7 Dec 2023, 08:16
Saltgrave
The Dralt ancestry was mapped out with excruciating detail. He had the luxury of learning more about it through the many portraits hung around the estate. While his painted predecessors were happy to indulge about their lives, he knew next to nothing about the Saltgrave side. All Pericles knew for certain was that his mother had estranged herself from them just after graduating from Hogwarts, absconding from a life of pureblood privilege in favor of personal freedom, settling humbly in a bog cabin. As far as his father was concerned, what came before could stay buried in the past. Even he withheld what more he knew from his heir. Somewhere along the way, Pericles had learned to stop asking either of them, convincing himself that the Saltgraves were simply uninteresting. Like the fox from fables, the grapes he couldn't reach were declared sour. They were a happy family, now, and whatever came before was best left in the fog of Cenedril's childhood.
With closeness came great sorrow in separation. The woman's powers incurred responsibilities, and at the start of one summer vacation, her aptitude as a seer would see her called to a far-off destination. As much as her husband and son would have gladly traveled alongside her, this was an obligation for an oracle. Their farewells were more bitter than sweet. She stroked his hair, the same pale, bone-beige shade as her own. Gazing back from the fireplace, Peri's gloomy frown was answered with a tender smile before the Floo flames swallowed her whole. His father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, the first of many attempts at comforting to come that summer. Isaac was a family-oriented sort. His love for his wife bordered on fixation, never ebbing from the passions of their honeymoon phase, and he might have lapsed into a gloom all his own were it not for Pericles.
The man made it his mission to keep their spirits high in her absence, an effort that- while appreciated for its intent- was a growing source of exhaustion for his teenage son. He was always checking in, bringing tea, pestering Peri about the potions or projects he was brewing. Considering the objective of these experiments was a close-kept secret, the lad was losing his patience. Isaac could only assume this solemn, secluded, sometimes terse behavior was a result of missing his mother, or the product of fifteen-year-old hormones. It wouldn't stop him from dragging Pericles along on business trips to town. If anything, in his effort to "fix" things, the resistance only encouraged him. So it came to pass that Pericles was, for the third time that month, sitting in the back room of the family's shipping company office. Isaac seemed to suppose it was good to get him involved, considering his eventual inheritance of it all. The heir, however, preferred to wait out these trips with his cauldron, crafts, and books. He had been flipping through a copy of Arsenius Jigger's Magical Drafts and Potions when his father entered, once more placing a clawed hand on his shoulder. "Our guests have requested an old ledger. Mind the front while I track it down, please."
Pericles pursed his lips. He had been lost in the author's notes, having just made a series of connections he hadn't caught the first time he read them. Yet he relented all the same, saving his spot with a feather between the pages, managing a short-lived smile as he answered with a meager "'Course." Isaac disappeared into the storeroom. Pericles moved towards the front of the shop. His hand closed around the doorknob, his face tensed into a faux expression of politeness, only for a quiet conversation on the other side to halt him in his tracks. "...came as quite a shock when we heard he'd married a Saltgrave, though I s'pose the poor girl hadn't any connections to that mad lot by then." The words bolted his boots to the spot. Saltgrave: a name he hadn't asked about in ages, having long since let it disappear into the recesses of memory. Still trying to process what he'd overheard, Peri avoided a creaky floorboard as he leaned in, lining an ear up with the keyhole.
"I remember reading of the raid, but I can't seem to recall the details of what was found." "That's because there weren't any, at least, not in any publications. Some say Rowan paid them off so no one'd steal his work. Others say that the Ministry didn't want the details of his experiments going public, for fear someone else might try to recreate them. Whatever he was up to, I'm confident it earned him that cell in Azkaban, though it's a wonder his wife is still in the alchemy business." "Well, she was uninvolved, wasn't she?" "I find it hard to believe a witch as sharp as her had no idear what her husband was up to! No, that was their cover, so only one would take the fall. I'd bet a bag of galleons on it." "Speaking of galleons, the lads and I are putting together a pot for the upcoming Ballycastle Bats game, if you wanted to wager...."
