Ability applications
First Year:
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Blindvision
Describe why this fits your character
Reducio
437/400
Jay has been blind all her life, but she doesn't consider it an impairment, because for her it is not. Blindness is just part of her. Like the sound of her voice or the colour of her hair. No matter how much others imagine what it must feel like to be blind, to Jay it has never felt like something's missing from her. Every single part of Jay is intact and just were it should be. There has never been an absence in the place of sight.
Jay's other senses have always been sharpened as if to compensate for lack of sight as most know it. In particular, her hearing is very sharp in comparison with others. She can hear anything that goes around her, even those little details that nobody else would notice. The smallest pattering under the floorboards, the scratch of claws against the floor, the faint movement of something looking for food. She would be able to hear the mouse creeping under the panels of wood that made up the floor of her bedroom, sooner than anyone else would even stop to listen, even her cat Billie who doesn't easily pass up a good fat mouse.
Her sense of touch is equally well developed. While Jay hears the little feet of the mouse under the floor, she can also feel it. Putting her palm onto the floorboards, she would be able to feel the slight vibrations coming from them. Those taps of the little animal's paws are practically imperceptible to most people, but not Jay, who can feel it as though the mouse were running right on her palm.
People often tend to assume that Jay would be timid, or even afraid to try new things, or do things others find quite normal like crossing a busy muggle street, but Jay always finds these speculations the mere speculations of those who don't know the world as she dose. Jay isn't reckless, she just moves through her life with the confidence of the 11 year old girl that she is.
Her heightened senses come in handy when she is doing what she loves most: swimming. Jay practically grew up in the water and thus she knows everything about the bay near her house better than she knows the back of her hand. She has developed the skills of feeling the changing currents and rhythms of waves, and to her, swimming comes just as naturally as breathing.
Blindness isn't a problem for Jay. It never has been and it never will be. It's just a part of her and she wouldn't have it any other way.
437/400
Jay has been blind all her life, but she doesn't consider it an impairment, because for her it is not. Blindness is just part of her. Like the sound of her voice or the colour of her hair. No matter how much others imagine what it must feel like to be blind, to Jay it has never felt like something's missing from her. Every single part of Jay is intact and just were it should be. There has never been an absence in the place of sight.
Jay's other senses have always been sharpened as if to compensate for lack of sight as most know it. In particular, her hearing is very sharp in comparison with others. She can hear anything that goes around her, even those little details that nobody else would notice. The smallest pattering under the floorboards, the scratch of claws against the floor, the faint movement of something looking for food. She would be able to hear the mouse creeping under the panels of wood that made up the floor of her bedroom, sooner than anyone else would even stop to listen, even her cat Billie who doesn't easily pass up a good fat mouse.
Her sense of touch is equally well developed. While Jay hears the little feet of the mouse under the floor, she can also feel it. Putting her palm onto the floorboards, she would be able to feel the slight vibrations coming from them. Those taps of the little animal's paws are practically imperceptible to most people, but not Jay, who can feel it as though the mouse were running right on her palm.
People often tend to assume that Jay would be timid, or even afraid to try new things, or do things others find quite normal like crossing a busy muggle street, but Jay always finds these speculations the mere speculations of those who don't know the world as she dose. Jay isn't reckless, she just moves through her life with the confidence of the 11 year old girl that she is.
Her heightened senses come in handy when she is doing what she loves most: swimming. Jay practically grew up in the water and thus she knows everything about the bay near her house better than she knows the back of her hand. She has developed the skills of feeling the changing currents and rhythms of waves, and to her, swimming comes just as naturally as breathing.
Blindness isn't a problem for Jay. It never has been and it never will be. It's just a part of her and she wouldn't have it any other way.
━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━
Second Year:
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Calming Presence
Describe why this fits your character
Reducio
583/400
Jay never really knew why people trusted her. She didn't view herself as appearing that way, like someone you could put your faith in and not be let down, someone who could hold secrets like a box of steel, or someone so light-hearted and wonderfully joyous that it spread not only through her, but to the people around her as well. Jay could always lift someone's spirits when they were feeling down, or calm a terrified cat before his annual check-up. Jay had always had that strange effect on people.
Jay had always been that way. Her presence just somehow eased the anxious thoughts buzzing around in people's minds, like fresh, cool water over a sparking tree branch.
Jay's effect on people was what made her such fast friends with her cousin Ada, who's icy mask shielded the true girl inside. A mask she never let down except for people she trusted beyond anything. And Jay, with her light-hearted nature, was just that, instantly melting that barrier, allowing the independent, strong-willed, and beautifully playful girl underneath to come out.
