worn nub that would cause the lid to pop off and display a deep blue, almost navy with a bit of shimmer, like a pearl luster face and large, white roman numerals that tracked the time with a gentle tick.
The watch was a miraculous thing, never needed to be winded, never lost track of the time. And it was by the dictate of the watch. It was the same, rise precisely at 5:50 or as some might call it o'dark-hundred. The watch would give a gentle nudge, more like a vibration on his nightstand. This sharp noise of metal against wood would summon him from his nocturnal rest seven days a week. Yes, even on a Saturday he would rise before the others in his building and brew a pot of coffee.
Elliot Price was ultimately a man of chaos, of infinite possibilities, endless calculations and remarkably few words. With all the possibilities, all the tangents and all the text defying potentials, Elliot was able to make it look like a routine because it was in fact just that, an illusion. The chaos persisted in the form of franticed and frenzied people 'saving lives' and being hailed as heroes or blamed for the failings of one's body caused by years of negligence and poor choices.
Each day for the past year Elliot would brush all 32 of his teeth for no more and no less than 90 seconds. Back and forth, up and down. Floss. Rinse. Gargle and spit.
Every weekday for the past year Elliot would wear one of his many tweed suits, a spectrum of earthen tones and greys. Pleated slacks that he would iron on his table, a plain white tucked buttoned, collared shirt and a black and solid colored tie a shade darker than his jacket. Simple buttered toast and coffee for a man on the run, he would rush from his one bedroom first floor flat six blocks. He would barely catch the 7:47 bus.
Time mattered and he was always on time. And every weekday for the last year Elliot would review 12.347 medical files as an auditor for St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It was tedious, mundane but honest work. A thrill in discovering the fraudulent case of consumption or the falsified death would speckle his otherwise humdrum existence.
One might even call him a workaholic, his job was all he thought about during work hours. He rarely left his desk, only taking a 35.5 minute lunch break and a 5.5 minute coffee break, timed precisely by his pocket watch that watched the activity of the day from the honored vantage point of his breast pocket.
Beyond that, Elliot lived a life of solitude. He would see the passage of nurses and varied medical staff but they would rarely enter his office. His office more aptly described as a slightly larger than normal cubicle with solid walls and a door rather than a movable carpet-like screen. There were no pictures on his walls, no portrait of a girlfriend or a wife on his desk, no mementos from a family that he missed. Just a mug that he could not recall the origins of that housed an assortment of writing implements - varied quills and a pair of capped ink wells. There were the common implements of his trade - paperclips and thumbtacks, notebooks and little more. As if there was no life, no existence outside of the workspace.
He would leave the office at exactly five, punctuality was an important principle for the seasoned auditor. A role he had been entwined in for seemingly forever, uncertain when it was that he had first taken the job. Likely a few weeks ago, not as long as a few months or even a year. But time passess differently when you pay attention only to the little things. He couldn't see the forest for the trees. Time ran past him, the world moved on in lack of him, until he was forgotten, a distant echo in the memory of those left behind.
Elliot would walk home alone.
A jaunt several city blocks to a bus that would take him a few blocks from home. He always carried an umbrella, it rained rather often in London but when it was not raining a characteristic click of the tip of the umbrella on the pavement would herald his presence not that it greatly mattered.
Elliot would eat alone.
A burgeoning gourmand despite his wiry frame, his evenings were often spent reading and cooking elaborate meals for one. His walls were bare, his loveseat was only occupied by one and his dining room table was rarely used in lieu of a rather large, overstuffed recliner chair that he ultimately favored.
In the evening hours, just before the night takes one away, where other minds would fanaticize about their upcoming day, Elliot just recalled the names. Names, there were so many of them. Not names he had read in the files, not the names of his coworkers, the people he sat with on the bus or even people he once knew. Names of people he could not recall, there was no face... just names -- Caradoc Browne, Vladimir Athanatos, Maya Galim, and hundreds more. Not that he knew why he insisted on repeating the names over and over again with a fervor that seemed illogical, neurotic, even obsessive but it did so each and every night as if the names were important, as if the names were relevant.
He did not remember his time as a Professor at Hogwarts. A Potions Master of great regard, a celebrated intelectual who had more friends than family, but he had a rather active social life. There were people that he cared about, hen he unceremoniously disappeared, his reasoning vague but accepted by in large.
And at precisely 11:00 every night, Elliot would go to bed alone, placing his wristwatch to rest on the nightstand beside him.
And thus, this was his routine. the rather unexciting life of one Elliot Price.
Last edited by Koko Riddle on 22 Aug 2021, 04:53, edited 1 time in total.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
22 Aug 2021, 04:04
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
Bzzz
The first vibration of the watch against the wood of his nightstand would be all it took to wake Elliot. His long, slender fingers would grasp the fancy silver piece in one hand while the other placed his round spectacles upon his face. 5:50 am the roman numerals would read. Just as it did everyday. Like some kind of robotic set to autopilot the aging man would set his coffee pot as two pieces of plain white bread descended into the toaster. It was the same breakfast he always had. Not that he would realize it. The food and drink would be consumed quickly as every morning was marked by a sense of urgency. There was something that desperately needed to be done. A matter of life or death.