As they prattled off about Quidditch, Pericles stared at the door, gaze wide yet unseeing, struggling to absorb this information. He heard his grandfather's name for the first time- Rowan Saltgrave- and just as quickly learned that the man was in Azkaban. His grandparents were alchemists? Criminals? His stomach was sinking, mind spinning, the strangest sensation blooming in his chest. He was mortified, and elated. That ravenous, insatiable appetite for new knowledge had been stirred from dormancy, whispering a promise of secrets revealed with perilous allure. Try though his parents had to protect him, the box was now open, and this time, he wouldn't let it close until he had answers.
Last edited by Pericles Dralt on 4 May 2024, 23:21, edited 1 time in total.
{ 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔟𝔬𝔶: 𝔞 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢, 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔞. }
(iNPC: Madhup Hexum)
21 Jan 2024, 10:06
Saltgrave
Rowan Saltgrave, convicted of several counts of illegal component possession.
Celeste Saltgrave, deceased through "misadventure" related to her husband's experiments.
Alarice Saltgrave, of the Helmont family, part of a remarriage that took place so soon after his late wife's death that it was deemed scandalous. What rumors Peri could glean of her were morbid, ranging from being a beautification potion addict to painting her face with Veela's blood. Despite it all, she was the only one he would have access to, so she was the one he would write.
While there were those who considered Pericles mature for his age, that age was still fifteen. He could feel himself changing, and with developmental anxieties on top of a heap of hormones, there came a sense of urgency. Young people lived fast. Throwing caution to the wind, he sent a letter under the pseudonym Owen Greville, detailing himself as an aspiring alchemist. The letter included a tasteful degree of flattery for Saltgrave exploits and a humble request to share his work with her. Her response was succinct: no greeting, no eloquent acknowledgment. There was only a date, time, and address with an attached vial of floo powder, but this was invitation enough. The catch was that Alarice expected the alchemist Greville. Pericles was quite tall, though he didn't expect to pass as an adult. A Trenchcoat of Sneak would rectify that. Thirty galleons gone and he was left looking at a familiar man in the mirror*, speechless save a low "Woah." Seeing one's future self, if only by a few years, was an otherworldly experience. He touched his cheek, turned his head, and slowly smiled. Not bad.
It was easy enough to excuse himself for the afternoon. His mother, canny as she was, might have asked more questions. But while she was away, Peri's father did his best to be supportive, lenient, and trusting. He had (partially) misinterpreted the boy's withdrawal as the stuff of typical teenagehood, a mistake his heir would take full advantage of. It began with the deceptive use of Floo to Diagon Alley, leading to a quick change* in a pub bathroom, then back to the fireplace and on to Helmont Hall. The landing was so close yet so far from his own home. Yes, there was the elegant architecture and posh furnishing, but a silence hung over this place like a lead blanket. Its halls were too empty and its shadows seemed too dark. The cast of colorful characters hanging on the Dralt manor walls were a far cry from the sullen, scowling Saltgrave bloodline. Pericles' wandering gaze froze on a full-body portrait of a little girl, whose freckled cheeks and sorrowful silver eyes mirrored his own. He'd never seen a picture of his mother when she was small. Before her hair had turned a seer's silver, it was a lovely shade of taupe. She held a bundle of lavender in her arms, her faraway stare implying she hid a trove of secrets, yet she was perfectly mute. Even this iteration of her wouldn't have told him the truth. This blast from the past was so fixating that he jumped when a voice rang out, "Mister Greville, I presume?"