No matter where Jay went, an essence of calm seemed to follow her, like the time she sat down on a park bench, a few days into the summer vacation preceding her second year at Ilvermorny, only to hear a crash and the sobs of a Muggle girl, who, by the sound of it, had just fallen off her bike. She was a few years younger than Jay, five or six by the sound of her voice, but she was alone, with no parents or siblings to comfort her. Jay felt a stab of pity for the girl, as she herself knew the frustration of trying something over and over again, but just not getting the hang of it.
She hesitated for a moment, them making up her mind, stood up and walked over to the girl. The sobs slowed to a shuddering halt as she approached.
“Hello, my name’s Jay,” she said softly to the girl.
“Hi…” she said in a choked and muffled voice. It sounded like the girl was sitting with her head in her hands. “I just can’t do it!” She burst out, and she sensed another wave of tears welling in the girl’s eyes.
“Yes, you can!” Jay said soothingly. The girl sniffed, and Jay continued. “It’s all right if you don’t get it the first times you try. It’ll come in the end.”
There was a long pause, and for a moment, Jay wondered if she had made the wrong decision, should she have left the girl and gone about her day without interfering?
“Okay, I’ll try again,” the girl said, determination welling in her voice. Relief flooded Jay as the girl got to her feet.
“That’s it! You’ll be a pro in no time!” she encouraged as she heard the girl kick off.
This time, there was no crash to be heard. Instead, there was the soft mechanical clicking of the gears as the girl peddled in a circle around Jay.
“Jay, Jay!” she cried, joy and pride in her voice as she circled around the older girl. “I’m doing it! I’m doing it! Look!”
Jay smiled. “Wow! You’re a natural!” She called to the girl. Then she herd a sudden stop and she wondered if the girl had fallen off after all, but the next moment she felt the girls arms hugging her waist.
"Thanks!" She whispered, before getting back onto her bike and riding away.
583/400
Jay never really knew why people trusted her. She didn't view herself as appearing that way, like someone you could put your faith in and not be let down, someone who could hold secrets like a box of steel, or someone so light-hearted and wonderfully joyous that it spread not only through her, but to the people around her as well. Jay could always lift someone's spirits when they were feeling down, or calm a terrified cat before his annual check-up. Jay had always had that strange effect on people.
Jay had always been that way. Her presence just somehow eased the anxious thoughts buzzing around in people's minds, like fresh, cool water over a sparking tree branch.
Jay's effect on people was what made her such fast friends with her cousin Ada, who's icy mask shielded the true girl inside. A mask she never let down except for people she trusted beyond anything. And Jay, with her light-hearted nature, was just that, instantly melting that barrier, allowing the independent, strong-willed, and beautifully playful girl underneath to come out.
No matter where Jay went, an essence of calm seemed to follow her, like the time she sat down on a park bench, a few days into the summer vacation preceding her second year at Ilvermorny, only to hear a crash and the sobs of a Muggle girl, who, by the sound of it, had just fallen off her bike. She was a few years younger than Jay, five or six by the sound of her voice, but she was alone, with no parents or siblings to comfort her. Jay felt a stab of pity for the girl, as she herself knew the frustration of trying something over and over again, but just not getting the hang of it.
She hesitated for a moment, them making up her mind, stood up and walked over to the girl. The sobs slowed to a shuddering halt as she approached.
“Hello, my name’s Jay,” she said softly to the girl.
“Hi…” she said in a choked and muffled voice. It sounded like the girl was sitting with her head in her hands. “I just can’t do it!” She burst out, and she sensed another wave of tears welling in the girl’s eyes.
“Yes, you can!” Jay said soothingly. The girl sniffed, and Jay continued. “It’s all right if you don’t get it the first times you try. It’ll come in the end.”
There was a long pause, and for a moment, Jay wondered if she had made the wrong decision, should she have left the girl and gone about her day without interfering?
“Okay, I’ll try again,” the girl said, determination welling in her voice. Relief flooded Jay as the girl got to her feet.
“That’s it! You’ll be a pro in no time!” she encouraged as she heard the girl kick off.
This time, there was no crash to be heard. Instead, there was the soft mechanical clicking of the gears as the girl peddled in a circle around Jay.
“Jay, Jay!” she cried, joy and pride in her voice as she circled around the older girl. “I’m doing it! I’m doing it! Look!”
Jay smiled. “Wow! You’re a natural!” She called to the girl. Then she herd a sudden stop and she wondered if the girl had fallen off after all, but the next moment she felt the girls arms hugging her waist.
"Thanks!" She whispered, before getting back onto her bike and riding away.
APPROVED- 23 August, Sako
- Blind Vision
- Calming presence
Sometimes, you don't need eyes to see... -Jay Solace |
Stamina 5 • Evasion 7• Strength 3 • Wisdom 9 • Arcane power 4 • Accuracy 7 |
Ability applications
Link to your encyclopedia thread: heyhey!