Bzzz
Time to wash up. The panic would slip away as he brushed his teeth. Every last one of them for the exact same amount of time. Routine...purpose...the mental block that kept him prisoner.
Bzzz
Time for work. One of the same tweed suits would catch his eye as he dressed and combed his thinning hair. His most favorite watch would fall into his breast pocket before he rushed out the door.
Elliot was more than competent for the job he had been assigned. The staff at St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries were surely surprised when a Potions Master accepted the position of auditor, not that he would remember doing so. Everyday he would dutifully examine each submitted file. His mind lazer focused on the recorded text and numbers as the rest of the world slipped him by. Hours would pass and soon midday would be upon him. As the sun reach its highest point Elliot's mind would start to drift. An uneasy feeling would filter its way to his belly. A missed assignment? No. A deadline come to pass? No, but he was supposed to do something. He was supposed to be somewhere.
Bzzz
A gentle vibration against his chest would remind him it was time for lunch. The watch would make its way into his fingers and he opened it to check the time. Not that it mattered. His warm brown eyes would focused on the face of the time piece. A striking blue color and ornate white roman numerals. There was something about them that would put the old man at ease.
The same lunch and coffee would see him fit before he returned to work. Hours later the watch would again remind him it was time to go home. The same lonely walk and bus ride he took everyday, but something odd often happened when he returned to this flat. After placing his coat and briefcase in the exact same spot he did everyday he would make his way towards the pantry. Inside one would find a wide variety of products, spices and food things. Odd for a man that never deterred from his daily routine. Perhaps a part of his subconscious that could not be fully squashed? The vibrant creator that he once was? Regardless, Elliot would eat well as he cooked elaborate meals for one.
Supper would be spent sitting in his favorite armchair. Well, the only peace of real furniture besides his bed and small dining table. His mind would blank as he ate, his eyes staring ahead at walls that contain no personal effects. Gone were to art pieces that once hanged. Gone were the charmed photos that marked his history. Gone was everything that might remind him of the life he lived or the man he used to be. A great sorrow would fill his chest before the watch reminded him it was time to prepare for the end of the day.
With a swish of the wand Elliot would get the dishes to wash themselves before he bathed. The rest of the evening spent staring at an old issue of the Daily Prophet. A date that marked the front page would have long passed, but he wouldn't pay it any mind. Eleven o'clock was soon approaching. It was time to ready for bed even though this time marked a spike of anxiety. He would slip into his pajamas before gently placing his beloved watch on the night stand. Long arms would cross his chest as he lay in the dark, his eyes staring at the ceiling with a burning intensity. Names would come to his mind. Names that had no meaning to the old man. Names that he must speak aloud.
"Serena Towers....Santario Martin....Quinn Healy....Vladimir Athanatos...." The names would rattle on by the hundreds although they carried no meaning. The further down the list he went the heavier his chest became. Tears would leak out of the corner of his eyes as a mixture of terror and confusion gripped his mind. "Solomon Lear....Caradoc Browne....Elaine Pendrast...." Elliot concluded the list before his words were replaced by silent sobs. The only noise to accompany him was the quiet clicking of his most precious watch. His eyelids grew heavy as the rhythmic sound continued. As soon as the eleven o'clock hour struck an unnatural sleep would take him. It was only a moment away. "Help." A desperate plea to names unknown.
Bzzz
The first vibration of the watch against the wood of his nightstand would be all it took to wake Elliot....
The first vibration of the watch against the wood of his nightstand would be all it took to wake Elliot. His long, slender fingers would grasp the fancy silver piece in one hand while the other placed his round spectacles upon his face. 5:50 am the roman numerals would read. Just as it did everyday. Like some kind of robotic set to autopilot the aging man would set his coffee pot as two pieces of plain white bread descended into the toaster. It was the same breakfast he always had. Not that he would realize it. The food and drink would be consumed quickly as every morning was marked by a sense of urgency. There was something that desperately needed to be done. A matter of life or death.
Bzzz
Time to wash up. The panic would slip away as he brushed his teeth. Every last one of them for the exact same amount of time. Routine...purpose...the mental block that kept him prisoner.
Bzzz
Time for work. One of the same tweed suits would catch his eye as he dressed and combed his thinning hair. His most favorite watch would fall into his breast pocket before he rushed out the door.
Elliot was more than competent for the job he had been assigned. The staff at St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries were surely surprised when a Potions Master accepted the position of auditor, not that he would remember doing so. Everyday he would dutifully examine each submitted file. His mind lazer focused on the recorded text and numbers as the rest of the world slipped him by. Hours would pass and soon midday would be upon him. As the sun reach its highest point Elliot's mind would start to drift. An uneasy feeling would filter its way to his belly. A missed assignment? No. A deadline come to pass? No, but he was supposed to do something. He was supposed to be somewhere.