Just as their homes were similar yet different, Alarice Saltgrave shared traits with Pericles' fraternal grandmother while also being radically unlike her. Although Tamasa Dralt was imposing and intense, she was also fair in her firmness, with a warmth beneath her narrow eyes and angled frowns. Alarice was a different creature entirely. Her stare was at the same level as his own, cold and cutting, and her scowl seemed unmoving. She dressed decadently in a black fox shawl, wine blazer, dark dress, and a three-tiered diamond necklace to match a set of dangling earrings. As Pericles took in her exquisite jewelry, perfectly coifed hair, then the precision of her makeup, he understood where the beautification potions rumor came from. He was looking her over, but she was looking directly, unwaveringly at his eyes, as if they were all she needed to see. Or maybe she was reading his thoughts. God, he thought, what a mess this would make if she was a Legilimens.... Pericles re-introduced himself with a handshake and false name. Alarice wasted very little time with pleasantries, soon suggesting that he share his works, so he sat across from her and produced his notebook: the same he'd been scribbling speculations in since the end of his third year. Specifically, ever since the encounter with his boggart.
The lady was silent as he spoke, elaborating on the pages she skimmed, pitching his concepts, recounting his findings, describing his desire for aid before he tried out anything concrete. After some while, she had a single question: "What is your goal?" Pericles paused. For fear he'd be ridiculed, he'd kept his objective close to his heart, unwilling to tell a single soul out loud until this moment. "The cure for vampirism." Alarice didn't laugh, or balk, or tell him it was impossible. She did however drone, "Not your product, your purpose. Wealth? Fame?" What was he supposed to do, oust himself by admitting his father had contracted it? If the Saltgraves knew their heiress' husband had been turned, the chances of being recognized would rise exponentially. "I'd think curing a disease has worth all its own." Maybe that was the wrong answer. She gave him another of those unyielding glowers and a grunted "Hm." An uneasy silence followed, broken only by the turn of pages. There entered a crooked-nosed house-elf who avoided their eyes. His father had never kept one around, saying that the concept unsettled him. Pericles was inclined to agree. Balancing a silver tray above his bowed head, the being toddled over to the table, took a knee next to his chair, and wordlessly offered their guest tea. The lad gave a quiet "thank you" as he took a cup, realizing his mistake when he looked back to find Alarice's eyebrow arched in judgment. She wasn't just weighing his work, she was weighing his character, and apparently she had seen enough. The leatherbound notebook was closed and slid back across the table.
"Your work is researched, but not inspired. These are the kind of components that could be found in a Hogwarts textbook. Surely you can't be the first dabbler in all of history to try making a miracle blend from common ingredients?" And just like that, Peri feared it was all over. This was the result of a fifteen-year-old wizard trying to fool a seventy-something-year-old witch. He was frozen by her sneer of disdain, her hooded eyes cast in cold disinterest. It was enough to inspire a short albeit powerful crisis of faith. But no, she wasn't saying that the cure itself was impossible. Only that he was egregiously far from reaching it. "Rowan took risks," Alarice enthused. "He was a visionary. The components he was incarcerated for were uncharted territory. Many may have been classified as illegal, but they were obtained from consensual, well-paid parties." Consensual? Pericles wore a long and hard suspicious side-eye before prying, "What kind of components...?" Alarice raised her chin and narrowed her eyes, unrelenting as ever, granting only a thin response that averted all details. "Conviction, most importantly of all. Blood, sweat, and tears went into all aspects of his work." He was starting to see where the Veela blood rumors came from. He was also getting tired of being belittled without any offer of the guidance he'd come here for, so Pericles posed with a trace of snark, "Are you telling me to bring you bodily humours?" "Mister Greville, I'm telling you to impress me. There is nothing revolutionary about garlic and dittany." Still, seeming to have sensed that she had sufficiently shut him down, Alarice changed her tune ever so slightly. "I'm willing to meet again, assuming you're up to the task?" She was testing his mettle. Pericles wasn't sure how he would pass, yet one thing was apparent: she wanted him to be more like his grandfather.*Art commissioned by rgbvscb, Vanshound, BlackBirdInk, and HG Penumbra respectively