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Paragon of Health
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it): 463 words
ReducioIt was nearing the end of Kit's school career, yet it felt like there was always more she could learn- not in the classroom, her attention never stayed long there, but out on the Quidditch pitch. At this point she was getting pretty good at saving her teammates, keeping an eye out for them both on and off the field. They were all her friends after all, and she wanted to keep as many of them safe and happy as possible. The teenager figured out how to quickly save and transport multiple of their teammates or keep them from fully falling into unconsciousness yet she hadn't figured out how to combine that all together. And that right there, when forced to let one of her teammates fall, was where the next project started.
She would leave the Quidditch piste for this one, opting instead to help out around the Hospital Wing. Kit had never been particularly strong with her casting and she noted as much in her mentee request, but they allowed her to learn other medicinal ways to check and soothe injuries. She certainly couldn't help with larger injuries but it provided some new insights and familiarity that the Beauxbatons student could bring back to the pitch. Asking two of her friends to get themselves knocked unconscious for training purposes was always a strange request, but after how long she had been on the team and them being Quidditch players in general with a taste for blood, they were able to turn it into practice for the Beaters against everyone else.
Already knowing how to revive people, the issue was splitting that attention between two people without losing one later. Even with these new practices (hardly different from their normal routine though), she had to give it her all at every opportunity that arose. Her broom rushed through the sky, keeping low beneath the others to swing those falling neatly behind her, swiveling her head between checking on her new passenger and finding the second. Yet finally, as the first woke and second boarded, both would resist the dark pull and find themselves back on their own brooms. A grand success, one she hoped possible to repeat. There were plenty more practices and games in her future and she wanted to single-handedly reduce the hospital wing's occupancy.
Part of this started earlier than falling, Kit checking up on the others and keeping an eye out for any injuries, no matter how small. The team had given her so much already, she wished to return the favor by keeping things fun, lively, and making sure they were as healthy and happy as she could help with. This was one of her last opportunities to show just how much this team meant to her.
STATUS: Approved, Nadira, 25 AUG
Last edited by Nadira Bakari on 25 Aug 2026, 22:23, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: approved
| Katherine 'Kit' Felix - Beauxbatons Quidditch Sta: 13 | Eva: 15 | Str: 14 | Wis: 4 | Pow: 0 | Acc: 20 |
Sta: 7 | Eva: 17 | Str: 0 | Wis: 12 | Pow: 10 | Acc: 15 Hufflepuff Duelling - Lea Hirsch |
Ability applications
Link to your trunk post: [the Judas goat]
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Fearless
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Fearless
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Reducio
“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a thousand enemies. And when they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you; Digger, listener, runner, Prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed.”
Ever a credit to his family, Alexios had been raised for the finest things in life. An actor at heart, he and his sister grew up hearing stories of knights and dragons, both real and make-believe, with a finger in every pie their parents could have provided them. Philosophy, portraiture, performance—the humanities at large—all at their disposal as long as they held any interest in them. It was precisely the childhood their mother had never had, and the only one Alexios had ever known. Amid the necessary structures of a moral education lay the audacious expectation to rise to the occasion, a true belief in belief itself.
For Alexios’s part, such an upbringing manifested in a strong sense of commitment and very little thought for the consequences beyond his closest circle. For him, a noble end always justified the means. If he desired an outcome greatly enough, a way forward had to exist, winding though it could seem.
Fear, in spiritual extension, lay in the same category as hesitation. Both were necessary sicknesses of the soul, yet ones not only capable of being overcome but designed to be. The imaginative frights of childhood—a monster under the bed or a stranger unmet—had simple fixes as long as he found it within himself to investigate further. As an older brother, it was up to him to illuminate the safe path forward, in whatever form necessary to do so. According to everything Alexios had been taught, however, it was not enough to feign courage. A shaky hand was an unreliable one, and a doubtful leader rarely a leader at all. His father—the moral hand of court and their family alike—held knowledge in such high regard that it frequently seemed like the obvious solution to the gaping unknown.
When information promised to expose the truth and nothing but it, even the most paralysing of cowardices could melt away into stark, manifested reality. There was little use in the unknown when the bigger picture could be pieced together one rationalisation at a time—society’s connective tissue laid bare precisely for the discerning eye. With enough preparation, it seemed, Alexios would always have a hand in safety’s back pockets. His family’s support had much to offer, the world even more so, and he needed only to grasp at the strings and tug things closer. For his sweet sister, Ariadne, he’d jump to their family’s defence in working towards a better future. In blood and gold, he’d light the path forward, and it was only a “when”, not an “if”, before his wilful opportunism rewarded him tenfold. Patience and pure belief could bolster every faltered step. As any hero’s tale would have it, after all, many of life’s terrible dangers were nothing more than a test of willpower.