Bzzz
A gentle vibration against his chest would remind him it was time for lunch. The watch would make its way into his fingers and he opened it to check the time. Not that it mattered. His warm brown eyes would focused on the face of the time piece. A striking blue color and ornate white roman numerals. There was something about them that would put the old man at ease.
The same lunch and coffee would see him fit before he returned to work. Hours later the watch would again remind him it was time to go home. The same lonely walk and bus ride he took everyday, but something odd often happened when he returned to this flat. After placing his coat and briefcase in the exact same spot he did everyday he would make his way towards the pantry. Inside one would find a wide variety of products, spices and food things. Odd for a man that never deterred from his daily routine. Perhaps a part of his subconscious that could not be fully squashed? The vibrant creator that he once was? Regardless, Elliot would eat well as he cooked elaborate meals for one.
Supper would be spent sitting in his favorite armchair. Well, the only peace of real furniture besides his bed and small dining table. His mind would blank as he ate, his eyes staring ahead at walls that contain no personal effects. Gone were to art pieces that once hanged. Gone were the charmed photos that marked his history. Gone was everything that might remind him of the life he lived or the man he used to be. A great sorrow would fill his chest before the watch reminded him it was time to prepare for the end of the day.
With a swish of the wand Elliot would get the dishes to wash themselves before he bathed. The rest of the evening spent staring at an old issue of the Daily Prophet. A date that marked the front page would have long passed, but he wouldn't pay it any mind. Eleven o'clock was soon approaching. It was time to ready for bed even though this time marked a spike of anxiety. He would slip into his pajamas before gently placing his beloved watch on the night stand. Long arms would cross his chest as he lay in the dark, his eyes staring at the ceiling with a burning intensity. Names would come to his mind. Names that had no meaning to the old man. Names that he must speak aloud.
"Serena Towers....Santario Martin....Quinn Healy....Vladimir Athanatos...." The names would rattle on by the hundreds although they carried no meaning. The further down the list he went the heavier his chest became. Tears would leak out of the corner of his eyes as a mixture of terror and confusion gripped his mind. "Solomon Lear....Caradoc Browne....Elaine Pendrast...." Elliot concluded the list before his words were replaced by silent sobs. The only noise to accompany him was the quiet clicking of his most precious watch. His eyelids grew heavy as the rhythmic sound continued. As soon as the eleven o'clock hour struck an unnatural sleep would take him. It was only a moment away. "Help." A desperate plea to names unknown.
Bzzz
The first vibration of the watch against the wood of his nightstand would be all it took to wake Elliot....
24 Aug 2021, 15:33
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
Coming in from the ministry...
Footsteps would click across the floor as the blond man in a black coat and green top hat approached the main desk at the entrance of the hospital. It was a young, handsome-looking man he had never seen before in his life. Likely serving as an intern over the summer or just starting the career of a lifetime. Regardless, he was from after the time Caradoc had left the building and went looking for a new job in the ministry. "Good day to you, my friend." He'd announce himself with a cheeky smirk, leaning on the counter as he spoke.
"We're looking for an old friend of mine, who works here. Or at least should have passed by recently, he's rather old you see..." He lifted his shoulders with an apologetic grin for stating the obvious about his old colleague. "Elliot Price. He ought to be one of your top healers, I'd assume. Pretty well known, I'd reckon." Caradoc was almost certain of his case. Elliot had been a master of potions, even when Doc was a young upstart like the kid sitting in front of him.
But then there was the unescapable feeling of something being off about anything they'd encounter. Like they were being watched, monitored even. Were they walking in a trap? Or were they even following the agenda of some mysterious plot master behind a curtain? Or maybe they were actually getting ahead of whatever had been plaguing the school all this time. Caradoc didn't trust the ministry in the slightest. Back when he worked there, he knew what a mess of a system it was in there. But above all, he got to know several of the most obscure and even vile figures in wizarding society. Not nearly enough of them were even close to getting a ticket to Azkaban, despite him and plenty of others knowing they'd belong there.
It was a miracle how he had come out of that job as light-hearted as he was. Though he and those closest to him knew that he was sinking deeper by the time he accepted his job at Hogwarts. Surprisingly, the children there (and the one he had at home) proved to be the cure for him. If he had been a light, it'd be bursting by now. Plus, the woman standing behind him had no small part in his recovery.
The Hufflepuff would "patiently" be tapping his fingers on the counter as he waited for the little clerk to find the man he came to find. The longer this was taking, the longer he allowed for anything to happen to the old man. Once they got a hold of him, they could recruit him back and set up that meeting with Finlay immediately. A drop of sweat would form on his brow, and Doc could feel the collar of his shirt tighten around his neck. Why was this taking so long?
If you're reading this... You're awesome.