{ 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔟𝔬𝔶: 𝔞 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢, 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔞. }
(iNPC: Madhup Hexum)
4 May 2024, 23:20
Saltgrave
Alarice reached to examine the fluid. She turned it over slowly, one way then the other, watching its silver contents slosh and shimmer. When she plucked the cork and lifted it, there was a sinking moment in which Pericles feared she would go so far as to taste it. Blessedly, she only inhaled the air above it, swirling the stuff like a sommelier. Her eyebrows arched as she sought his gaze. "Unicorn blood." The line was equal parts statement and question. She knew what it was, but she wanted to know what he intended to do with it. Pericles had prepared for this moment. His discordant notes were now organized in a file, presented alongside a practiced monologue, succinct and backed by tireless research. Alarice listened with that unyielding stare, occasionally lifting her cigarette holder for a pensive puff. "...though its immortalizing properties are rendered moot by the curse it causes, subjecting the consumer to a 'half life'. I believe the negative effects could be neutralized. Method of collection must play a factor. They say that the curse is caused by slaying something pure in order to preserve one's own life, though this seller specifically stated that no unicorn was harmed. If we can collect the component from a preexisting injury, we may even negate it further by infusing it into a medicinal potion with luck-inducing properties, such as those seen in Felix Felicis."
He continued, focused fully on the prospect of creating a cure the likes of witch the Wizarding World could flourish from, despite the difficulty involved in creating it. Regrettably, his emphasis on eliminating Dark properties from their experiments was a cause for suspicion in the witch. He wasn't willing to take those risks, make those sacrifices. Much of his process was far-fetched, though a great deal of it was promising, if not for the fact that he was an obvious fraud. Alarice had the grace (scorn) to wait until he'd reached his conclusion. She pitied (savored) the look of hopeful anticipation on his face when the man finished his pitch, and in a gesture of benevolence (sadism), she simply stated: "You may leave, Mister Greville." Pericles looked as though he'd been physically struck, and when he spoke, it was with the softness of shock. "Have I... have I said something-" "Let me make myself clear: you are dismissed from Helmont Hall. Remove yourself from my sight, or be treated as a trespasser." Alarice pointedly dragged the vial closer. He had blown one-hundred galleons on the damn thing, and she was keeping it. Pericles stared, stunned, jaw slightly slack. Then his senses returned and the start of a cold, prickly rage began to harden his features. "Give that back." But the witch snapped just as readily, sinking pointed nails into the wood of the table, rising with hunched shoulders like a tigress prior to a pounce. Her eyes were wide with a wild gleam. "After all you've supposedly read about the Saltgrave family, did you take me for a fool? Did you think I would let a stranger into my home without investigating them first? There is NO known alchemist named Owen Greville! I've known you were a con from the start. You've been had. Leave."
Conflicting emotions whirled through Pericles' head and heart. Indignance over the time and money he'd spent, dwindling hope for the guidance he'd sought, fear for being identified. He knew that his mother had fled this family, so he had kept his identity secret to protect her. Would it be worth it, he wondered, to tell her they were family? She seemed to think she'd outdone some con artist, when really, Alarice was facing the technical heir. He tried to placate her, holding up his hands and steadying his voice. "It isn't like that. I'm not your enemy. I need your help-" was as far as he got. The witch would not stand another second of perceived insult. Placing emphasis on every word, she seethed: "Any man who thinks to deceive me is my enemy." Chairs clattered as both launched into action. Alarice whipped out her wand, jabbing it towards him like a blade with a snarled "FULGARI." Pericles' instincts kicked in the second a wand was pointed at him. He ejected his own out of his sleeve and into his hand, throwing it up with a yelped "Protego!" mere milliseconds before her spell could land. The cords she'd conjured slapped against the shield with a frightening force that instantly destroyed it. Both were left staring at one another with wands at the ready. Alarice bared her teeth, violent, wicked, paranoid to the point of instability. It finally hit him. "You're mad," the man breathed, but he feared he was little better. Coming to this woman for guidance, knowing she had married a criminal, was an act of insane desperation. It had landed him at the wrong end of her wand. "No," she corrected. "I'm pissed."