Either emboldened or delusional, simple conviction carried him beyond Athens’ white shores, across the endlessly untraveled ocean of his future, and, gleaming, all the way into Durmstrang’s frigid embrace. Here, Alexios found his largest audience, and his greatest of challenges: human unpredictability.
And so, in all of his love for narrative intrigue, an actor takes the stage.
It was one thing to model himself after his indomitable mother, whose successes spat in the face of all who considered her lesser than, and another to adapt such courage to Durmstrang’s playground antagonisation. Faced for the first time with something harsher than the cultured life he’d always known, it became abundantly clear that no amount of honey could catch flies used to rot. Even so, Alexios had always prided himself on his sterling self-confidence—he’d not let his peers’ needless doubt be the first to tarnish it.
He couldn’t simply stare into the centre of a universe without wanting to know more about it. Though gathering information amid Durmstrang’s structured environment remained a frustrating puzzle to poke and prod at, there remained a silver lining in every unmapped moment. With hesitation swallowed by pure, sidling belief, conversation remained his primary buffer against snow and scorn. People were not marble statues; no matter how rigidly they held themselves, a weak point always existed somewhere amid the tension. If they aimed to intimidate, it simply meant that there was something left to hide. Whether conscious or not, no matter how delicate or banal, there was a piece of humanity in every meaningless conversation. The future was as malleable as any taught opinion. With enough faith and fervour, it appeared all false pretences could melt away. Even the darkest of shadows and the greatest of hysteria could be diagnosed with a flash of the sun’s grace.
With that mindset set in stone, petty posturing meant little to someone who’d always been hand-in-hand with beautiful opportunity. If Alexios could succeed in anything he set his mind to, he’d simply need to move the threshold along the way. Marching tirelessly forward, it was only a matter of time before he’d one day—as he’d always been promised, and had always promised the world—become nothing but inevitable.
—Lord Frith to El-ahrairah, Watership Down (1972)
Ever a credit to his family, Alexios had been raised for the finest things in life. An actor at heart, he and his sister grew up hearing stories of knights and dragons, both real and make-believe, with a finger in every pie their parents could have provided them. Philosophy, portraiture, performance—the humanities at large—all at their disposal as long as they held any interest in them. It was precisely the childhood their mother had never had, and the only one Alexios had ever known. Amid the necessary structures of a moral education lay the audacious expectation to rise to the occasion, a true belief in belief itself.
For Alexios’s part, such an upbringing manifested in a strong sense of commitment and very little thought for the consequences beyond his closest circle. For him, a noble end always justified the means. If he desired an outcome greatly enough, a way forward had to exist, winding though it could seem.
Fear, in spiritual extension, lay in the same category as hesitation. Both were necessary sicknesses of the soul, yet ones not only capable of being overcome but designed to be. The imaginative frights of childhood—a monster under the bed or a stranger unmet—had simple fixes as long as he found it within himself to investigate further. As an older brother, it was up to him to illuminate the safe path forward, in whatever form necessary to do so. According to everything Alexios had been taught, however, it was not enough to feign courage. A shaky hand was an unreliable one, and a doubtful leader rarely a leader at all. His father—the moral hand of court and their family alike—held knowledge in such high regard that it frequently seemed like the obvious solution to the gaping unknown.
When information promised to expose the truth and nothing but it, even the most paralysing of cowardices could melt away into stark, manifested reality. There was little use in the unknown when the bigger picture could be pieced together one rationalisation at a time—society’s connective tissue laid bare precisely for the discerning eye. With enough preparation, it seemed, Alexios would always have a hand in safety’s back pockets. His family’s support had much to offer, the world even more so, and he needed only to grasp at the strings and tug things closer. For his sweet sister, Ariadne, he’d jump to their family’s defence in working towards a better future. In blood and gold, he’d light the path forward, and it was only a “when”, not an “if”, before his wilful opportunism rewarded him tenfold. Patience and pure belief could bolster every faltered step. As any hero’s tale would have it, after all, many of life’s terrible dangers were nothing more than a test of willpower.
Either emboldened or delusional, simple conviction carried him beyond Athens’ white shores, across the endlessly untraveled ocean of his future, and, gleaming, all the way into Durmstrang’s frigid embrace. Here, Alexios found his largest audience, and his greatest of challenges: human unpredictability.
And so, in all of his love for narrative intrigue, an actor takes the stage.
It was one thing to model himself after his indomitable mother, whose successes spat in the face of all who considered her lesser than, and another to adapt such courage to Durmstrang’s playground antagonisation. Faced for the first time with something harsher than the cultured life he’d always known, it became abundantly clear that no amount of honey could catch flies used to rot. Even so, Alexios had always prided himself on his sterling self-confidence—he’d not let his peers’ needless doubt be the first to tarnish it.