Calming Presence/Healing Sage/Wandless/Non-Verbal
STA - 16 | EVA - 6 | STR - 15 | WIS - 16 | ARC - 8 | ACC - 4
27 Aug 2021, 02:32
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and consistency, in hopelessness and tragedy, and such would be the case for Mr.Elliot Price. Yet today would go off script for the seasoned healer. Where simple pleasures are often forgotten - warm cookies, fresh bedlinens, a hot showers might be common-place, scheduled. It is truly the unexpected moments, the ones that cannot be planned or scheduled that make life less... real. Elliot lacked for many things this past year, not that he fully knew he missed it but there was a subconscious part that knew. The reassurance one feels in a familiar hand on their skin, the effect of a kind and loving gesture; of subtle encouragement, a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort.
That was, of course before Wednesday. On Wednesday, everything would change.
Bzzz
The harsh sound of metal on wood would summon Elliot from his slumber. Prompt and on time as always: 5:50 a.m. The sun had not broken the horizon, through the small slit in his curtains only moonlight would filter into his bedroom. Everything was perfectly in place, as fastidious as one might be it was impressive to behold the agent of routine. Compelled it would seem, living in this daze of repetitive tasks and going through the motions. He did not need to see the hazy world to complete his errands, when his hand gripped his spectacles and applied them to his face he would see the world clearly even if his senses are unnecessary. life was but a delusion.
The scent of coffee would fill his flat, followed by that of burnt toast. The motions would seem familiar because they were. As if he was an actor playing out a script. Lives were complex, with plateaus and valleys, yet his was middling. His belly filled, he was not nourished.
Bzzz
Cleanliness would wash away the panic.
Bzzz
Time for work. His closet was filled with similar suits, feeling a bit rugged today he picked a tawny tweed. Better than the array of cloudy greys. Coordinating shoes and socks, a bow tie in a plaid. In truth Elliot looked like a used car salesman. If anyone had asked Elliot he would have said that this particular Wednesday was exactly like all the Wednesdays prior. The fleeting wants, the variations of routine were merely shades of the same day the fool the brain into thinking it was a fresh experience rather than a regurgitated day performed over-and-over again. So Elliot began his day the same way he always did. When other minds would wander, would fantasize about their upcoming day or even try to grip onto the final moments of their dreams, Elliot just counted the passing seconds until his next pre-ordained tasks.
It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Elliot's life had proven to be his hell. One he partially realized as he remembered those names each and every night. How names, the occasional glint of a face he thought he recognized on another was a mere delusion, an illusion of the mind that he would blink away. He did not know that there was a series of events set in motion outside of his control that would free him from this hell of repetition.
Caradoc Browne was on his way.
This would prove to be an extraordinary day, a day to be remembered for the rest of Elliot's life. However exceptional and special this would be, this morning Elliot just thought it was a Wednesday.
Elliot ran for the bus as he always did. He had just enough time if he made haste, never learning or adapting, ensuring more time to to simply meander.
When he arrived as he always did. There was the greeting by the secretarial staff, the same staff that would meet Caradoc Brown an hour and twenty-two minutes later.
"Good day to you, my friend."
Caradoc Browne would greet a young orderly. The young man behind the desk was a student healer playing desk monkey for the day. The boy would have preferred to be anywhere else, like with the cute candy striper on 3-Eddy. So his mind was elsewhere, so he would not initially react to Caradoc's presence. He would seem startled when he noticed the man standing on the other side of the desk.
"Oh hello sir, can I--" he would fumble with the papers on the desk. His class reading he was neglecting in a state of daydream. "Can I help you?"
"We're looking for an old friend of mine, who works here. Or at least should have passed by recently, he's rather old you see..."
"There is a lot of old--" this is a hospital.
"Elliot Price. He ought to be one of your top healers, I'd assume. Pretty well known, I'd reckon."
"Mr Price?" the young man repeated with a twinge of mirth in his voice, humor. "Mr. Price is no healer," the boy announced. "He is the record guy," not even close to a healer. Dullest guy he had ever met, the most interesting thing to date was that someone knew his name.
Meanwhile, down a hall in the first level of the basement Elliot concentrated on his work. How work was his life. It was a simple repetitive series of tasks, a review of charts for policy, for completion, for fiscal compensation. Completes to the right, the to-do pile to the left. Perfectly neat stacks in an otherwise barren workspace. His ink wells had been freshly filled by the ink elf, indigo ink that seemed to be about as whimsical of a trademark as it got for Elliot he would go about his documents leaving corrections, correlations and coalitions.
"First basement, take the stairs at the end of the hall. Mr. Price is a weird guy tho I have to warn you, have not heard more than three words from him the seven months I have been here." He found Elliot to be an odd, but not a cruel man. "SB," for sub-basement "10-B." He shook his head as he pulled a book out from beneath the textbooks awkwardly as he spun it around. "Can you sign here?" It was a guest log and he was searching for a date and a name as well as a destination.