Pericles didn't expect to win a duel against a mage of her caliber. What he needed now was a distraction, followed by a swift escape. In an effort to buy himself time, he slashed forward with a blurted "Expelliarmus," not waiting to see if it landed before he began to transform. Alarice danced out of his spell's path, though the sight of him changing shape was enough of an unexpected twist to stall her. As the white eagle darted from the gazebo, she ran to the railing, leaning over with a burning glower turned towards the skies. Peri wasted no time looping overhead, his return hidden by the roof. Adrenaline rocketed through his veins. There came a critical moment in which his talons flexed wide, wings reared back to brace, months of practiced flight put to the test. A body built for snatching prey from the water was instead used to grab both the bag and bottle. The moment seemed slowed down, elation coursing through him as his feathers beat the air, though the encounter wasn't over yet. Pericles took to the sky with his possessions, frantically flapping towards freedom. Alarice, radiating rage, raced from the gazebo and thrust her wand skyward. He had time to hear her bellowing an incantation before disaster struck. "Bombarda Maxima."
Hearing those words sent him into evasive maneuvers. The eagle dove, narrowly avoiding the brunt of impact, yet the explosion occurring overhead still slapped him with a wave of force. He had braced, clamping his talons tight. The weight of both bag and bottle sent him into a tailspin as, for a fatal instance, Pericles plummeted. Earth and sky wheeled around him in an exchange which seemed never-ending. In his daze, the experience was somehow surreal: lost in a haze, tumbling through the gales of fate. Yet the wind whipping at his face eventually snapped the bird back to reality. His wings erupted open, snagging an updraft, cleanly transitioning from deathfall to glide. As the sounds of Alarice screaming for her house elf faded behind him, the eagle loosed a mocking shriek and disappeared into the treeline. He would fly for some while, alone with his thoughts as he tracked roads back to civilization. His goal wasn't unreasonable. The Saltgraves were. Alarice was certainly capable, but unwilling to help him, so he would have to find guidance elsewhere. Despite the unsettling encounter, Pericles found comfort in the completely misguided belief that this was the last time he'd be seeing her.
ReducioALARICE SALTGRAVE
Stamina - 10 | Evasion - 10 | Strength - 2 | Wisdom - 15 | ArcPower - 13 | Accuracy - 15
Perfectionist - Advanced Casting - Terrible Presence - Apparition - Potion Mastery - Poison Resistance - Restricted Potions
PERICLES DRALT
Stamina - 10 | Evasion - 12 | Strength - 4 | Wisdom - 11 | ArcPower - 10 | Accuracy - 14
THE SEA-EAGLE
Stamina - 5 | Evasion - 10 | Strength - 8 | Wisdom - 0 | Accuracy - 7
Rolls done in DiscoAlarice cast Fulgari at Pericles - WDC 16
Wisdom Check: [d20: 20] → Crit Success
Accuracy: [d20:16] + 15 = 31
Evasion: [d20:2] + 12 = 14
Peri Protego: DC 12 [d20:18] + 11 = 29 > 12 → Success
Effect: [d10:2] The spell dissipates.
BlockedPeri cast Expelliarmus at Alarice - WDC 10
Wisdom Check: [d20:6] + 11 = 17
Auto-miss: [d20:16] No
Accuracy: [d20:3] + 14 = 17
Evasion: [d20:10] + 10 = 20
MissAlarice cast Bombarda Maxima at Eagle Pericles - WDC 20
Wisdom Check: [d20:12] + 15 = 27
Accuracy: [d20:8] + 15 = 23
Evasion: [d20:17] + 10 (Bird stats) = 27
Miss, though applying some radius damage like Confringo in Duelling
{ 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔟𝔬𝔶: 𝔞 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢, 𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔞. }
(iNPC: Madhup Hexum)