He couldn’t simply stare into the centre of a universe without wanting to know more about it. Though gathering information amid Durmstrang’s structured environment remained a frustrating puzzle to poke and prod at, there remained a silver lining in every unmapped moment. With hesitation swallowed by pure, sidling belief, conversation remained his primary buffer against snow and scorn. People were not marble statues; no matter how rigidly they held themselves, a weak point always existed somewhere amid the tension. If they aimed to intimidate, it simply meant that there was something left to hide. Whether conscious or not, no matter how delicate or banal, there was a piece of humanity in every meaningless conversation. The future was as malleable as any taught opinion. With enough faith and fervour, it appeared all false pretences could melt away. Even the darkest of shadows and the greatest of hysteria could be diagnosed with a flash of the sun’s grace.
With that mindset set in stone, petty posturing meant little to someone who’d always been hand-in-hand with beautiful opportunity. If Alexios could succeed in anything he set his mind to, he’d simply need to move the threshold along the way. Marching tirelessly forward, it was only a matter of time before he’d one day—as he’d always been promised, and had always promised the world—become nothing but inevitable.
WC, without quote: 831
STATUS: Approved, Nadira, 25 AUG
Last edited by Nadira Bakari on 25 Aug 2026, 22:38, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: approved
| ... cassius hirano | alexios katsaros ... |
| hogwarts wizardry. slytherin duelling captain. | durmstrang institute. hellhound pack. |
Ability applications
Link to your trunk post: [x]
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Muggle Condition
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
ReducioMagic often solves problems in seconds. Muggles solve them over decades. Kanae has always admired that difference. Whenever someone dismisses Muggle inventions as "ordinary," she can't help but disagree. To her, every bridge, every computer, and every spacecraft tells the story of people who refused to accept the limits of a world without magic.
Kanae's father, Kaneko, married a muggle woman, Kyoko. It was a shock to his pureblood line but taking that his sister had already chosen to continue the pure lineage on her own marriage, it wasn't as "detrimental" to the family though it did damage his relationship with his mother. Not that he was disowned or something that detrimental-- just perhaps some things taken off of the will. Kaneko would defend his lovely Kyoko with all his heart.
Kyoko herself was a lovely lady-- didn't know a thing about magic till the cherry blossom tree showed up. The couple had moved away into a comfortable muggle-majority place in Osaka, near her mother's childhood home.
She had a cellphone and a few muggle gadgets, gifted to her by her muggle mother and family members from that particular side. The Suzuki side did show distaste for the technology and the marriage in general. Kanae and her siblings knew their own existence was still controversial to the Suzuki side of the family. Even if they've proved themselves individually from skill and successes, the muggle blood ran in their veins.
The double life was exhausting for Kanae and her siblings. She couldn't figure out how her eldest brother coped with it so well. She lived in a household that didn't use magic but visited frequently the Suzuki estates wherein it was fully dependent on magic. The transitions were jarring to say the least, though she had no choice but to adapt and get used to it.
Some of her siblings preferred their mostly muggle-like lives while some preferred their magical counterparts. They all knew they had to attend Mahoutokoro at some point though, despite on what they think of the two worlds.
It took her a while to understand why her Muggle mother and pure-blooded father insisted on doing things manually in their own household when they had access to magic. Though she realized soon enough that the muggle-way of things was humbling and taught her much more value rather than automation from a simple flick of a wand. Muggle automation was its own thing. Muggles have no magic, and yet they continuously create things that seem almost magical. They couldn't aparate or use the floo so instead they made cars, trains, bikes, roads, etc.
To her, both worlds were incredible in their own right and it's ridiculous that they have to compete.
wc 453
APPROVED- 26 August,Sako
Ability applications
Link to your trunk post: [as prophecy foretold]
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Muggle Condition
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Muggle Condition
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Reducio
A person can be incapable of working at the moment, but this is precisely the right time to recall his earlier accomplishments and consider that he will later, once the hindrance has been overcome, work all the more industriously and with greater focus.
Arno Dorian had considerably undergone quite a big change since his arrival in Durmstrang to the present time. Though the transformation within him had never arrived in dramatic moment that could be singled out, he'd certainly attribute it to several cases, gradually born from isolated nature if the school and the very peculiar environment that surrounded it. Being so removed from many of the larger comforts of the world had forced him to discover just how many significant ways there existed of occupying your time and wind without a constant interjection of magic.
Durmstrang demanded physical exertion in ways he'd only remained vaguely aware of during more comfortable periods of his life in America and then within the walls of Castelobruxo and perhaps that was precisely why he'd adapted it so readily.
Quidditch had been the easiest transition, bringing the talents he'd developed at Castelo with him and finding a surprisingly enjoyable group of players among Durmstrang's ranks, one that had even managed to secure a victory during the last game he'd played with them, something Arno had taken considerably more pride in than he'd willingly admit. Yet, the wandless habits had grown beyond the pitch for reasonsbetter unexplained. They were however, significantly encouraged by Emery and strengthened through the company of his fellow students, particularly Boram, the fiery storm of read he'd come to regard as his one true unspoken companion. She seemed fashioned from the same primordial fire as himself. Even if her tendency to act first and consider consequences somewhere considerably later was far stronger than his own.