Presuming Caradoc followed the directions precisely he would see a rather dimly lit, lonesome place. The halls were narrow, carried with them the scent of chalk and bleach. White on white, piping along the ceiling exposed. Lit by of course magic in sconces that lines the walls simply, small glass-like orbs illuminated with magic - small flames. The shadows of the candles would leave lively shadows on the walls. The doors on either side were shut, the offices or workspaces be them laboratory or janitorial, would be closed, locked tight and unmarked less numbers and letters.
1-A 1-B
2-A 2-B
3-A 3-B
4-A 4-B
5-A 5-B
6-A 6-B
7-A 7-B
8-A 8-B
9-A 9-B
10-A 10-B finally an open door.
There would be the sounds of industry, muffled noises and banging. A droning hum. But from Elliots, just the scratch of a quill against paper.
That was, of course before Wednesday. On Wednesday, everything would change.
Bzzz
The harsh sound of metal on wood would summon Elliot from his slumber. Prompt and on time as always: 5:50 a.m. The sun had not broken the horizon, through the small slit in his curtains only moonlight would filter into his bedroom. Everything was perfectly in place, as fastidious as one might be it was impressive to behold the agent of routine. Compelled it would seem, living in this daze of repetitive tasks and going through the motions. He did not need to see the hazy world to complete his errands, when his hand gripped his spectacles and applied them to his face he would see the world clearly even if his senses are unnecessary. life was but a delusion.
The scent of coffee would fill his flat, followed by that of burnt toast. The motions would seem familiar because they were. As if he was an actor playing out a script. Lives were complex, with plateaus and valleys, yet his was middling. His belly filled, he was not nourished.
Bzzz
Cleanliness would wash away the panic.
Bzzz
Time for work. His closet was filled with similar suits, feeling a bit rugged today he picked a tawny tweed. Better than the array of cloudy greys. Coordinating shoes and socks, a bow tie in a plaid. In truth Elliot looked like a used car salesman. If anyone had asked Elliot he would have said that this particular Wednesday was exactly like all the Wednesdays prior. The fleeting wants, the variations of routine were merely shades of the same day the fool the brain into thinking it was a fresh experience rather than a regurgitated day performed over-and-over again. So Elliot began his day the same way he always did. When other minds would wander, would fantasize about their upcoming day or even try to grip onto the final moments of their dreams, Elliot just counted the passing seconds until his next pre-ordained tasks.
It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Elliot's life had proven to be his hell. One he partially realized as he remembered those names each and every night. How names, the occasional glint of a face he thought he recognized on another was a mere delusion, an illusion of the mind that he would blink away. He did not know that there was a series of events set in motion outside of his control that would free him from this hell of repetition.
Caradoc Browne was on his way.
This would prove to be an extraordinary day, a day to be remembered for the rest of Elliot's life. However exceptional and special this would be, this morning Elliot just thought it was a Wednesday.
Elliot ran for the bus as he always did. He had just enough time if he made haste, never learning or adapting, ensuring more time to to simply meander.
When he arrived as he always did. There was the greeting by the secretarial staff, the same staff that would meet Caradoc Brown an hour and twenty-two minutes later.
"Good day to you, my friend."
Caradoc Browne would greet a young orderly. The young man behind the desk was a student healer playing desk monkey for the day. The boy would have preferred to be anywhere else, like with the cute candy striper on 3-Eddy. So his mind was elsewhere, so he would not initially react to Caradoc's presence. He would seem startled when he noticed the man standing on the other side of the desk.
"Oh hello sir, can I--" he would fumble with the papers on the desk. His class reading he was neglecting in a state of daydream. "Can I help you?"
"We're looking for an old friend of mine, who works here. Or at least should have passed by recently, he's rather old you see..."
"There is a lot of old--" this is a hospital.
"Elliot Price. He ought to be one of your top healers, I'd assume. Pretty well known, I'd reckon."
"Mr Price?" the young man repeated with a twinge of mirth in his voice, humor. "Mr. Price is no healer," the boy announced. "He is the record guy," not even close to a healer. Dullest guy he had ever met, the most interesting thing to date was that someone knew his name.
Meanwhile, down a hall in the first level of the basement Elliot concentrated on his work. How work was his life. It was a simple repetitive series of tasks, a review of charts for policy, for completion, for fiscal compensation. Completes to the right, the to-do pile to the left. Perfectly neat stacks in an otherwise barren workspace. His ink wells had been freshly filled by the ink elf, indigo ink that seemed to be about as whimsical of a trademark as it got for Elliot he would go about his documents leaving corrections, correlations and coalitions.
"First basement, take the stairs at the end of the hall. Mr. Price is a weird guy tho I have to warn you, have not heard more than three words from him the seven months I have been here." He found Elliot to be an odd, but not a cruel man. "SB," for sub-basement "10-B." He shook his head as he pulled a book out from beneath the textbooks awkwardly as he spun it around. "Can you sign here?" It was a guest log and he was searching for a date and a name as well as a destination.
Presuming Caradoc followed the directions precisely he would see a rather dimly lit, lonesome place. The halls were narrow, carried with them the scent of chalk and bleach. White on white, piping along the ceiling exposed. Lit by of course magic in sconces that lines the walls simply, small glass-like orbs illuminated with magic - small flames. The shadows of the candles would leave lively shadows on the walls. The doors on either side were shut, the offices or workspaces be them laboratory or janitorial, would be closed, locked tight and unmarked less numbers and letters.
1-A 1-B
2-A 2-B
3-A 3-B
4-A 4-B
5-A 5-B
6-A 6-B
7-A 7-B
8-A 8-B
9-A 9-B
10-A 10-B finally an open door.
There would be the sounds of industry, muffled noises and banging. A droning hum. But from Elliots, just the scratch of a quill against paper.
@Caradoc Browne & @Elliot Price
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
27 Aug 2021, 15:36
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
Caradoc's eyebrow briefly arched upwards in marking the young man's statement as he signed the guest log. He argued with himself to say s0mething, but a part of him knew there was likely no point to make in this stage of today's events. The entire trip had been weird from the start to, what would likely be, the finish. Instead, Doc opted for a friendly smile and nod as he received directions. "Thank you. Have a nice day." He quickly offered the other.
As he turned around the corner, he gave Nora a look of confusion. "What's this now? Price has always been highly proficient in his knowledge of potion making. It's why he got the job at the school for one, and they just lock a guy like that up in the basement to file stuff?" His voice would hiss between his teeth, agitation clearly present. He felt like he was about to run into a stranger rather than an old friend. And that was a feeling of premature loss he desperately sought to shake off.
Descending the stairs, his gaze fell on the long hallways with closed doors. It was one of those creepy cellars. White walls all around and dim-lit by the flickering bulbs of light. He counted the numbers as he passed each one. Until finally, there was one open door. 10-B, just like the young man at the entrance had told him. Giving a look back towards Nora, Doc felt an inexplicable sense of hesitation. Hopefully, Price could just show them over to Finlay and have them get some answers. Turning the corner, into the room, Caradoc peeked inside with his usual smile plastered to his face.
If you're reading this... You're awesome.
Calming Presence/Healing Sage/Wandless/Non-Verbal
STA - 16 | EVA - 6 | STR - 15 | WIS - 16 | ARC - 8 | ACC - 4
31 Aug 2021, 03:08
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
Elliot sat behind his desk, his warm brown eyes peering over his round spectacle as he filed his reports. Today was a Wednesday, but it might have been any day of the week as far as he was concerned. The routine demanded it be so. The only variation was the tweed suit he had dressed himself in, not that he would have been aware of choosing something different than the norm. Perhaps his subconscious screaming out for help? Maybe the slight change would be enough to break through the mental block that was his prison, but unfortunately for Mr. Price the locks were too strong.
The desk before him would be a perfect picture of organization. His completed assignments stacked oh so neatly on one side while the incomplete sat on the other. Not a one would stick out of place as the lines of the parchment lined up with each other without deviation. The only thing slightly out of the ordinary was the blue ink he had the elves stock his well with. Again, maybe a slight hint at the man trapped within. Anyways, Elliot's day would go on like any other. The papers came in, the papers went out. The work was mindless, but kept his focus. His trusty watch there to vibrate against his chest anytime his mind threatened to wander. However, this Wednesday would perhaps prove to be one of the most important days of his life.
The rhythmic sounds of footsteps against stone would draw his eyes away from the parchment before him. Too much force to be the elves that would deliver his work, but who else would have cause to visit him? His long, slender fingers would rub the back of his neck as a sudden nervousness crept up his spine. The routine... Elliot would jump in his chair as a face peeked its way into his humble office. A face that he should have known well. The face of Caradoc Browne. There should have been memories of a gifted young healer starting a career at this very hospital. There should have been the remembrance of years later when the man would take up the post of Head of Hufflepuff at Hogwarts and offer Elliot the chance to educate the next generation of witches and wizards. There should have been many things, but there was not. The watch buzzed feverishly against his chest as he stared at Caradoc like a stranger.
"Hello." Mr. Price had to clear his throat after a weak introduction. Suddenly his throat felt tight, his mouth dry. His eyes would bounce back and forth between the man and his desk, his fingers fidgeting with the papers. There was a sudden urgency that he had forgotten something. "How may I assist you?"
The desk before him would be a perfect picture of organization. His completed assignments stacked oh so neatly on one side while the incomplete sat on the other. Not a one would stick out of place as the lines of the parchment lined up with each other without deviation. The only thing slightly out of the ordinary was the blue ink he had the elves stock his well with. Again, maybe a slight hint at the man trapped within. Anyways, Elliot's day would go on like any other. The papers came in, the papers went out. The work was mindless, but kept his focus. His trusty watch there to vibrate against his chest anytime his mind threatened to wander. However, this Wednesday would perhaps prove to be one of the most important days of his life.