Fencing had only added another layer to this evolution of his, giving Arno a growing appreciation for what his body could accomplish when magic was removed the very equation their lives had been built around. The recent bouts at Durmstrang had done considerably more for his confidence than he expected, particularly when he began recognizing the strength that had developed within his arms and shoulders through all those activities. Yet, perhaps the strangest discovery had been something far simpler: throwing.
Objects, weapons, balls, anything that required an accurate trajectory seemed to possess an almost instinctive familiarity with him. Arno remembered very little, at least consciously, of the football game he'd once played with his father, but perhaps the body remembered what the mind denied. Arno found himself capable of judging distance, momentum, and angles with an accuracy that often exceeded even those around him. It was a talent he'd begun honing through various weaponry that had taken their spot in his life at the institute known as Durmstrang. From the occasional dagger to throwing knives and other implements he preferred not to discuss.
Whether the object was a knife, sword or something considerably larger and less subtle, a cannon perchance; Arno had begun discovering that his aim was rarely something worth doubting.
Arno Dorian had considerably undergone quite a big change since his arrival in Durmstrang to the present time. Though the transformation within him had never arrived in dramatic moment that could be singled out, he'd certainly attribute it to several cases, gradually born from isolated nature if the school and the very peculiar environment that surrounded it. Being so removed from many of the larger comforts of the world had forced him to discover just how many significant ways there existed of occupying your time and wind without a constant interjection of magic.
Durmstrang demanded physical exertion in ways he'd only remained vaguely aware of during more comfortable periods of his life in America and then within the walls of Castelobruxo and perhaps that was precisely why he'd adapted it so readily.
Quidditch had been the easiest transition, bringing the talents he'd developed at Castelo with him and finding a surprisingly enjoyable group of players among Durmstrang's ranks, one that had even managed to secure a victory during the last game he'd played with them, something Arno had taken considerably more pride in than he'd willingly admit. Yet, the wandless habits had grown beyond the pitch for reasonsbetter unexplained. They were however, significantly encouraged by Emery and strengthened through the company of his fellow students, particularly Boram, the fiery storm of read he'd come to regard as his one true unspoken companion. She seemed fashioned from the same primordial fire as himself. Even if her tendency to act first and consider consequences somewhere considerably later was far stronger than his own.
Fencing had only added another layer to this evolution of his, giving Arno a growing appreciation for what his body could accomplish when magic was removed the very equation their lives had been built around. The recent bouts at Durmstrang had done considerably more for his confidence than he expected, particularly when he began recognizing the strength that had developed within his arms and shoulders through all those activities. Yet, perhaps the strangest discovery had been something far simpler: throwing.
Objects, weapons, balls, anything that required an accurate trajectory seemed to possess an almost instinctive familiarity with him. Arno remembered very little, at least consciously, of the football game he'd once played with his father, but perhaps the body remembered what the mind denied. Arno found himself capable of judging distance, momentum, and angles with an accuracy that often exceeded even those around him. It was a talent he'd begun honing through various weaponry that had taken their spot in his life at the institute known as Durmstrang. From the occasional dagger to throwing knives and other implements he preferred not to discuss.
Whether the object was a knife, sword or something considerably larger and less subtle, a cannon perchance; Arno had begun discovering that his aim was rarely something worth doubting.
WC: 400+
APPROVED- 26 August,Sako
| Prat Pass - Slytherin | |
Sta: 7 | Eva: 10 | Str: 6 | Wis: 7 | Arc: 7 | Acc: 13 |
Sta: 9 | Eva: 15 | Str: 0 | Wis: 7 | Arc: 5 | Acc: 15 |
Ability applications
Link to your trunk post: [link]
Name of Ability that You Are Applying for: Evasive Maneuvers
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
ReducioSavior Chaser was one of the less interesting positions in Quidditch, not positioned to score and prohibited (by teammates) from fouling (I have perhaps 200 words on the reasoning behind this but will spare the moderator since this is an EM app and not a Savior app XDD), which explains the chronic shortage of volunteers. Many sides did not bother fielding one at all. A year ago, Quidditch had become compulsory upon receipt of a letter from his elder sister Ksenia; the general lack of enthusiasm for the role had read to Ilya as a recommendation rather than a warning, the position appearing to be the least demanding of the available options. As it turned out, he had been somewhat more optimistic than the situation warranted.