The rhythmic sounds of footsteps against stone would draw his eyes away from the parchment before him. Too much force to be the elves that would deliver his work, but who else would have cause to visit him? His long, slender fingers would rub the back of his neck as a sudden nervousness crept up his spine. The routine... Elliot would jump in his chair as a face peeked its way into his humble office. A face that he should have known well. The face of Caradoc Browne. There should have been memories of a gifted young healer starting a career at this very hospital. There should have been the remembrance of years later when the man would take up the post of Head of Hufflepuff at Hogwarts and offer Elliot the chance to educate the next generation of witches and wizards. There should have been many things, but there was not. The watch buzzed feverishly against his chest as he stared at Caradoc like a stranger.
"Hello." Mr. Price had to clear his throat after a weak introduction. Suddenly his throat felt tight, his mouth dry. His eyes would bounce back and forth between the man and his desk, his fingers fidgeting with the papers. There was a sudden urgency that he had forgotten something. "How may I assist you?"
@Caradoc Browne @Solomon Lear
8 Sep 2021, 22:47
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
And there it was. The look of unrecognition latched onto Caradoc like a vile disease. He had half a mind to snap at the old man for sticking with a joke. But there was the little voice in his head that had been saying things were off this whole time. Still, Doc felt he needed to play along, to see if maybe, just maybe, this was just the old man trying to be funny. Not that he truly believed that. Price was many things, but Doc never thought him as a big joker. At least not one that'd decide to prank his former colleague in the blink of an eye.
"Hello there, Price." The Head of Hufflepuff greeted his old friend with a smile. "Long time no see. It's been a while since we last saw each other..." His eyes stayed locked onto Elliot's. If there was anything the old man would give away, he'd catch it right then and there. Without an invitation, Caradoc entered further into the office. His figure looming over the other man's desk. "Have to say, never imagined you to be working down here..." His voice was slow and soft, like an animal tiptoeing nearer to its prey.
Patiently, he'd wait for a reply. His back straight and shoulders squared, but a friendly smile nonetheless. Slowly, the badger would lean forward onto the table and rest his hands freely in front of Elliot Price. "Well then? Have you been well?"
@Elliot Price @Solomon Lear
If you're reading this... You're awesome.
Calming Presence/Healing Sage/Wandless/Non-Verbal
STA - 16 | EVA - 6 | STR - 15 | WIS - 16 | ARC - 8 | ACC - 4
9 Sep 2021, 02:56
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
Allegedly there was a Nora with him, certainly he mentioned that at some point in his narration but perhaps that was all in his head. Elliot had a curious existence since he had left Hogwarts for reasons he found difficulty recalling. Yet there would be something tugging at the back of his head, something telling him that something was wrong. For observers it was obvious -- Elliot was in purgatory.
Caradoc would observe a room that was bereft of personality. A man in feature and form but without a soul. Not a literal soul, the powerful lifespark that is both intangible and immortal but rather what differentiated a man from a mindless beast. There was no creativity, no passion, no love and no memories. He was alive in merely the biological sense, but there was a distinction between living and being alive and Elliot was only the later.
It was not that Elliot had forgotten Caradoc, or Hogwarts. He remembered who he was, what he did. Then it was as if he blinked for a terribly long time and when his eyes opened the vantage had changed. In a new bed, with a new routine, new clothes. All well-fitted, healthy, clean but plain. The months passed like days. It was not that he planned to lose touch. It did not feel like so much time had passed.
Caradoc had already forgotten his mission, perhaps whatever happened to Elliot was contagious. What did Elliot remember? Well, he remembered enough. Just not the why. That gap between the Scottish castle and the basement of a hospital in the heart of muggle London. His last memory was a little boy, well not terribly little, a teen dragging him into a deep, dark forest. Then he blinked, he was alone and he was in his bed, well the bed of this apartment. There was no shock, no confusion. With the buzz of a watch it beckoned him through the process. He knew here the juice was kept, where the suits were and the path he should take to work. He slipped into a life that was simple and comfortable. It was easy and thoughtless. He needed no orientation, there was no learning curve.
Caradoc would observe a room that was bereft of personality. A man in feature and form but without a soul. Not a literal soul, the powerful lifespark that is both intangible and immortal but rather what differentiated a man from a mindless beast. There was no creativity, no passion, no love and no memories. He was alive in merely the biological sense, but there was a distinction between living and being alive and Elliot was only the later.
It was not that Elliot had forgotten Caradoc, or Hogwarts. He remembered who he was, what he did. Then it was as if he blinked for a terribly long time and when his eyes opened the vantage had changed. In a new bed, with a new routine, new clothes. All well-fitted, healthy, clean but plain. The months passed like days. It was not that he planned to lose touch. It did not feel like so much time had passed.
Caradoc had already forgotten his mission, perhaps whatever happened to Elliot was contagious. What did Elliot remember? Well, he remembered enough. Just not the why. That gap between the Scottish castle and the basement of a hospital in the heart of muggle London. His last memory was a little boy, well not terribly little, a teen dragging him into a deep, dark forest. Then he blinked, he was alone and he was in his bed, well the bed of this apartment. There was no shock, no confusion. With the buzz of a watch it beckoned him through the process. He knew here the juice was kept, where the suits were and the path he should take to work. He slipped into a life that was simple and comfortable. It was easy and thoughtless. He needed no orientation, there was no learning curve.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.