The assessment did not survive the first practice match — a month onto the roster — or more precisely its opening minute, when it became apparent that the opposing team had already decided before the whistle that he would be their first order of business. This was, on reflection, less personal than it felt. A Savior did not need to threaten the opposing side directly to be worth removing; keeping one on the pitch meant nothing they landed was guaranteed to hold. Thus, the most sensible move was to deal with the Savior before they became relevant.
There is a principle in Muggle competitive gaming that the support ought to die first. Chekhov's dictum about loaded firearms also applies here (if you're willing to meet it halfway); a player whose entire training record centres on saving teammates, and whose match history consists almost entirely of the same is functionally, a gun mounted on the wall in act one.
So this meant additional training… the obvious route — physical tolerance, training to take a hit and stay on the broom — was not available to him as he was generously three-quarters of a thirteen-year-old by mass, and anything eaten under duress tended not to stay. Agility it was, and in practice meant speed and the reaction time to use it before Bludgers and incoming Blatches made his decisions for him, plus attentional vigilance sufficient to read incoming hostility before the swing had even launched. Speed could be drilled in isolation, but the latter two required actual opponents generating actual intent, which meant practice matches he had been quietly planning to absent himself from were no longer optional, and the resulting increase in pre- and post-match social contact was not something he had any interest in. Now his fifteen hours of rest had been unfavorably renegotiated to thirteen.
This sport was a mistake.
That said, nearly a full year of this had produced something. He had at least gotten the hang of moving before the swing connected, and roughly one time in ten this happened on instinct alone. The other nine were still a work in progress.Word Count: 456 / 400
APPROVED- 26 August,Sako
| PC: Mamori Anezaki |
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#3F6B85 |
Ability applications
Link to your trunk post: Skadoosh
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Perfectionist
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Name of Ability that you Are Applying for: Perfectionist
Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):
Reducio
WC: 809
There was an uncanny intensity whenever Kullervo painted.
Every living soul in the estate knew not to disturb him when he retreated into his heaven of oil paints and turpentine. Kullervo spent many afternoons in the studio adjacent to his quarters and always set up his workspace as though it were a ritual before any brush ever touched canvas.
Brushes were meticulously arranged with clinical precision from the finest sable to broad hog bristle. Palettes were neat, each pigment occupying its own space, never muddying one another before their formal meeting upon the canvas. Kullervo never permitted it to do so as disorder belonged to lesser artists.
With his destination in mind, the first stroke on the canvas was delivered with a ceremonial conviction. With just the right amount of pressure, the trunk of an alder tree emerged from the tip of the brush in a single, convicted motion. He repeated the motion for the branches, each branch splitting from the trunk into finer tributaries.
Kullervo paused after every few strokes, stepping back from the easel to assess proportions before returning to correct the slightest angle no one other than he as the artist could have noticed. Perfection would not stem from conviction alone, but from infinitesimal adjustments that were indistinguishable only to those who weren't inflicting them.
Hours dissolved into early evening, and the outside world dwindled into silence, all except for the rhythmic sound of bristles against the canvas and the faint clink of a brush being exchanged for another when the former was no longer needed. Every stroke possessed the intent of an archer’s arrow. Every shadow of the winter landscape was layered patiently. Every sheet of snow was not placed carelessly on the canvas in broad sweeps of white, but in delicate veils built painstakingly upon one another.
But no accomplishment worthy of admiration is ever effortless.
The mistake was as insignificant as a breath or a heartbeat. There was a sharp crack that echoed somewhere beyond the walls of Kullervo's perfect prison, a servant dropping something heavy, echoing throughout the vast corridors and chased by his mother voicing her grievances.
While he was painting a shadow against the trunk, Kullervo’s hand faltered with the suddenness of disturbance. The brush slipped scarcely the width of a hair, and a dark streak tainted the untouched snow that gathered atop the alder's roots.
The silence that followed was palpable. Kullervo stared.
His grip on the polished handle of the brush tightened until the wood protested beneath his grip. A scorching heat flared beneath the practiced composure that so rarely betrayed him, chest tightening with a deep discomfort. For briefest moment, he felt five years old again whenever he threw a tantrum; standing with a pout beneath the cold unwavering gaze of his father while his mother scolded him, and all he could feel beneath the calm exterior was this bubbling anger that threatened to spew out in the form of four-letter words. But then, he remembered himself.
Emotion doesn't solve anything, Kullervo repeated in his head like a mantra. His father had taught him that from the moment he could string together coherent sentences and continues to teach it to him even in death. Art was only valuable when disciplined, restrained, objective. Emotion ruined it. Carefully, he laid aside the offending brush and steadied his breath, the heat of frustration fizzling within moments.
The canvas had made the error and bore the ugly consequence, not him.
Kullervo selected a different brush to mix fresh pigment, testing each shade on the palette until it matched the previous colour so perfectly there was no noticeable difference. With each delicate layer, he reclaimed authority over the mistake. The dark streak disappeared beneath pristine white and cool grey. Each edge was softened individually, colours were feathered together until even he struggled to remember precisely where he had erred.