20 Sep 2021, 14:04
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
Hjørdis was far too quiet, boring and calm to actually be a figment of Caradoc’s imagination. If this was all happening in his head, half the room would suddenly burst into a coordinated song and dance - and Hjørdis had absolutely zero intention of joining anything that crazy. She stood quietly next to him, just observing the area, the entire time. He did enough talking for the pair of them - what more was she really going to add? There was nothing else to say. Though, she had to resist the almost glared daggers at the back of his head when he was being overly friendly with the random guy at the counter but she held herself back, managing to control it. Geesh, why was he so friendly?
With a quirk of her eyebrow, she stared at the guy who spoke about Price being the record man, not a healer. Caradoc had been confident that the former potions professor would return to a high post and she trusted him enough (believe it or not) to trust that confidence. But instead, Price was labelled as a weird guy, one who barely spoke. The hiss she heard as they turned a corner was expected. She said nothing in response, just silently pondering if this was perhaps a choice of his. She had no idea, she barely knew the guy but maybe he wanted this? Either way, being the record guy made him even more useful to help find Finley. He definitely would know where Finley was now, that was lucky.
What made her question everything though was his greeting as they entered. No sense of familiarity. The room had even less personality in it than her own sparse office space. The fact that she found it bland said something, given how limited her own decor was.
Hjørdis moved closer, "Price," She greeted, pausing a moment after a nod of her head. She left Caradoc to speak, he was definitely the talker of the two. Subtly was a thing, of course. But at times, subtly was tiring. She was a woman with a mission right now, there was no time for idle chitchat. "We are looking for the former colleague of ours," Including Price in that statement, "The nurse of Hogwarts, if you remember him?" She waited briefly to see if he recalled the man or anything. If Price showed no signs of recognition or asked, she would continue, "Finley Vancleaf?" She offered, hoping he could give a bit more information about the man.
The entire time, her gaze would stay focused on Elliot Price. She had a lot of respect for the old man - because one, he was old and she had a special place in her heart for old people even if she did not admit it and two because he was highly skilled in two things she admired: potions and healing. The unfamiliarity of his greeting, however, made her feel kind of off. Nonetheless, she continued through, hoping to get something out of him. Perhaps there was a reason for this. Were they being watched or something? She had felt that people were listening and watching them when they visited the ministry, perhaps that was still a thing. Hjørdis stayed focus on the former potions professor, for now, trying to see if anything was out of the ordinary.
This is my former staff account.
I also play: Serena Towers (Graduated PC), Arjan Oberoi (Graduated iNPC), Xiomara Torres (Current Student)
I also play: Serena Towers (Graduated PC), Arjan Oberoi (Graduated iNPC), Xiomara Torres (Current Student)
27 Sep 2021, 00:18
The Rather Unassuming Life of Elliot Price
@Caradoc Browne | @Hjordis Jensen | @Solomon Lear
Price....Price....
Elliot's eyes would cease to bounce around as as Caradoc and Hjordis both called to him by name. There would be a moment of warmth that would flash through his brown orbs before they again glazed over with confusion. They knew him by name, he knew them by theirs. They would be in the list that he rattled off very night before bed. That fleeting moment of terror that gripped him just before he lost consciousness. That moment were he would plea for help that never seemed to come. "Caradoc Browne...Hjordis Jensen..." Elliot whispered as he stood up from his desk.
"Caradoc, Hjordis." The names flooded into his mind as old and tired legs slowly rose from his chair. His head began to pound as long fingers removed his glasses to rub weary eyes. "It has been some time....hasn't it." The last was almost formed as a question. Caradoc was a colleague from his first career at St. Mungo's...the memory bounced around his head, fleeting just as his mind began to focus on it. Then there was Hogwarts. Where Elliot was once a master he had become a novice, relying on the younger man as he began a new career in education. Things had gone...well? Yes. A flash of a memory. A raven haired student had sat across his desk as her young mind absorbed his words. It left him feeling warm, but still his head pounded.
"The work must be done." Elliot simply stated as the other two questioned his current position at the hospital. It was the same mind set that had held him prisoner for so long now. Every day the same as he went through the process. "Sure, I've been...well." Again it would sound more a question than a statement. His brown eyes would drift to Hjordis as she formed a question of her own. "Finley Vancleaf." Elliot repeated the name. Surely one from the long list in his head, but a face now came with the name. One of his last memories from his time at Hogwarts. He was escorting...someone. Yes, taking them to see the nurse. The reason of upmost importance. On the tip of his tongue...would he remember? The images in his mind shifted. The same escort but a different location. The woods. It was not their darkness or the creature within that gave him pause, but something else. Then he was back at St. Mungo's. Where was the rest?
"Yes." Elliot's gaze would shift between Caradoc and Hjordis. "How...long?" His words and questions just as disjointed as his memories.