But Kullervo remained unconvinced; perfection had to be cultivated until he no longer knew why he was offended in the first place.
He continued the process even after he erased the flaw, not because the canvas demanded it from him, but because he demanded it from himself. A mistake left insufficiently buried had the irritating tendency to resurface, to show itself to others. And mistakes were unbecoming when publicly displayed; like personally showing one's weaknesses to the enemy or confessing one's feelings to another. He knew of this foolishness intimately.
When Kullervo stepped back once again to reassess proportions, there was no longer any trace of the ugly scar on the canvas. The snow in the foreground appeared untouched, the alder stood pristine against the frozen landscape. Only he remembered the disgusting blemish that had ever dared to exist. No one else would have to know as he resumed his work.
If only people were so easily perfectible as paint on a canvas.
Every living soul in the estate knew not to disturb him when he retreated into his heaven of oil paints and turpentine. Kullervo spent many afternoons in the studio adjacent to his quarters and always set up his workspace as though it were a ritual before any brush ever touched canvas.
Brushes were meticulously arranged with clinical precision from the finest sable to broad hog bristle. Palettes were neat, each pigment occupying its own space, never muddying one another before their formal meeting upon the canvas. Kullervo never permitted it to do so as disorder belonged to lesser artists.
With his destination in mind, the first stroke on the canvas was delivered with a ceremonial conviction. With just the right amount of pressure, the trunk of an alder tree emerged from the tip of the brush in a single, convicted motion. He repeated the motion for the branches, each branch splitting from the trunk into finer tributaries.
Kullervo paused after every few strokes, stepping back from the easel to assess proportions before returning to correct the slightest angle no one other than he as the artist could have noticed. Perfection would not stem from conviction alone, but from infinitesimal adjustments that were indistinguishable only to those who weren't inflicting them.
Hours dissolved into early evening, and the outside world dwindled into silence, all except for the rhythmic sound of bristles against the canvas and the faint clink of a brush being exchanged for another when the former was no longer needed. Every stroke possessed the intent of an archer’s arrow. Every shadow of the winter landscape was layered patiently. Every sheet of snow was not placed carelessly on the canvas in broad sweeps of white, but in delicate veils built painstakingly upon one another.
But no accomplishment worthy of admiration is ever effortless.
The mistake was as insignificant as a breath or a heartbeat. There was a sharp crack that echoed somewhere beyond the walls of Kullervo's perfect prison, a servant dropping something heavy, echoing throughout the vast corridors and chased by his mother voicing her grievances.
While he was painting a shadow against the trunk, Kullervo’s hand faltered with the suddenness of disturbance. The brush slipped scarcely the width of a hair, and a dark streak tainted the untouched snow that gathered atop the alder's roots.
The silence that followed was palpable. Kullervo stared.
His grip on the polished handle of the brush tightened until the wood protested beneath his grip. A scorching heat flared beneath the practiced composure that so rarely betrayed him, chest tightening with a deep discomfort. For briefest moment, he felt five years old again whenever he threw a tantrum; standing with a pout beneath the cold unwavering gaze of his father while his mother scolded him, and all he could feel beneath the calm exterior was this bubbling anger that threatened to spew out in the form of four-letter words. But then, he remembered himself.
Emotion doesn't solve anything, Kullervo repeated in his head like a mantra. His father had taught him that from the moment he could string together coherent sentences and continues to teach it to him even in death. Art was only valuable when disciplined, restrained, objective. Emotion ruined it. Carefully, he laid aside the offending brush and steadied his breath, the heat of frustration fizzling within moments.
The canvas had made the error and bore the ugly consequence, not him.
Kullervo selected a different brush to mix fresh pigment, testing each shade on the palette until it matched the previous colour so perfectly there was no noticeable difference. With each delicate layer, he reclaimed authority over the mistake. The dark streak disappeared beneath pristine white and cool grey. Each edge was softened individually, colours were feathered together until even he struggled to remember precisely where he had erred.
But Kullervo remained unconvinced; perfection had to be cultivated until he no longer knew why he was offended in the first place.
He continued the process even after he erased the flaw, not because the canvas demanded it from him, but because he demanded it from himself. A mistake left insufficiently buried had the irritating tendency to resurface, to show itself to others. And mistakes were unbecoming when publicly displayed; like personally showing one's weaknesses to the enemy or confessing one's feelings to another. He knew of this foolishness intimately.
When Kullervo stepped back once again to reassess proportions, there was no longer any trace of the ugly scar on the canvas. The snow in the foreground appeared untouched, the alder stood pristine against the frozen landscape. Only he remembered the disgusting blemish that had ever dared to exist. No one else would have to know as he resumed his work.
If only people were so easily perfectible as paint on a canvas.